Two To The Fifth (9 page)

“The monster?”

“How can you make her someone the average woman would identify with and like?”

He pondered. “Maybe if she was beautiful, but was transformed by some evil magician or something. Or a really bad curse. So inside she's as beautiful as ever, but outside she's a horror.”

“Exactly. Now go out and find your actress.”

“A woman with a frog's head?”

“Or equivalent. A woman no man would want, yet who is utterly deserving and rather pretty. Make her the star of your play, ”The Curse.' "

“She's cursed, all right.”

“But make him the one who is cursed.”

“He has a frog's head?”

“No, He can see the auras.”

“But that's a blessing, not a curse.”

“And if it makes the woman of his dreams unsuitable, because he can see by her visible feeling that she is deceiving him and will destroy him if he marries her?”

“Oho! The blessing is really a curse.”

“Until he converts it to a blessing by using it to locate his true ideal woman. Women will appreciate that, and men will also, if she has a good body.”

“That's cynical.”

“A writer must cynically craft a story that will evoke the maximum response in naive viewers. Deserving romance for the woman, a sexy body for the men.”

He nodded. “This is more practical than I expected.”

“Cyrus, you are in the business of crafting dreams, not believing them. This is the down and dirty of sublime imagination. Now find your actress, and the play will write itself.”

“I'll try.” He got up. “Won't the troupe members think I'm goofing off, if I just walk out?”

“You are the Playwright. A law unto yourself. They don't expect to comprehend your creative nature.”

He left the tent. Don was there, “Have you written the play, you faker?”

“I'm working on it. At the moment we're going in search of an actress.”

“As if we didn't have four too many already.”

“A special one.”

“So you say.” The donkey was mechanically cynical.

He mounted and rode out of the camp. No one challenged him.

“Stay off the enchanted path,” Melete said. “The woman we want won't be using it.”

“Why not?”

“Because she'll be ashamed of her condition. She'll be lurking in some hidden cranny, avoiding exposure. We'll find her there. The most wonderful things are found in the least likely places.”

“If you say so.” He was feeling as cynical as the donkey. He guided Don onto a disreputable trail that led into the thick of a thinnet, and on to a halfhearted village of shacks. It was about as unpromising as a mud puddle.

There were large, stout weeds growing along the sides. These had bugs clustered on their stems, sucking the juice from them. They looked like giant aphids.

Then something flew in from the side. It was a huge bug. No, it was a Lady Bug. She landed beside the stems, stood straight, folded her gauzy wings, and covered them with glossy wing covers. Now she looked just like a girl in a red cloak.

“Hello,” Cyrus said behind her.

She jumped, her wing covers spreading to unleash her wings. She hovered, looking wildly around, somewhat in dishabille as her gown flung out to expose her legs. “Oh,” she said, spying him. “You startled me.”

“I apologize. You have pretty—”

“Nuh uh,” Melete warned.

“Wings.” he finished. Actually her whole body was pretty, especially from the underside.

“Thank you.” She settled back to the ground, and her gown closed about her front as her wing covers did around her back. “I am Lady Bug. I'm just tending my aphid garden.”

“Aphids?”

“They make sweet syrup.” She stroked the back of a bug and offered him her hand. “Taste it.”

Cyrus sucked off her fingers. The syrup was marvelously sweet. “Delicious.”

“We collect it and trade it for other goods,” she explained. “To others, aphids are a pest, but to us they are valuable.”

“Yes.” Cyrus couldn't think of anything else to say, so he introduced Don. “This is Don, my robot donkey. We are looking for actresses.”

Lady Bug straighted. “Actresses?”

“I am a playwright assembling a troupe. But I need a special actress for the lead role.”

She touched up her hair “Special in what way?”

“She has to be a monster.”

“You mean like a winged monster? I am one.”

“You're no monster!”

“Technically all winged creatures are winged monsters. It's a classification, not an insult.”

“Like a woman with the head of a frog. Do you know of any?”

“Oh. No. I'm afraid I don't.” She looked disappointed. “I always wanted to be an actress. Do you have any other roles?”

“I may. I haven't written the play yet. But the lead has to be a monster.”

“I'm afraid I can't help you,” she said sadly.

“But check by the camp when you have time,” Don said. “Once he has his play written.”

“Oh! You talk!”

“And you fly,” the donkey retorted. “You're just lucky your panties didn't show when you hovered over us.”

“Don!” Cyrus snapped.

But she laughed. “That's not luck. I know exactly what I'm showing. If I wanted to show panties, I'd do this.” She pulled aside a portion of her gown.

Cyrus freaked out. When he recovered, he was riding the donkey farther along the trail.

“I warned you about annoying women,” Melete reminded him.

“But Don did it!”

“She knew that. So maybe she was just trying to impress you.”

“She succeeded. I think.”

They continued along the trail. The sky darkened. “It looks like rain,” Don remarked.

“We can handle it,” Cyrus said. “But can she?”

For a woman was approaching them. She was brownish in color, and had an interesting walk.

“She's not the one.” Melete said.

“It may rain,” Cyrus said to the woman as they met. “You should get under cover.”

“No need. I am Umber Ella, I never get wet in a rainstorm,” She walked on by.

Don groaned without other comment.

“We are meeting women, but not the one I'm looking for,” Cyrus said.

“Keep looking,” Melete said, “I am sensing her nearby.”

The rain held off. They encountered another girl. She was painting red and white stripes on bushes, making them look like candy.

They paused to introduce themselves. “What are you doing?” Don asked.

“I am Candy Striper. I paint the bushes so that they become candies that heal people. It is my little way of making Xanth a nicer place.”

She was right, but she was not the actress he needed.

Now they encountered a man. He turned out to be Weslee Weredragon, who could breathe any type of dragon breath: fire, smoke, or steam. That wasn't the actress either.

But Cyrus inquired anyway, explaining what he was looking for.

Weslee nodded. “It happens I know a girl who fits your description. She does not have the face of a frog, but she's just as bad.”

“In what way?”

“Her arms terminate in giant crab pincers. No one wants to embrace her. That's too bad, because she really is a sweet person, and very nice looking apart from that one problem.”

“She could be the one,” Melete said.

“Can you lead me to her?” Cyrus asked, interested.

“Yes.” The man paused. “Would you by chance have any likely role for a man with dragon breath?”

“Find me my ideal lead actress, and I'll write a bit part for you.”

“Done.” Weslee set off, and they followed.

“What's her name?” Don asked.

“They call her Crabapple. She pretends to like it.”

“So as not to hurt their feelings?” Cyrus asked.

“Yes. As I said, she's a nice person. If only—” He shrugged.

“But can she act?” Don asked.

“I don't know. I see her only when she needs her weeds burned back.”

“Do her pincers work?”

“Oh, yes. That's how she earns her keep: cutting vines into short length for ready storage. That's why the villagers treat her with respect. But there's not a man among them who would ever marry her. All she wants is to find true love and settle down to raise a family, but it will never happen.”

“Notoriety can work wonders in such respects,” Melete said. “Make her famous, and she'll find a man.”

They reached Crabapple's house. Weslee knocked, then announced himself before the door opened. “Crabapple! It's Weslee Weredragon. I brought you visitors from elsewhere.”

“Please take them away,” a voice replied. “You know I don't like to be an exhibit.”

“This is different. It's a Playwright. He wants to cast you in a play.”

“As a monster? No!”

“Talk to her.” Melete said.

“Crabapple!” Cyrus called. “I am Cyrus Cyborg. I am writing a play with a mon—a woman like you, I need her for a role.”

“Don't tease me! It's not nice.”

“Please! Let me in. Talk to me. I think you're the one. But it will help if you can act.”

The door opened. There stood an elegant young woman in a voluminous cloak.

“Well, now,” Melete said. “But is she just a pretty face?”

“You're beautiful,” he said honestly. “May I see your body?” That didn't sound quite right, but he wasn't sure how to fix it.

She spread her arms, wrapped in the cloak. It drew away from her torso, showing it bare. It was stunning.

“Well now, doubled,” Melete said appreciatively.

Cyrus jammed his eyes closed before he freaked out, “I didn't mean nude. I thought you were—well, clothed.”

“It's hard to put on clothing over these.”

He opened his eyes cautiously. She had covered up her body and revealed her arms. They were ordinary to the elbows, but then became giant greenish pincers. Indeed, it would be difficult to don any ordinary shirt or dress with those in the way. So she was being practical. He simply hadn't expected it, “Can you act?”

“I could if anyone let me.”

“Put her in a scene,” Melete said. “A romantic one.”

“Pretend you're my girlfriend, angry with me but willing to be persuaded.”

“Come in.”

He left Don and Weslee outside and joined her inside the house. She closed the door behind him.

“And where have you been, you rascal?” she demanded. “I have been waiting these three weeks for news of you, but there was nothing.”

“I was—busy,” he said, already impressed by her delivery.

“Busy! Busy! Whatever could keep you so busy you couldn't at least send me word? Were you with some village hussy? Answer me!”

“Demur,” Melete said, “Proffer her a mock gift.”

“No, no,” he said, hastily improvising. “I was—making this gift for you. I couldn't tell you, because that would ruin the surprise.”

“Gift?” she asked suspiciously.

“Here.” He held out an empty hand.

She took the invisible object. “Oh, it's lovely. Thank you so much! I'm so sorry I was suspicious. It's only because I love you.”

“And I love you. I—”

She stepped into his arms, keeping her own arms clear, and kissed him firmly on the mouth.

His arms closed automatically about her marvelously slender yet shapely body. Then he realized that it was still bare. He freaked out.

“Bleep,” Melete muttered helplessly.

He recovered, uncertain how much time had passed. Crabapple had sat him in a chair and covered up again, “I'm so sorry, I got carried away. For an instant it seemed almost real. I get that way when I'm reciting lines. It's as though I really am the part I'm playing in my fancy, I apologize for putting you through that.”

“She will certainly do,” Melete said.

“You'll do,” he said. “You can act. It felt real to me too. Then when I realized that you were—I don't have much experience with women.”

She smiled. “I don't have much experience with men. Only in my fancy.”

“Tell her of the role,” Melete said.

“Let me tell you about the play I'm writing. A young man can see feelings, so he knows how women feel about him. But the pretty ones have ugly personalities. They conceal these, so as to seem nice, but really they hold him in contempt. So he knows they are no good for him to marry. So he searches for a woman with perfect feelings, not even looking at her body. Until he finds her—and she looks like you. Because you will be the lead actress.”

“The lead!”

“It's all about how he comes to terms with you. Because you are the best, if he could only get over your—you know.”

“I know.”

“Something will happen—I haven't figured it out yet—that makes him come to truly appreciate your—your—”

“Pincers.”

“Yes. You use them in some way that saves him from danger, or something, and then he comes to like them as an aspect of you. So it will be a happy ending, after considerable doubt. Can you accept that story line?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Oh, yes,” Melete echoed, “She's perfect. Caution her and sign her up.”

“You will need to emote, to make the audience truly feel your pain, and to come to love you, pincers and all. You have the face and features, and the acting ability. I simply need to write a play that will bring out those qualities. Will you join my troupe?”

“Who is the lead man?”

“Sharp question,” Melete said. “She's hoping it's you. Better damp that out immediately.”

“He hasn't been selected yet. But he'll be competent, I assure you.”

Crabapple sighed. “But he won't be falling in love with me for real.”

“Not for real,” he agreed, “It will all be an act.”

“I wish it could be real.”

“Actually, you could do worse,” Melete said.

Cyrus shook his head, “Crabapple, I can't promise it won't become real. Your body freaked me out, and I'm fully clothed. So it is possible he will—sometimes actors do fall for each other, and fulfill the roles they play. But—”

“But I have these pincers.”

“That is the case, I need you for the play, and I believe you can do a good job. But whether men will want you for anything more than a passing dalliance, I can't say.”

“But keep her in mind,” Melete said. “You do need a woman.”

Unless you are the second of the “two,” Melete, he thought.

That set her back, for once. “Not a wife, but a muse, I suppose it is possible.”

Meanwhile, Crabapple was nodding, “In short, you are telling me the truth.”