Currant Events (16 page)

 Soon Clio's clothing was dry. She
donned it, and the windings disappeared.

 “You still have a good
shape,” Getaway said. He had stayed close to her, probably concerned that
Sherlock might yet squeeze him into some other form.

 Clio realized that the golem was trying
to cultivate her favor. He wasn't very good at it, but the effort was worth
encouraging. “That brush is pretty thick. Suppose I carry you?”

 “I can make it on my own!”
Then he reconsidered. “But sure. I can see better from your height.”

 Clio bent down and closed her fingers
gently around the golem's little body. She picked him up and set him on her
shoulder. “Height can help,” she agreed.

 They set off, following the direction
indicated by that arrow. It wavered some, but pointed generally east, into the
thickest of the brush. It was awful. They had to wedge through dense
vegetation, and it wasn't friendly. First there was a patch of flowers that
turned out to be snapdragons, snapping at their feet. Drew made it back off by
presenting himself as a dragondrop. The flowers did not want to be dragged and
dropped, so they stopped snapping.

 Then they came to a mass of blue hats.
Sherlock was about to push through them, but Clio stopped him. “Those are
blue bonnets! If you touch them you'll get Bluebonnet plague.”

 He halted immediately. “I didn't
recognize them. Are you sure your blue arrow points this way?”

 She checked her wrist. “Yes, right
that way. But we certainly don't want to go through those.”

 “I can help,” Getaway said.
“Those flowers are magic, right? Hold me toward them. If they touch me,
they'll reverse. Then they won't hurt you.”

 “That's a wonderful idea,
Getaway,” she said, lifting him off her shoulder. She advanced on the
bonnets.

 They refused to be cowed. One swayed
forward to touch the golem-and turned into a red shoe. It had been reversed.
The others, seeing that, leaned back, letting the party pass.

 “See? I helped.”

 “You certainly did, Getaway,”
she agreed, and kissed him on the top of his head.

 “Yuck! I mean, thank you.”

 She smiled. He really was trying.

 They forged through the thicket, freely
reversing threats, and came to a large stone arch. The clearest way through
seemed to be under it, but again Clio was wary. “That's an arch enemy.
Anyone who passes under it will become so nasty he'll make nothing but
enemies.”

 “Let me at it,” Getaway said.

 She held him out to the arch. He
touched it. Nothing changed. “Try it now,” he said.

 She walked under the arch-and suddenly
felt like being friends with all of Xanth. It had indeed been reversed.

 Beyond it was what seemed to be an
inlet of the sea, though this was well inland. Along the shore grew plants with
leaves like nets. But when she stepped close, they became more like sharp swords
and stabbed at her. “Bay-o-nets!” she exclaimed, belatedly
recognizing them.

 “I've got it,” Getaway said.
She held him forth again, and he reversed the swords so that they became
plowshares.

 “I don't mean to be
critical,” Sherlock said. “But it seems to me that your compass could
have selected an easier route.”

 Clio was curious about that too. Her
route had been easier before; why had it abruptly turned difficult? But like
the Good Magician's cryptic Answers, there was probably a reason.

 Next they came to a small village
hidden in the jungle. The people there appeared normal, but were very quiet.
The blue arrow pointed right through it, so that's where they went: down the
central street.

 But it might help to ask directions, or
at least inquire where they were. Clio approached a man sitting on a chair on
his front porch.

 “_____.” she said.

 And paused, confused. No sound had come
out, at least nothing she could hear. She looked at Sherlock.
“_____?” she asked.

 “_____!” he replied. He did
seem to be saying something, but she couldn't hear it.

 She looked at Drew, in her front
pocket. “_____?”

 There's no sound,he thought. Everything
is silent. We can't even make the illusion of sound.

 That was it! They could neither make
nor hear any sounds. That was what was so odd about this village and its
people. There was a blanket of silence covering it.

 No,Drusie thought. There is sound.
We just can't hear it. That was it, of course. They were actually talking,
but were unable to receive the words. The villagers, evidently accustomed to
this, weren't trying to talk. Instead they were making gestures with their
hands.

 Sign language! They were communicating
visually. Unfortunately she didn't know that language.

 But Sherlock did. He was exchanging
signs with the man on the porch. This is the deaf village, Drusie
translated. They have lived and worked here all their lives, and get along
well.

 “But we're not deaf,” Clio
protested silently. “Why can't we hear?”

 Because this is a silent zone. Other
creatures don't like it; it makes them nervous. But the deaf folk are used to
silence, so have no trouble. That's why they settled here. Hardly anyone
bothers them, and no one ridicules them.

 Clio appreciated why that would be so.
“Tell them that we are just passing through, but are glad to have met
them,” she said without effect; it was her focused thoughts that counted.

 They know. They are preparing a banquet
for us. They want to catch up on all the news of Xanth.

 For half an instant Clio thought to
demur, as this would delay them for hours. Then the friendliness of the arch
friend they had passed under asserted itself. What did time matter when among
friends? “Tell them thanks. We'll do our best.”

 It was a good meal, and with the help
of Sherlock and the dragons, who could read the minds of the villagers, they
shared all the news of Xanth they could fit in. In the end they accepted a
house for the night, unable to turn down such warm hospitality.

 Unfortunately, the villagers had
assumed they were a couple. The confusion wasn't evident until they entered the
house and found a single bedroom with a single large bed.

 Sherlock wasn't concerned. He got a
pillow and blanket and made himself comfortable on the floor of the main room,
leaving the bedroom to her. Almost she wished he had wanted to share the bed
with her; they were both, after all, well into the Adult Conspiracy age. But he
treated her deferentially, as the Muse of History, and suppose they considered
stork summoning, as men and women in such circumstances tended to do? She would
have to reveal the artificiality of her curves, and that would surely turn him
off. So any attempt to broaden their relationship would destroy it.

 He would have liked to share the bed
with you,Drew thought. But he's afraid that even the faintest suggestion of
such a thing would so affront you that you would hate him.

 What an irony! She had never actually
been with a man, and realized that she would like to if she got the chance, if
only to discover what it was like. There was no chance on Mount Parnassus; she
and her sisters were socially isolated there. An occasion like this, a temporary
liaison with no expectation beyond-this was the time to do it, if ever. She
felt a sudden resolve. She would do it. She would go and invite him to share.
And if he indicated doubt, she would show him the truth: that she was not
curvy. She would remove the nymph bark.

 And he would be appalled. There was
nothing about her body that would appeal to a man, even a middle-aged one. She
had nullified the curse of curvelessness in appearance, but not in reality.
Better to at least seem desirable, than to reveal the truth. It was a
deception, and it made her ashamed, but she was stuck with it.

 “Drew,” she murmured. “I
think it best if you and Drusie no longer tell Sherlock and me our private
thoughts about each other. I think we need our privacy in that respect.” As
you wish.

 Clio was doing what she felt right, and
what she had the courage to do. She hated it. She had never cried herself to
sleep before. This was the first time.

 In the morning they bade farewell to
the villagers and resumed their trek, following the blue arrow. Beyond the
village the sound gradually returned, and so did the problems. Sherlock
encountered sturdy footwear sitting by a sign saying TAKE ME. “Those look
like steel-toed boots,” he said. “They could really help protect my
feet in this nasty jungle.”

 Clio was wary of such seeming gifts;
with the exception of the deaf village, this trek had been almost constantly
awful. Even the village had led her to a realization that made her feel worse
than she had in decades. But she did not speak; it was his choice.

 Sherlock reached for the boots-and they
became metal toads that jumped up and kicked him. “Ouch!” he cried,
grabbing his ankle. “Steel toads! And I fell for it.” “I can
unwind that,” Clio said.

 “No, I deserve to suffer for my
error. Save your power for true need.” She let it be, though it did look
as if he would have a nasty bruise.

 The way ahead slowly cleared, forming a
rough path. There were dangerous plants, but they were back from the path, and
no bad animals were near. They were suspicious of this, but the blue arrow
still pointed the way, so they followed it.

 They came to what might be a far-flung
branch of the Gap Chasm. It was a serious depression, too broad to jump over,
with a narrow winding path down the side. The blue arrow pointed to this path.
Clio had severe misgivings, but what could they do? The arrow was their guide.

 They followed the path down, Sherlock
leading with Drusie, Clio following with Drew and Getaway. The path was almost
too narrow to support them, but not quite. Portions were slippery. They
followed it slowly, not taking any chances. As a result, it was the better part
of an hour before they reached the base of the crevice. Clio was relieved to
stand on level ground again.

 A horrendous face appeared.
“Abandon hope!” it intoned dramatically.

 “You're a demon,” Sherlock
said.

 “Demon Zaster, not at your
service,” the thing agreed.

 Clio groaned inwardly. That would be D.
Zaster, or disaster in the punnish nomenclature of demons. They generally took
names that reflected their interests or nature, so this was not a good sign.

 “We're just passing through,”
Sherlock said. “We'll soon be out of your way.”

 “I think not,” Zaster said.
“We have use for you.”

 “How come this one's not sexy like
Metria?” Getaway asked at her ear.

 “Female demons like to be
sexy,” she replied. “Male demons like to be ugly.”

 “What use?” Sherlock asked.

 “I will be candid,” Zaster
said, “though I hardly need to be. We want your souls.”

 “You can't have those!” Clio
protested. “It's not possible.”

 “So you say. You're just trying to
fool us. The only thing you dull humans have that demons don't have is souls.
You think that makes you better than us. So we're just going to take yours, and
then we'll be better than you.”

 “I think we had better get out of
here,” Sherlock said.

 “I agree.” It wasn't possible
for the demons to take their souls, but she hardly cared to let them make the
attempt.

 They turned back to the steep path. But
now four more demons appeared, barring their retreat. Each looked worse than
the others.

 “Meet my henchmen,” Zaster
said. “The Demons Stroy, Viate, Mise, and Mean.”

 Clio ticked them off in her mind:
Destroy, Deviate, Demise, and Demean. This was not good.

 “Maybe the other direction,”
Sherlock whispered.

 They turned-and there was another
demon, this one female. “Demoness Lirious,” she said with a dangerous
smile.

 “What's a nice girl like you doing
with a bunch like this?” Sherlock asked her.

 Lirious laughed so hard she fogged.
“I'm not nice, and I'm not a girl,” the fog said. Then it reshaped
into a form that would have done an ogress proud. “This one's mine,” she
said to the other demons.

 “I doubt it,” Sherlock said,
a chip of wood appearing in his hand.

 The figure fogged again, becoming twice
as shapely as before. “Doubt you may,” she said. “But meanwhile
I will play with you.” Her clothing melted away, revealing purple bra and
panty, each fuller than the other. “We've been watching you for an hour,
letting you walk into our trap.”

 Sherlock was silent. Clio looked at
him, and confirmed the worst: he had freaked out, dropping his chip of reverse
wood. That was the liability of being a man.

 “This must be the Danger of the
Day,” Drew said.

 “It certainly seems to be,”
Clio agreed grimly. “Some are worse than others.”

 “We'll toast and steam them.”