Currant Events (29 page)

 So the windows were made of panes of
ice. Clio wound it back until the crack disappeared, then stopped her statement
at “Yes.” That thawed the ice without breaking it, and the window
merely sweated a little. No one except the dragons realized that it had
happened. Actually they seemed to be asleep.

 “I am Sherlock,” Sherlock
said. “My talent is working with reverse wood. That has a negative effect
on the magic of other folk, so I don't invoke it often.”

 “Could you reverse my brother's
talent?” Alice asked.

 “I doubt it. Reverse wood doesn't
necessarily reverse in the way one expects. I think it best not to
gamble.”

 “I am Ken,” the other man
said. “I have the talent of telling the opposite of the future. Therefore
I seldom try to use it, as my predictions never come true.”

 “Nevertheless, I am curious,”
Clio said. “What's my unfuture?”

 Ken looked at her, his gaze
uncomfortably penetrating. “I see the promise of great happiness, followed
by disaster.”

 “But if that's the opposite, then
I may be threatened with great sadness, followed by success.”

 “You may,” Ken agreed.
“But it's like reverse wood: my visions aren't always wrong in the way you
expect. Don't trust it.”

 That was a fair warning, but she was
relieved. It suggested that however difficult things might become, they would
work out in the end.

 “I am Crystal,” the other
woman said. “My talent is that of seeing ourselves as others see us.”

 “Don't you mean seeing yourself as
others see you?” Clio asked.

 “No, though that is part of it.
Touch my hand.”

 Clio reached out to take Crystal's
hand. Suddenly she became aware of herself in a new and not wholly comfortable
way. Feelup saw her as a largely sexless object not worth feeling, considering
his sister's rebuke. Ken saw her as a pretty face without a body. Alice saw her
as a somewhat pushy person who was unlikely to rate either disaster or success.
Crystal herself saw her as probably a fraud who claimed a powerful talent that
could never actually be demonstrated to others: how convenient. And Sherlock saw
her as a significant, wonderful creature he wished he could somehow be worthy
of associating with. He did love her, not caring at all about her lack of
curves, but knew he didn't deserve her.

 “Oh!” she said, letting go of
the hand.

 “Now you know,” Crystal said.
“It can be cruel.”

 Much more than that! “Thank you
for the demonstration,” Clio said faintly.

 “You are welcome.” There was
a polite hint of a sneer in the tone. The woman knew she had set her back.

 Then Crystal's face went blank for a
moment, turned awed, and finally appalled. “Is something wrong?” Ken
asked.

 “No.” But it was obviously a
lie.

 Then Clio had a notion. Drew!

 “I just couldn't resist,” the
little dragon said to her alone. “She was so arrogant in her ignorance, I
just had to tell her the truth.”

 What truth?

 “That your talent is real, and you
are the Muse of History.”

 Well, it was the truth, and maybe
deserved. But after that the conversation lagged, and she was glad when their
stop came.

 Clio and Sherlock got off, while the
others rode the trolley on north. The day was late; they had ridden longer than
it had seemed. “We are at a truck stop,” Sherlock said.

 That was apparent. There were a number
of trucks on the trollway, ranging from little to monstrous, and every one of
them squealed to a stop at the stop: pay troll station before going on. They
looked mundane. What were mundane vehicles doing here in the middle of Xanth?
Then she realized that this probably represented a shortcut for the Mundanes,
which they used without understanding its nature. All Mundanes cared about was
getting their dull work done so they could eat, sleep, and relax. The trolls
didn't care, as long as they were paid. Trolls were a lot like Mundanes,
actually.

 “Perhaps we should stay the night
here,” Sherlock suggested, “and brace Xanth in the morning.”

 “That appeals,” Clio agreed.
She was still shaken by the revelation of how others saw her; she had had no
idea there were so many negatives. She knew that their reactions were really
normal, because they didn't know her, but still it wasn't a pleasant
experience.

 Sherlock negotiated with the troll in
charge of the truck stop for a room for the night. It turned out that only one
was available, the one no one else wanted, because it was on the sewer side:
where the garbage and refuse of the passing travelers were piled. There was a
smell. But Clio just wanted a place where she could be alone to sort out her
feelings, and urged him to take it.

 The room itself was pleasant, with a
toilet and a type of a magic mirror that showed a series of entertaining
pictures. There was a magic machine that provided milkweed pods and fairly
fresh pies. Satisfied, they lay on the big soft bed and watched. The trolls
were surprisingly sophisticated in their accommodations.

 “Sherlock, we're alone,” she
said. “The dragons don't count, in this respect.”

 “We're alone,” he agreed.
“And it's dark.”

 They kissed, and kissed again, needing
no more than the sense of touch. It was wonderful. They removed their clothing
and embraced. This time they were really going to do it; she was determined not
to balk, and knew he felt the same.

 Then something awful happened. There
was a horrible roaring and squealing sound, and the wall crashed in, crushing
them.

 She unwound it instantly. As it played
backward she saw that it was a huge lighted truck. Then the wall reverted to
solid and the sound faded; it had been there before, getting louder, but they
had not noticed. When she had wound it far enough back to provide sufficient
time, she stopped it.

 They were hugging each other on the
bed, bare in the darkness. She jerked her head away from his. “Sherlock!
Grab your clothes and get out of here immediately. I'll follow.”

 He didn't question her. He rolled off
the bed, feeling for his clothing, and she did the same, but neither could find
anything in the confusion. There was a small light by the door; they stumbled
toward it, opened it, and ran outside.

 The sound was louder here, and
increasing. They ran to the sewer, tumbling in as the truck crashed into the
room. Everything exploded, but they were safe; it had missed them.

 In little more than an instant, trolls
were everywhere, organizing the recovery and cleanup. “The driver got
caught by a trollway hypnosis spell,” one said, not seeming to notice
their stinking nakedness. “Lost con-troll. It happens. We'll get you
another room.” Trolls weren't much for emotion or concern for lives.

 Soon they were in another room; it
seemed these could be found when necessary. They washed thoroughly and went to
bed again. But the mood had been shattered.

 “My Danger of the Day,” Clio
said ruefully. “I had forgotten about that, and I shouldn't have.”

 “I gather we were actually caught
by it, and you wound it back?”

 “I did. Sherlock, the dangers are
getting worse. Yesterday I almost couldn't get back from Mundania. Today I
almost got crushed. I'm afraid my end is approaching. I need to complete my
mission soon, or I won't survive the effort.”

 “There can't be much more,”
he said. “I'll help all I can.”

 “Your help has been wonderful. But
you can't fight my curse. This time it almost took you out too.”

 “I can't think of anyone I'd
rather expire with.”

 He had such a positive outlook. “I
think you should reconsider your concern,” she said. “I'm sure in
time I'll be able to say the words you want. I think I just need to complete my
mission first.”

 “Perhaps so.”

 “I'm too overwrought to
sleep.”

 He took her hand, and his touch had a
marvelously pacifying effect. She would have wondered about that if she hadn't
been so tired.

 Holding hands, they slept.

 Next day they left the truck stop and
followed the blue arrow to the edge of the Region of Water. The red time arrow
was now nearing its target; they were on schedule.

 This was a waterscape more than a
landscape, with puddles, pools, ponds, and lakes. They had to bargain to get a
small boat so they could continue. Mermaids sported in the water, thrashing
their tails to lift their upper torsos well clear of the surface so they could
see and be seen. Sherlock managed not to freak out-after all, mermaids had no
panties-but the sights did give him pause. Clio stifled her irritation; she
couldn't blame mermaids for being what they were, which was splendid halves of
women.

 As the red arrow connected to its base,
they came to an island. There were a nondescript but oddly appealing young man,
a pretty young woman of about sixteen, and a child. They seemed to be stranded.

 “A boat!” the young woman
cried, waving. She looked somehow familiar. “Rescue!”

 Clio concentrated, and got it.
“Surprise Golem!” and her companion was Umlaut, the formerly
nonexistent man; she had written a whole volume about him. The child was
unfamiliar; she looked to be about five and would have been cute without a
rebellious curl to her lip. No, it wasn't rebellion, it was independence.

 The girl looked. “Do I know
you?”

 “I am Clio, the Muse of History,
and this is Sherlock of the Black Wave. We seem to have been directed to come
here. How did you get caught on this island?”

 “It's embarrassing,” Surprise
said. “We were boating, when the boatsman abruptly dumped us here and
fled. Will you take us to land?”

 “Of course. But why did he ground
you?”

 “That's complicated to explain. We
were looking for a nice private place to-to be alone, when-”

 “You wanted to $$$$,” the
child said, smiling.

 There was a brief silence as Clio's
teeth tried to drop out of their sockets and Surprise's face blushed halfway
into her hair. Umlaut looked totally out of sorts, and Sherlock made an effort
to blanch. None of them had heard such a word spoken that baldly before, by one
so young.

 Sherlock was the first to attempt a
recovery. “When you encountered this child?” he inquired.

 “Yes,” Surprise said, her
voice strained. “She seemed to be stranded on this isle, and was crying,
so we stopped and got off the boat to comfort her and inquire where her mother
was. And she said-”

 “****,” the child said,
laughing merrily. It was a thoroughly brutish term, well into the Adult
Conspiracy if not somewhat beyond it. There was a little clump of flowers on
the island; they keeled over, wilting.

 “And the boatsman paddled
away,” Surprise managed to say though her throat was evidently constricted
by the awfulness of the word that had just rammed its way into the dialog.

 Now Clio understood why. Anyone caught
in the vicinity of such an utterance was in peril of befoulment. There might as
well have been ghastlies attacking. The man had fled.

 “I think I know this child's
talent,” Sherlock said. “She is immune to the Adult Conspiracy.”

 “Her family must have been
overwhelmed,” Clio said. “So they left her here, hoping never to see
her again.”

 “I don't even know those
words,” Surprise said. “But they burn my skin.” She was two
years under the age of induction into the Conspiracy, though obviously that was
becoming academic because of her current exposure to the forbidden words.

 Sherlock squatted down beside the
little girl. “What is your name?”

 “Ciriana,” she replied
cheerfully.

 “That's a nice name.”

 The girl turned shy. She seemed to be
normal, except for her vocabulary.

 “It's a curse,” Clio said.
“I understand about them. It's not her fault.”

 “Obviously she can't live with a
normal family,” Sherlock said. “Those words she has learned are
dangerous around other children, and not very comfortable for most
adults.”

 “But we can't just leave her
here,” Surprise said.

 “It seems we have a problem,”
Clio said. It was evidently hers to solve, somehow. “Sherlock, do you
think reverse wood would reverse her curse?”

 “Only while actually touching
her,” he said. “That's the case with your magic, we found.”

 “Well, maybe she could keep a chip
with her.”

 A chip appeared in his hand.
“Ciriana, hold this.”

 The girl took it, trustingly.

 “Now repeat one of those words you
just said.”

 Her smile became a sneer. “Sweet
violets!” Then she burst into tears.

 Sherlock nodded. He took back the chip,
and the girl's smile returned. “The wood reverses the language, but also
her disposition. I think she's better off smiling.”