Two To The Fifth (10 page)

“Well, yes.”

“That's the way I want it. Yes, I will join your troupe. Is it far from here?”

“Not far. But you can ride Don. That's my robot donkey.”

“Perhaps I will.”

“We are on our way,” Melete said.

Cyrus was back in his tent, writing madly. He had his lead actress, but as yet lacked the lead actor. He would have to assume that role himself, until he could cast some other man in the role.

“Maybe we should bring in some pages,” Melete said.

“Pages?”

“Folk that find things. White and yellow pages, good at finding things or people. Set them to searching for a good male actor.”

“That would help. But how do we find the pages?”

She laughed. “That's the problem. They aren't always where you need them.”

“You've got a visitor,” Don said. The donkey had become the guardian of his necessary privacy for writing the play. Cyrus trusted the animal's judgment, to an extent. “A girl.”

“Tell her to check in with the Witch.”

“She demands to see you personally.”

Cyrus flung down his quill. It splattered blots of ink on his parchment. “How can I work, when I keep getting interrupted?” He realized that he was displaying Artistic Temperament, but didn't care. He flung open the tent flap.

There was the girl. She wore a red dress, had red hair, and green eyes. She was about twelve years old. She wore a little golden crown. “Hi,” she said, a bit shyly.

“Look, I don't have a part for a child,” he said. “You'll have to do drudge work around the camp. Otherwise go away.”

She entered the tent, brushing rather closely by him, “I know. But I had to talk with you first.”

“Well, I don't have to talk with you! Now stop wasting my time.”

She gazed at him with a cold expression. In fact in this moment her face reminded him of an eye sickle, a plate of ice with eyes. This was not the look of an ordinary child. That should have made him wary, but he was too impatient to be properly cautious.

A small drum appeared in her hands. She produced an oddly shaped little baton and beat gently on it. There was a single small boom.

Cyrus found himself frozen in place, unable to move half a muscle. What was happening?

“That's a Sorceress!” Melete exclaimed from the desk where the block had been parked."

“Right, Muse,” the girl said. “I am Rhythm.”

“The Princess!” Cyrus exclaimed, recovering or released from his stasis, “One of the three who were going to join us.”

“Just one, for now,” Princess Rhythm said, “All three of us together would be a live giveaway. For one thing, we always speak in turns, completing each other's thoughts. So I had to come alone to let you know. In private.”

“You can hear me,” Melete said, taken aback.

“Oh, sure. I'm a Sorceress, remember? But I won't tell. I know Cyrus needs you.” She studied the tiny bare upper torso. “Don't you freak him out?”

“He's used to me,” Melete said. “But I could freak him out if I tried. I won't, because I want him to write the play.”

“It must be nice to be able to freak out a man.”

“You should be able to do it, in six more years.”

“Two more years. Cousins Dawn and Eve were able to freak out men when they were fourteen.”

“They were naughty girls.”

“So are we.” Rhythm said defiantly. “This whole Adult Conspiracy business is a pain in the pants.”

“You will need to blend in,” Cyrus said, uneasy with the direction the dialogue was taking. Rhythm was a child, after all. “Different clothing, different hair. The crown has to go.”

“I'm not really a child,” the girl protested. “I'm on the very verge of teendom.” “Different attitude,” Melete said, “You should work on the silver lining, the talent to discover advantages in any situation, even that of childhood.”

“I'll consider it.” The girl paused, considering. “Nope, I have a better idea. I've heard that if you walk in someone else's shoes, you can live that person's life and do the same magic.”

“That's not true,” Melete said.

“So if I borrowed a grown woman's shoes, maybe then I could kick a stork or two in the tailfeathers.”

Ouch! This child had dangerously adult ideas.

“So what?” Rhythm demanded, looking him in the eyeball, “Maybe the wood bees exist only on Ptero and will never be in Xanth, but we can still dream, can't we?”

Cyrus remained uneasy. “You can read my thoughts?”

“Some,” Rhythm said. “Except for the Adult Conspiracy stuff. It comes with being a general purpose Sorceress.”

That was a relief. The fact was, she was a rather winsome girl, her status as a Sorceress Princess adding to her intrigue, and he didn't want her picking up any untoward thoughts. Especially when the actresses teased him, as they continued to do on occasion.

“They tease you?” Rhythm asked. “How?”

“Never mind,” Melete said. “Just get changed.”

Rhythm sighed. She put her hands on her dress and tugged it upward. Her knees showed.

“Not here!” Cyrus and Melete said together.

“Why not?”

“Because a man isn't supposed to see a girl—not even a girl child—unclothed,” Cyrus said, “Because—” He broke off, staring.

For Rhythm was now dressed in green jacket and shorts, the crown was gone, and her hair was dull brown. She had changed magically.

She was, indeed, a Sorceress.

“Are you going to write a part for me?” she asked, being the girl again.

“Immediately,” he agreed, returning to his desk. “But I can't call you Rhythm in the play, or in life. I'll call you Rhyme.”

“Okay,” she agreed. “Rhyme or Reason.”

“It will be a bit part, so as not to attract undue notice. No one must know your real identity.”

“Actually I'll spread a disinterest spell, so no one will inquire. But it's true: no one must suspect.”

“No one,” he echoed.

“I'll go meet the Witch.” Rhythm left the tent.

“You've got to watch those thoughts,” Melete said. “Winsome girl indeed. She's a child.”

“I know. She just took me by surprise.” He focused on writing the part.

“But also a Sorceress,” she continued, “And a Princess. Never forget that.”

“How can I treat her as a garden-variety child when I'm not forgetting she's nothing of the kind?”

“You have to be an actor, playing a role. In this case the role of yourself, addressing her role of unspecial child. You know better, and she knows better, but the rest of Xanth is the audience that doesn't know better. Play your roles well, and all should end well.”

Cyrus realized something. “You know my real mission? You read it in my mind?”

“Yes. I would have suspected anyway, A beginning Playwright does not warrant the assistance of a Princess Sorceress. So I am helping you fulfill it.”

“Thank you,” he said somewhat drily.

“Now pick up your pen and kiss bust or kick butt,” she said, her head sliding off the top as her bottom slid into view. Bust and butt.

Cyrus was wickedly tempted to jam the quill at the butt. But he remembered her prior caution: not to needlessly aggravate a Sorceress or a Goddess. He focused instead on his scroll.

“Good thing, too,” Melete muttered as her head slid back into view.

“Suppose I had done one or the other? Kissed or kicked?”

“In your dreams, rascal.”

“I can dream of you?”

“Naturally. I am largely made of dreams. Now quit dallying and start writing.”

“I'm ready to write the whole thing,” he said. “But I don't know where to start it.”

“With the Curse,” Melete said promptly.

“How does that happen?”

“Your lead man must aggravate a witch. That's another no-no in life, but a yes-yes in fiction. So she curses him.”

“I don't have a lead man cast for the role yet.”

“Put yourself in the role, in your mind. Every writer does.”

“Oh.” He bent to the task.

It went surprisingly well. Every time he paused to ponder, Melete goaded him with sharp remarks. He couldn't goof off while she was watching him. Which was perhaps much of the point of the Writer's Block: it prevented the writer from not writing.

When he went out of the tent later, he found things well organized. The others were doing their menial parts, playing their social roles, making it a viable temporary mini-community. Rhythm, who had introduced herself as Rhyme, had blended right in; no one noticed her particularly, or seemed to realize that she had just joined them this day.

“Talk to them,” Melete advised. “They are desperate for news of the Play.”

She was of course correct. So after the evening meal he bonged on a glass to attract their attention. “I have my Writer's Block,” he announced. “And it is enabling me to write. I have fairly started the Play today.”

They broke into applause.

“The lead man—we don't have an actor for him yet, so I will have to substitute in rehearsals for now—will aggravate a witch.” He glanced at the Witch. “Your role, of course.”

“Goody!” she exclaimed. “I can handle that part.”

“She will curse him to see people's natures and emotions as colored clouds or auras surrounding them. He can't actually read their minds, but he will know immediately how they feel about things, including him.”

“That's a curse?” Acro asked. “I'd love to have it.”

“It's a curse,” he said, “It will take him a while to realize it. That's part of the point of the play. He is looking for his ideal girlfriend, and this is where the curse begins to register. His first girlfriend—you, Xina—will be beautiful, but her private feelings are mercenary and unkind. She wants only to use him for convenience.”

“I can play that role,” Xina said, thrilled to have the part.

“Once he realizes that she is not ideal emotionally, he looks at the auras instead, hoping to find the perfect one. Feelings are more important than appearances. He needs to marry by a certain deadline; that may be part of the curse. The witch wants him to marry foolishly and be unhappy ever after. Finally he finds her, his ideal aura—but she has crab claws instead of hands.”

“Oh!” Crabapple exclaimed, delighted. “I can play that role!”

Obviously she could; he had written it for hen “But that turns him off; it's too much of an adjustment. So he decides to shut out the aura and live with illusion, staying with the pretty girl even though he knows she's just using him.” He smiled a trifle grimly. “Appearances are important to a man.”

All the women nodded. They understood perfectly.

“The witch realizes that her curse is no longer working properly, so she decides to kill Xina just before the marriage, forcing him to make a last moment substitute. He won't have time to find a lovely woman both outside and inside, and will have to settle for an unsatisfactory one. So she sends her daughter—Rhyme—with a gift that will kill Xina. But Crabapple saves her, not only winning Xina's friendship but convincing him that Crabapple's his best match after all. Pincers have their place. That's the gist of it.”

“But what of us?” Dusti asked, gesturing to herself and Acro.

“You'll have smaller parts, and I'll try to write you lead parts in subsequent plays. This is an ensemble; there will be several plays. Each actress will have her turn.”

The girls exchanged a glance and a half, then smiled. They were satisfied. He was coming through.

That night he slept alone, and dreamed of Melete, She was full figured and nude, as she had been when he found her in the gourd.

“You did well, Cyrus,” she said, expanding to full human size.

“Don't freak me out!” he said as his eyeballs began to loci: up, “I'm trying to walk the causeway.”

“Walk the what?”

“The causeway. Walking along it makes a person do things for a good cause. You are thoroughly distracting me from anything like that.”

“Oh, all right.” A gauzy gown formed around her body. “But you're going to have to get used to me in this version as well as in the bust version. You have a lot more writing to do.”

“Yes, But it is going well, now, thanks to you.”

“And it will continue well. I will see to that.” She came up and kissed him.

His head threatened to float away. He struggled to recover equilibrium. “Are you trying to seduce me? I thought you were here to stop that.”

“I am here to make sure you write your plays. Part of that is to make you more immune to the seductions of the actresses. They haven't given up on you; they are just being more subtle. Until we find you a suitable woman to marry, we have to be on guard.”

“This is just like the play!”

“By no coincidence.” she agreed. “You are animating your own aspirations and fears. All writers do. But we need to stop you from freaking out too readily. That's too much of a distraction.”

“Lots of luck,” he muttered.

She powdered her face and scowled. He realized that she had just used scowling powder, which was a caustic glare dried out and rendered into powder form for use as necessary, usually as a cleanser. It was possible to know such things in dreams. “Luck has little to do with it. All women have similar equipment; it merely varies in size and exposure. Once you are desensitized there should be no further problem.” She squeezed him close.

“No problem!” he exclaimed, “I'm just about ready to—”

She did not withdraw, “Ready to what?”

“Ready to write a great love scene,” he said, surprised.

“That's it. The closer you get to me, the more urgent your need to write becomes. That's my nature. Now wake up and write that scene.”

He woke up. He discovered he was holding the bust, his fingers clasping the torso section. No wonder he had gotten ideas in his sleep.

“No wonder,” Melete agreed, half fondly.

He got up, set her on the desk, lit a candle, and started writing. Soon he had a great near-seduction scene.

In a few days he had the first draft of the play. He wasn't quite satisfied with it.

“Don't be concerned.” Melete said. “A true artist is never fully satisfied with his work. Go into rehearsals, and modify what doesn't work well.”

“I can do that?”

“You can do what you choose. It's all part of the creative process.”

“I'll need to copy the play, so the actors can read it and memorize their parts.”

“No need. Rhythm will do that for you.”

“She will? But she shouldn't show her magic.”

“She won't.”

He went out to find Rhythm, realizing that he didn't need to talk openly to her. He just focused the thought clearly: I need copies of the play. She saw him and nodded, but did nothing.