Currant Events (32 page)

 “Maybe the mast is coated
too.”

 The area of quiet air did seem to be as
high as the mast, and as broad as the spars radiating from it. The air rushed
in, got reversed, and went quiet. But how could he have coated the whole
rigging without touching it?

 The others came out of their cabins.
“Is the storm over?” China asked, looking around.

 “It is fended off,” Clio
said.

 “We see it,” Japan said.
“It changed its mind.”

 “We're in a bubble of calm,”
Mexico said.

 They walked to the rail. “I
wouldn't touch that,” Sherlock said.

 But China put her hand on it. Suddenly
she changed. Her fair young features imploded and her skin turned black. Her
hair frizzled. Her eyes stared out of a a gaunt, almost skull-bare face.

 “You're looking your age!”
Clio cried. “Let go of the rail!”

 Japan pried China's skeletal fingers
off the rail. Then China returned to her normal appearance. “Oh, that was
terrible!” she gasped.

 “That's reverse wood,” Clio
said. “It reversed the magic that keeps you young.”

 Ciriana had left the cabin and was
admiring the storm. Now she touched the rail. “»»»»,” she said.

 China reeled, Japan sank to her knees,
and Mexico fainted. Clio ignored them for the moment and hurried to fetch the
child away from the rail. The reverse wood had reversed the reversal, and
restored her immunity to the Adult Conspiracy. “Don't touch that,”
she warned the child. “It's bad for you.”

 “Okay,” Ciriana agreed
amicably.

 “Do you remember that bad
word?”

 “What bad word?”

 Good: the effect was only while she
actually touched the wood. “Never mind. Just stay away from that
rail.”

 Now that the storm had been nullified,
they were free to relax. As her emotion settled back into place, Clio realized
that she had serious questions for Sherlock. So while Ciriana returned to play
with Cricket, and E returned to listen to Randi's reasoning, incidentally
keeping a close eye on her outfit, Clio and Sherlock retired to their cabin.

 “That was no incidental
magic,” she informed him firmly. “You did not conjure reverse wood,
or shape it; you transformed an entire ship's hull and rigging to reverse wood.
How do you account for that?”

 “I'm not sure,” he said.
“You were in danger-the dragons told me you had just rolled the ship back
upright, but lacked the magical strength to do it again-and I knew I had to do
something. So I made a great effort, as I held on to the rail, and it happened.
I think desperation enabled me to do something I could never have done
ordinarily.”

 “But a whole ship! Transformation!
This is phenomenal.”

 “I must have more power over
reverse wood than I thought. I'm amazed myself.”

 That was where it rested. They had no
better explanation.

 Still, it nagged her. She was glad the
danger had somehow been abated, but she didn't like mysteries of this nature.

 Once the storm saw that it couldn't get
at them, its fury dissipated. The winds died, the swirling fog evaporated, and
the sunbeams managed to reach down to the calming sea. The remaining cloud
floated innocently away, pretending she had just been passing by.

 The Maidens emerged. “Wynde Tchill
never threw a tantrum like that before,” China said.

 “I wonder whatever got into
her?” Japan asked.

 “My curse,” Clio said.
“I am cursed to be exposed to danger once a day. This was that danger. I'm
sorry it extended to all of you, this time.”

 Mexico frowned. “In that case, we
would prefer that you not remain on the Acquaintance Ship. We're not that
immortal.”

 “I understand,” Clio said.
“We'll disembark as soon as we can.”

 The ship seemed to hear that, because
almost immediately it arrived at a crude wharf and nudged to a stop. Their
cabin reverted to carnation mode, ready to take them off.

 “Ciriana, you may remain here with
Cricket and the nice Maidens if you wish,” Clio said. “But you must
understand that you will never grow up.”

 “They're fun,” the child
agreed. “But I like you.” She scrambled into the car.

 Clio was privately flattered, and did
think it was the best course, though she remained uncertain where the child
might be suitably placed.

 “And Mr. E, this seems ideal for
you, as long as you know the conditions.”

 “Yes, do stay,” Randi said,
clinging to his arm.

 “No, I must go,” he said,
gently disengaging. He got into the car. Randy dissolved into evocative tears
and fled to her cabin.

 “Are you sure?” Clio asked,
feeling vaguely guilty. “She's a pretty girl, and will never be
otherwise.”

 “And I will never be other than I
am: homely,” E said. “Do you think she'll pay any further attention
to me, once I'm safely committed to the ship? She just wants the bonus for my
soul.”

 “Even homely men become attractive
to women when there aren't enough men to go around,” Sherlock said.

 “Oh, I'm sure she would make me
extremely happy to be here,” he agreed. “And so would the Maidens.
For a while. But once my soul ran out, they would be tired of me, and I'd have
nowhere to go. I think my destiny is elsewhere. I still want to discover my
talent, and with luck, find a woman who needs me for something other than my
soul.”

 “A mature decision,” Sherlock
agreed.

 The car moved forward, driving off the
ship and onto the wharf. Clio looked back, and saw the Maidens and handsome
Tran waving. That increased her guilt. They were nice people, in a special
situation. But for her curse, she would have been severely tempted. But of
course she had eternal life at Mount Parnassus, and a job to do, if she could
make it safely home before dying young.

 The wharf led to a road, and the road
led to Castle Zombie. They came to the bridge over the moat, but that was so
dilapidated that the car thought the better of it, and halted short of it. They
got out, and the car reverted to a big pink flower. Its job was done.
“Thank you,” Clio told it, and the pink intensified.

 “Oooo!” Ciriana exclaimed,
admiring the sordid spectacle of the castle.

 “Our appointment is at Castle
Zombie, it seems,” Sherlock said, less enthusiastic.

 Clio looked at the compass. “Yes.
I hope it is in the living quarters rather than the zombie quarters.”

 They set themselves, and ventured onto
the moldy boards of the drawbridge. It held, barely. Clio kept a tight grip on
the child, lest she slip on slime and fall into the gook of the moat. She knew
the zombies were merely another culture of Xanth, but this particular castle
was rather far from her favorite tourist attraction.

 They made it safely to the great warped
front door. Clio reminded herself that this was where the blue arrow led her,
so she had to follow through. She lifted a quailing knuckle and knocked.

 The door creaked open. A zombie stood
there, of course. “Whe donz whanz anee,” he said.

 Taken aback, Clio soon rallied.
“We're not here to sell you anything. Please tell the proprietors that
Clio, the Muse of History, is here.”

 “Huh?” the zombie asked.
Zombies weren't very smart, because their brains were rotten.

 “Fetch the boss,” Sherlock
said.

 That the zombie understood. It turned,
dropping a clot of rot, and shambled into the dark depths of the castle.

 Soon a dark young woman appeared.
“Sherlock!” she exclaimed.

 Sherlock was taken aback, not
recognizing her. “Tell him it's Bre-anna of the Black Wave,” Clio
told Drew. “She was a child when he knew her there.”

 “Breanna!” Sherlock said,
picking right up on it.

 “Tell him she and Justin Tree took
over here when the Zombie Master and Millie the Ghost retired.”

 “And how is Justin?” Sherlock
inquired.

 “He's fine.” Breanna glanced
at the others. “Who are your friends?”

 “This is Clio, the Muse of
History. And-”

 “The Muse of History!”
Breanna repeated, astonished.

 “Here on business,” Clio
said.

 “And Mister E,” Sherlock
continued smoothly. “And Ciriana. We were led here by a magic sign.”

 “Well come in,” Breanna said.
“Justin is out at the moment, but I'll try to handle whatever it is. We
don't get many live visitors.”

 Soon they were in the cozy living
quarters, which were clean and clear of rot. Clio explained about the compass
and its mysterious directions. “So now we're here, and would like to
follow the arrow to its destination, somewhere in this castle. Then we'll
surely be on our way again.”

 There was a sound. “Oh, Amber's
awake,” Breanna said. She went to a crib and lifted out a lovely little
amber-colored girl with brown hair like waves of grain. “This is Amber
Dawn, my daughter,” Breanna said proudly. “Age one.”

 “Oh, how nice,” Clio cooed,
taking the child. She couldn't help it; she was a woman. “Do you know her
talent yet?”

 “Yes. She makes a sticky clear
resin that catches bugs and hardens around them, preserving them for future
observation. Her father was a tree, you know. She already has a small
collection.”

 Indeed, the child held up a translucent
tan pebble. Inside it was a tiny ant, perfectly preserved.

 “That's no gi-ant,” Clio
said, smiling.

 “Let me see, let me see,”
Ciriana clamored.

 Clio set Amber down, and she stood a
bit unsteadily on her feet. Ciriana took the piece of amber, admiring the
insect. Little girls liked pretty pebbles, and this was more than pretty.

 “She has more in her box,”
Breanna said. In half a moment the two were going through the box with
enthusiasm. Amber was plainly pleased to show off her accomplishments.
“Justin likes to joke that Amber's so active she must be from an embryo I
carried for Mare Imbri, and we should call her Embri-Anna.”

 “Oof,” Sherlock muttered.

 “Where does your arrow lead?”
Breanna asked.

 Clio looked. “That way.”

 Breanna frowned. “That would be
Sis. She's new, and doesn't fit in well with the other zombies yet, so we have
her in a room by herself. I don't think she really likes being a zombie.”

 “That would seem to be
understandable,” Sherlock said dryly.

 “What do you mean by that?”
Breanna demanded, bridling.

 “Only that being a zombie is
surely an acquired taste.”

 “Oh. Yes. Well, Sis is a natural
zombie. I mean, the Zombie Master didn't make her; she just formed when she
died. We took her in, of course, but she lacks a sense of community with the
made zombies, if you see what I mean.”

 “Perhaps that's why we have been
brought to her,” Clio said.

 “I'll show you to her room. The
children will be all right here; no one intrudes, believe me, and the zombies are
protective.”

 Clio, Sherlock, and E followed Breanna
through a dark passage and up spongy stone steps. There was no doubt they were
going right; the blue arrow kept turning on Clio's wrist, orienting on the
zombie's chamber. They came to the door, and Breanna knocked.

 “Go waay,” a slurred voice
answered from within.

 “There is someone here to see you,
Sis,” Breanna said.

 “Thee-siss,” the zombie said
petulantly.

 “She always says that,”
Breanna said. “We don't know why.” She raised her voice. “Please
let us in.”

 Finally the zombie relented. She opened
the door and stood back, holding what appeared to be a bedraggled circular hank
of yarn in her hands. “Waz you wanz?” She was typical, with limp
straggly hanks of hair, missing teeth, sunken eyeballs, and a torso best not
investigated closely. Zombie maidens did not lose buttons on blouses or cross
their legs.

 “Please put that away,”
Breanna said. “Clio wants to talk to you.” Then, to Clio: “She
came with that zombie snakeskin. She says she needs to give it to someone, but
no one wants it.”

 Clio entered the chamber and moved to
the left. Sherlock moved to the right. E entered, tripped on a loose board, and
tumbled headfirst through the loop, fetching up against the zombie's decayed
legs.

 “You idiot!” Sis snapped.
“You went right through the spancel! You're lucky you didn't break
it.” She brought the twisted loop up, making sure it remained unbroken.

 E's face was against her calf.
“What a lovely leg,” he said. “And beautiful foot.” He
tried to right himself, but lost what little balance he had and slid to the
floor between her legs, facing up. “And what phenomenal pan-” He
didn't finish; he had frozen in place.

 “Cut that out, you faker,”
Sis said severely. “Zombie panties don't freak out living men; they're too
rotten.”

 “Sis!” Breanna said.
“You're talking normally!”

 “The-sis,” the woman said.
“How many times do I have to tell you? My name is Thesis, after my
occupation. I'm writing my dissertation on the origin of the magic
spancel.”

 “Thesis,” Breanna said.
“You're alive again!”

 “Ridiculous! I hate being a
zombie, but I've never been one to avoid reality. I'll thank you not to tease
me further. It's cruel, and I'm hardly in the mood.”

 “Look at your body,” Breanna
said. “Your legs.”

 “Why should I? I hate seeing my
wasted limbs.” Nevertheless, Thesis glanced down at herself, and froze.

 For her legs were full-fleshed and
shapely. Above them, her clothing had become fresh and clean, shaped by a torso
of nymphly proportions. Farther up, her face had assumed firm beauty, framed by
lustrously flowing hair.

 “Look in the mirror,” Breanna
said.

 Thesis wadded the spancel into a ball
in one fist. She strode lithely across the room to gaze into the mirror hanging
on the wall. “That can't be me. It's alive. Is this a magic mirror?”

 “No.”

 Something significant had certainly
happened. Clio needed to get to the bottom of it. “You do seem to have
been restored to full life, Thesis. What is this about a spancel? In fact, what
is a spancel?”

 “That is complicated to explain.
Suffice to say it is a most remarkable artifact.”

 E stirred. “What happened? Why am
I on the floor?”

 Sherlock went to him, helping him up.
“You tripped and fell. Right through her-her spancel. You saw up under her
skirt and freaked out, as any man would.”

 “But she's a zombie!”

 “Not anymore. She transformed back
to her living state.”

 “How could that be? Zombies are
goners. Everyone knows that.”

 “Especially the zombies,”
Thesis agreed, turning back toward him. “But it seems I did transform. My
flesh is firm.” She felt her own arm, verifying. “I apologize for
calling you a faker. You did see live panties.”

 E gazed at her. “I love you!”

 “Oh, no! So you do. Darn.”

 “What are you talking about?”
Breanna asked. “Panties freak men, they don't generate love, at least not
instantly.”

 “The spancel,” Thesis said.
“I see I'd better explain after all. It is made, if I must be graphic, by
cutting a narrow band of flesh from a man, all around his body in a continuous
loop. If you start at his head, it takes a ribbon of skin and hair, proceeds
down past his ear, along his shoulder, down his arm, around every finger
lengthwise-”

 “His skin?” Sherlock asked
incredulously. “That band of skin is gone?”

 “Exactly. Then back up the inside
of his arm, down his side, down the outside of his leg, around the toes
similarly, back up inside the leg, through the crotch-”

 “Doesn't it hurt?” Clio
asked, appalled.

 “Of course. He is screaming all
the time. That enhances the magic. It follows down his other leg, then up
again, to his arm, and finally back to his head. So you have the complete
outline of the man, in one thin band. The spancel.”

 Appalled, Clio still had to ask.
“And what is the purpose of this horrible artifact?”

 “It's magical. When passed around
any person, it makes that person fall instantly and hopelessly in love with the
person holding the spancel. So when this man fell through the loop-” She
glanced again at E. “What's your name?”

 “Zaven.”

 “But you said it was E,” Clio
protested. “Mister E.”

 “That was because I couldn't
remember my real name. Now true love has restored it to me.”

 “It's not true love,” Thesis
said. “It's the mischief of the spancel. You passed through it and it made
you love me. What's worse, I don't know the antidote. I haven't completed my
research on it.”

 “I don't care what you call
it,” Zaven said. “I love you utterly and eternally.”

 “But you have to understand, the
feeling is not mutual. I regret your accident, but I have a research project to
complete.” She returned to the mirror to touch up her hair. “In fax,
Iz besser be on my zway now.”

 “Thesis!” Breanna cried.
"You're reverting!

 The woman stared at her mirror image.
It showed her legs and arms wrinkling and crusting, and her full fresh torso
wilting. “Oo, noo!”

 “I love you anyway,” Zaven
said gallantly. He went to put his arm around her shoulders.

 Her shoulders lifted. Her body
freshened. “I'm beautiful again!”

 “Always, in my eyes.”

 “His talent!” Sherlock
exclaimed. “Restoring zombies!”

 Thesis and Zaven turned together to
look at him. “Can that be so?” Zaven said in sheer or nearly sheer
wonder.

 “But it's temporary,”
Sherlock said. “Or at least limited. You have to remain close to your
subject or the effect wears off.”

 Thesis nodded. “So it seems I do
need you, Zaven. There is only one thing to do.”

 “No, don't revert to zombie!”
he cried. “Let me stay with you! I promise not to interfere with your
research.”

 “Hold this,” she said,
handing him the spancel.

 “I don't understand.”

 “You don't need to. Shake it out
into a loop.”

 He obeyed, still protesting. “I
just want to be with you and help you do whatever you want to do.”

 “Now pass it over my body.”

 He paused, catching on. Then he put the
loop carefully over her head and passed it on down her body. When it reached
her feet, she stepped out of it. “Now I love you too. We'll do everything
together.” She embraced him and kissed him passionately. “And I do
mean everything.”

 He seemed about to float away.
“How fast can we get married?”

 “We have a zombie chaplain,”
Breanna said. “If you care for that kind of service.”

 “We do,” they said almost
together. Because, Clio realized, it was convenient and fast.

 Zaven handed the spancel to Clio.
“I don't think we'll need this anymore. I now know my destiny.”

 Clio looked at the compass. The blue
arrow pointed right to the spancel. It must always have been that, rather than
the zombie woman. That was what she had come for.

 “It seems you do,” Clio
agreed, folding the spancel and fitting it carefully into a free pocket. At
this rate she was running out of pockets.

 Then she realized that there was still
a problem. “Thesis, you are researching the origin of the spancel. Don't
you still need it for that?”

 “Yes, but I can no longer carry
it. It can't remain long in contact with a person it has enchanted; the magic
reflection would damage it. So someone else will have to carry it, and I'll
come along. If that's all right.”

 It had to be all right, because the
blue arrow said she needed it. The permutations of the directions of the arrow
were devious, but had to be followed. “Yes. But I hope your research can
be wrapped up soon.”