Harpy Thyme (16 page)

“Is there any living thing here?” Trent inquired, combing the last ash out of his hair.

“Only a bone flea, which I have been unable to eject,” Marrow said. “I try to let living things be, but I must confess that bone fleas make me nervous.”

“How could a flea hurt you, when you have no flesh?” Gloha inquired.

“A bone flea eats bone,” Marrow explained. “It tries to drill into the center, where my marrow-essence is, and gorge on that. Without my marrow, I would fade immediately away from this realm. I find the prospect uncomfortable.”

“Then you won't mind if I transform that flea to something else?” Trent inquired.

“I should be most satisfied to see it transformed.”

“Where is it?”

Marrow pointed a bone-finger to a slightly chewed section of the bone wall. There was a tiny creature chomping blithely away.

Trent moved his hand close to the flea. Suddenly there was a fair-sized pot pie bush, growing from a pot, bearing a steamingly ripe pie. “Oh, wonderful!” Gloha exclaimed, realizing how hungry she had become. “But it looks too hot for us to touch.”

“I have utensils,” Marrow said. He produced several long thin bone slivers. “I chopped these up to use to seal crevices, but they may also be serviceable for your purpose.”

“Ah, chopsticks,” Trent agreed. He took two and held them with the fingers of one hand.

“You can eat with those?” Gloha asked, perplexed.

“With a little practice, so can you,” Trent said. “Marrow, if you will be so kind as to harvest that pot pie and set it on your table for us, we shall dine.”

Marrow plucked the hot pot pie with his bare fingerbones and set it on his bone table. Trent drew up a bone chair, and Gloha, being much smaller and lighter, perched on the edge of the table, the other side of the pie.

“Thus,” Trent said, demonstrating with his chopsticks. He poked into the pie and brought out a chunk of something that looked and smelled good, pinned between the two ends. He lifted it to his mouth.

Gloha took up two suitably sized bone slivers and tried to hold them the way he did. When she moved them, they flipped out of her less than gainly little grasp. She tried again, and began to get part of the hang of it. In due course she was able to spear a chunk of vegetable.

So they shared the pie. Trent ate most of it, because he was far more massive, but Gloha had all she wanted.

It had gotten dark. Marrow started a bone fire with some otherwise useless bone fragments. Its light and warmth were small, but the need was similarly small. They were comfortable.

“I think we had best rest here the night,” Trent said. “Perhaps by morning the volcano will have forgotten us.”

“Why should it matter?” Marrow asked. “When I go out, I merely make myself resemble a clog of ashes, and it doesn't recognize me.”

“Why didn't we think of that!” Gloha exclaimed.    ,

“You have less space in your skull,” Marrow said diplomatically. “All that living meat gets in the way of thought.”

“That must be it,” Trent agreed before Gloha could organize her reaction. “We living folk are at a disadvantage compared to you fantasy folk. I am surprised that you wish to join our number by acquiring a soul. Don't you know it will make you mortal?”

“Half a soul should not go that far,” Marrow said. “A living person can regenerate a full soul from half a soul, but that will not be the case with my kind. My half soul will merely endure, enabling me to reside permanently in exterior Xanth. That is all I want from it.”

“You may discover that it provides you more than you want,” Trent remarked.

“Then I shall politely decline what else it offers,” Marrow said. “I need only permanence in this realm.”

Trent's gaze crossed Gloha's gaze briefly, not really establishing a glance. She knew what he was thinking: the skeleton, never having had any part of a soul, did not understand the consequence of being souled. Perhaps it would not be possible to explain.

But something else occurred to her. “What about your family?” she asked. “Will they survive without souls?”

“By no means. But it is my hope that I will be able to share my half soul with them, so that each of us has a fragment, and then Grace'l Joy'nt, and Picka Bone will endure with me satisfactorily ever after in Xanth proper.”

Gloha nodded. It was a good answer.

Trent transformed the pot pie plant into a blanket bush, and each of them harvested a nice warm blanket. They lay down in separate corners. Gloha found the blanket on bones, cushioned- by her sturdy wings, to be surprisingly comfortable, but something was lacking. She focused her minute little mind, which tried to hide its thought from her, and finally ran it down. She was dissatisfied because she was sleeping alone. She wished she could be snug beside a winged goblin man. So she tried to picture one. The odd thing was that he seemed to have the face and form of Magician Trent. She knew that was foolish, but didn't quite get around to changing the image. She relaxed, and slept so quickly that it was as if the morning came before the evening ended.

In that morning she got up, stretched her wings, and tried the knee-knob on the bone door. The door swung open on smooth joints, and she looked out across the ashy vista.

It was lovely in its fashion. All the irregularities of the landscape had been smoothed over. It was like a gently surging sea, frozen in place. The mountain itself was quiet, with only some scatters of white cloud drifting near its peak. It looked peaceful.

“I made you hats,” Marrow said from within.

Gloha turned, startled. She had forgotten that he didn't sleep. “Thank you.” She accepted the broad woven bone hat he proffered and put it on her head. It was decorated with ash on top, so that from above it should look like a piece of ash.

She stepped outside. The ash was knee-deep on her, so she spread her wings and flew above it. The mountain did not react, so either the hat was still effective, or Pin-A-Tuba was asleep. She found a suitable gully, landed, and caught up on a function or two that was best done privately. Then she flew back to the bone cabin.

Trent's tracks led around to the back of the house. She would not be so uncouth as to conjecture, of course, but it was possible that he was in quest of a similar gully.

She entered the bone house. There was a sugarplum bush. How thoughtful of the Magician! She plucked the sweetest plum and ate it for breakfast.

They set out, wearing their ash hats. Marrow looked funny in his, because of the incongruity of a skeleton wearing anything. The volcano did not seem to be too smart, because it didn't notice them. They crossed to the original path, and followed it on toward the mountain, because that was really about the only way to go.

Pin-A-Tuba blew a few resounding bass notes as they came close, and puffed up some smoke. But this was a mere turning over in its sleep; their ash hats concealed them well enough so that the mountain was not roused from its slumber. They skirted its base-the skirt was made of fallen ash, of course-and proceeded on south.

“Phew!” Gloha said. “I was afraid old Pun-A-Tub would catch on and dump more ash on us.”

The ground shuddered. An awakening rumble traveled up the cone of the mountain. An irate column of smoke shot up.

“Oops,” Gloha said. “It heard me.”

“Let's move,” Trent said.

They hurried along the path. But they were not far enough away from the mountain. The rumbling became horrendous, and a great ugly crack of a vent opened along the side of the cone. Roiling purple gas rose out of it and rolled down toward them.

“I think you living folk would do well to avoid that vapor,” Marrow said politely. “On occasion I have seen it encompass creatures.”

“Oh! What happened?” Gloha inquired.

“That is where I got the fresh bones for my house, after the vapor passed.”

“Point made,” Trent said, breaking into a run. But the path was bearing downhill, and the ball of gas was rolling faster than he could run. It would soon catch them.

Gloha spread her wings and flew. She could rise above the gas. But she knew that wouldn't do Trent much good.

“It will not harm me, of course,” Marrow said, keeping the pace. “But if you have any emergency procedures, this would seem to be the time to invoke them.”

“I'll have to transform you,” Trent puffed to Gloha. “Then you can carry us both away from here.”

“All right, if you wish,” she said, flying down close to him, to get within his range. "What kind of creature do you-squawk, squawk, squawk?” she concluded from her big bird's beak. She had become a roc.

The gasball was almost upon them. She reached down with two feet and caught both man and skeleton. She closed her talons carefully, so that they formed a kind of round barred cage instead of transfixing or crushing anyone. Then she pumped her wings and heaved into the sky.

The ball rolled underneath her. The draft from her wings beat at it, battering it apart. It lost cohesion, and became a sinking pool of ugh-colored ick. Served it right, as far as she was concerned.

The mountain, balked, shot out a furious blast of ash. The fragments were so hot they glowed as they arced toward Gloha's wings. They would set her on fire if they caught her! But she was at the fringe of the volcano's immediate range, and was able to fly clear before the burning bits reached her. Now she truly appreciated the Magician's prior caution; indeed, no big bird was safe near that deadly cone.

She looked for a good place to land, but the terrain was too rough for a bird this size. She needed a reasonably level region clear of trees. So she flew on south-and in a surprisingly brief time she spied the yawning gape of the Gap Chasm. She realized two or maybe three things: she had reached it so rapidly because big strong rocs flew with much bigger wing-strokes than did little weak-winged goblin girls. It was yawning because this was still morning and it hadn't had time to wake properly up yet. And if she could travel this readily and swiftly, she might as well continue until they reached their starting point above Crombie's cave. Then they could head southeast, the direction he had indicated.

As she flew, she had a daydream. In it, she was turning the pages of a big book. The pages were filled with text, but she was unable to read it. Then she came to one that said “Chapter 5: Xxxxxxx.” She recognized that title: it was her story! So she turned more pages, until in the middle of the following chapter the pages turned blank. The chapters were numbered through 12, but there was nothing written in the last six. Which meant, of course, that her story was as yet unfinished. Then there was the flick of an invisible tail, and Mare Imbri, the bringer of daydreams, galloped off to her next assignment.

Gloha was surprised to realize that almost half her story had been told, and she hadn't yet started the main part of her quest. It was high time to get on with it, so a little velocity here wouldn't hurt at all.

But where exactly was Crombie's cave? She had come to it mostly by water before, and underground. She had returned to the surface through a convoluted system of caves that left her with no idea where she had been. She didn't know how to identify its location from here.

Well, maybe she should return to the place where they had emerged. That should be somewhere in the right vicinity. Maybe Magician Trent or Marrow Bones would have a notion how to proceed from there.

She found that in this form she had a fine eye for details on the ground. She saw where Com-Pewter's cave was, and the board walk, and the pool of the three mermaids. Well, maybe that was close enough, and would do for a landing place; there were no trees in the middle of the pool.

She glided down. She swooped low and slow over the pool, and let the two figures go. They dropped into the pool with two splashes. She knew that the mermaids would rescue Trent if he had any trouble, and the skeleton could simply sink to the bottom and walk out, as he didn't need to breathe.

She climbed again, and saw that it was as she had surmised: Trent was surrounded by the three lovelies. Then one of them went to rescue Marrow Bones-and changed her mind. Maybe she hadn't seen him clearly before. It must have been a shock to recognize his nature. Gloha somehow wasn't too sorry.

She descended again, and this time splashed into the water herself. It had a wonderfully cushioning effect, but wasn't as deep as she had thought; her feet touched bottom. Then she realized that it had been deep but was so no longer; her entry had splashed most of the water out. The three mermaids were stranded by the suddenly dry shoreline, their once-lovely hairdos matted, glaring in perfect harmony.

Gloha waded out. When she reached Trent, she returned to her natural form. “Sorry about that,” she said with as much apology as she could muster.

“Quite all right,” Ash said through gritted teeth. “It will fill again any week now. We shall surely flounder through in sufficient style.”

“Perhaps sooner,” Trent said. He gestured, and a stranded fish near him became a very large watermelon vine with a number of huge fruits. He poked a melon, and it burst, its water flowing into the pool.

“Oho!” Cedar exclaimed, catching on. She poked another fruit, adding its water to the pool.

Trent slogged on around the depression, turning fish and weeds into more watermelon plants. The others followed, poking the fruits. All this water, added to what was flowing back from the higher slopes, soon had the pool about half full again. There was enough for the mermaidens to swim in, and for Marrow and Gloha to wash in. Trent, thoroughly splashed by the bursting melons, was pretty well clean anyway.

“Thank you,” Mahogany said. “I suppose if you wanted to put your clothes out to dry and dally a bit in the water, Magician, we just might manage to forget exactly how old you claim to be." She smiled reasonably winningly from amidst her bedraggled dark tresses.

“I fear we have to move on,” the Magician said. “But I thank you for the consideration.”

The mermaids did not press the issue, evidently being not completely forgiving of the splash. The encounter was less man ideal. For that Gloha was privately thankful.

They followed the stream down to where it entered the mountain. Then they looked for some way southeast from there. Beyond the river's gully was a mountain. There was a path that seemed to lead around the obstruction, but it did not look entirely healthy. There were bits of bone and feather strewn along it, and it smelled of dragon's breath. “I could become the roc bird again, and carry you over to the other side,” Gloha suggested.