Knot Gneiss (17 page)

“Not at all.” Then her eyes widened in pleasant surmise. There was a winged merman for her?

Soon the visitors were gone and work resumed. Jumper, Wenda, Angela, and now Meryl all were feeling more positive. Only Ida and Hilarion remained low, but they bore with it without fuss.

Wenda used her talent to shape the branches as before, rendering them into flexible strips. The others wove them into a new wickerwork mat. They took turns foraging for food and sleeping. By morning they had it done.

But they suffered assorted reversals as they touched the wood. This was a new variety, and it did not reverse their genders. Instead it rendered Angela into a demoness with little horns and a mischievous nature. Jumper became a big fly instead of a spider. Meryl had the head of a fish and human legs, complete with panties that freaked out Hilarion. Hilarion became a ragged pauper instead of a well-dressed prince. And Ida became a child instead of a mature woman. They all bore with it and kept working, doing what they could. Except for Angela, who still was unable to touch the wood with any force, regardless of her form, and finally gave up trying.

“We are ready to move on,” Jumper said. “But we’re all tired. I think we should wait before tackling the Strip.”

Wenda was of two minds. She wanted to get on through the Strip and back to Xanth, but realized that they could handle it better if they were properly rested.

“Let me help,” Angela said. “I was unable to do anything, so got a good night’s rest, which I really didn’t need anyway, since I am ethereal. You rest while I explore the Strip and try to locate the Door. Then I can direct you to the most expedient route.”

That made so much sense that all they could do was agree. Then they sank down on the ground and slept.

It was noon when Wenda woke, feeling somewhat but imperfectly refreshed. She assumed it was much the same for the others. Angela had returned with her report.

“It’s awful,” she said. “That Strip has no end; it seems to circle the planet. I could not see the Door, but I think I did see the Sidewalk. It is protected by really awful puns, too mind-rotting to remember. So even taking the most direct route, we shall have to suffer.”

“So we shall suffer,” Hilarion said. He had not seen the puns, so was not fazed. Wenda knew he would soon learn better.

They hauled the new reverse-wood wicker mat to where the Knot remained. Overnight its clothing of reverse wood had withered and curled as if subjected to intense heat. It was of course useless.

The others were unable to approach the Knot. Their fear and loathing might have no sensible basis, but it was genuine. This was Wenda’s job, alone.

She couldn’t roll the Knot onto the mat, because it was securely nestled in the wagon. So she threw it over the top, and drew it together in a ring at the base. This was effective; the dreadful radiation was converted to the semblance of friendship and pleasure.

The others came close, now drawn rather than repelled. They hauled the wagon briskly along parallel to the Strip, following Angela. Now Wenda saw that the various puns confined by the Strip were shrouded by its translucent border so that it was difficult to make them out. Angela had been able to actually enter the Strip and see them without being governed by them, which helped.

“Here,” Angela said, pointing to a section that looked like any other section. They would have been unlikely to select it on their own. Angela now was proving her worth to the Quest.

“Stay close together,” Wenda reminded the others. “Especially when we reach the Sidewalk. We’d never be able to find anyone who got stranded behind.”

“Close,” Hilarion agreed, beginning to appreciate the gravity of the situation.

“Once we go inside, I won’t be able to point the way,” Angela said. “I have been able to hover outside and peer in, but I will lose that perspective inside.”

“We understand,” Wenda said. “You have done what you could.”

They nerved themselves and plunged in, hauling the wagon along. There before them was a tree with many band-like branches. It looked harmless, but when they tried to brush past it, the twigs reached into their pockets and tried to steal things. They had to pull back, because there were too many branches to block.

“It’s a Banditree!” Ida exclaimed. “It means to steal from us.”

“How can we stop it?” Hilarion asked, fending off a branch that was trying to steal his sword.

“There must be a counter-pun nearby,” Wenda said. “I am good at trees; I should be able to find it.”

She looked around. She spied a Coventree, where unwanted people or things could be sent, but how could she send a rooted tree anywhere? Then she saw something that might work. “There’s an Infantree,” she said, relieved that the dialect spell didn’t prevent her from saying “tree.” Maybe that was because there was no similar-sounding word with a different spelling. Well, not exactly. “It grows tough babies. If we can get them to march on the Banditree, they will keep it too occupied to stop us from passing.”

“Infantree,” Hilarion repeated, as if the word tasted bad. “Make the infants march.”

“Exactly. A Coquetree could do it, luring them forward, but I see none here.”

“Jumper!” Meryl said. “He can change form. Could he become a Coquetree?”

“Yes, I’m sure he could,” Wenda agreed, sounding in her own ears just like Ida.

“Yes, I can,” Jumper agreed. He became a tree with flirtatious foliage. It oriented on the Infantree, where tough babies hung. A platoon of infants dropped to the ground, formed a column, and marched toward him.

Jumper sidled toward the Banditree. This was not something a true Coquetree could do, but fortunately the babies lacked experience. They followed, marching in step. When they were close to the Banditree, Jumper changed back to spider form, effectively disappearing.

“Companee—halt!” the sergeant baby bawled. He looked around, and spied the Banditree. There was a suitable target. “Charge!” he bawled.

In half a moment the tough babies were attacking the Banditree, a natural enemy. It would soon wish it was in the Coventree.

Meanwhile, the party slipped past, unnoticed, trundling the wagon with the Knot. They had nullified an obnoxious pun. Wenda had the feeling that the Knot was disappointed; it had of course wanted them to be balked.

But immediately they faced the next pun. This was a statue of a vigorous robot blocking their way. “A Robust,” Hilarion muttered. “I am coming to appreciate your dread of abysmal puns.”

When they tried to pass, the Robust reached out with his robotic arms to stop them. “I need fuel for my tank,” it said. “Your body fat will do.” It seemed that not all robots burned wood.

“Maybe a female robot is near,” Meryl said.

“I’m sure one is,” Ida agreed.

And there she was: a wheeled Robust with a fine bare female chest with twin turrets. Hilarion’s eyes locked in place.

The female Robust rolled up to the male and pressed her metal torso close. Sparks flew.

The party moved by during the romantic distraction, still hauling the wagon.

Now they came to a patch of lovely purple flowers. “Lilax,” Wenda said, identifying the plant. “They never tell the truth. Don’t smell them, or you will be unable to tell the truth either.”

“Could we reverse that with a chip of our wood?” Jumper asked.

“We might,” Ida said. “But I think we don’t want to weaken the protective shield around the Knot even a trifle if we don’t have to.”

“What does encourage truth?” Hilarion asked.

“Truthlax.”

“Is there any of that here?”

“There must be,” Meryl said. “Because the pun antidotes are always close. Isn’t that what you said, Wenda?”

“I did say that,” Wenda agreed, again feeling like Ida.

“There must be,” Ida herself agreed.

And there was a patch of yellowish-blue flowers. Truthlax. Their fragrance made them all eager to tell the truth. “Where is the Sidewalk?” Wenda asked it.

The truthlax flowers leaned to the left. The lilax flowers leaned to the right.

“Thank you.” Wenda led the way left.

But there was no Sidewalk. Instead there was a burning house. No, it was a house made of fire. There were firemen, also formed of fire, and it was surrounded by a wall of fire: a firewall.

They approached, cautiously, as there was no other way to go. Immediately the two firemen on guard raised their weapons: firearms. One fired a jet of flame, a warning shot. They could not pass.

“I think we need another idea,” Wenda said.

“What do firemen do for entertainment?” Meryl asked.

“I believe they attend firemen’s balls,” Ida said. “That’s where their true flames are.”

“Then maybe what we need is a fireball.”

“We surely do,” Ida agreed.

“Considering this environment,” Hilarion said, “we may want to look in a ballpark.”

That was a good idea. They cast about, and saw a park to the side. It was piled high with balls of every type. And there in a corner was a fireball.

“We need to get it to the firehouse,” Wenda said. “But it looks way too hot to touch.”

“I may be able to move it,” Jumper said. He walked to the far side of the ball, then changed form, becoming a giant blowfish. He blew hard, exhaling a fierce gust of wind.

The fireball flamed up, but it also began to move. Jumper followed it on his flippers, blowing, keeping it going. As it came near the firehouse, it expanded, becoming as large as the house. Within it Wenda could see the dancing flames, writhing evocatively. They looked like burning nymphs.

The firemen spied the ball. They lost interest in all else, and ran to join their flames.

And Wenda’s party pulled the wagon past the house. One more punfest had been defeated.

But still they were not finding the Sidewalk. “How much of this infernal mess do we have to put up with?” Hilarion demanded.

“Now you understand why we abhor the Strip,” Ida said.

“I do indeed. I thought puns were harmless, but some of these ones are dangerous, and they are certainly inconvenient.”

“We need more suggestions to navigate them,” Ida said.

“I will see to that.” He looked at Meryl. “You seem to have a productive imagination. For every useful idea you come up with, to deal with these festering horrors, I will kiss you.”

“Is this a promise or a threat?” Meryl asked with an undefined portion of a smile.

“Both.”

“I will hold you to it.”

Now they oriented on the way ahead. This was a seemingly harmless field of rye grass.

“I do not trust this,” Hilarion said.

“Do we have a choice?” Jumper asked.

“No,” Wenda said, and walked into the field. The others followed, hauling the wagon.

“Hay!” Meryl said.

Wenda turned to her. “What?”

“Hay hay hay! I think I’ve got hay fever,” Meryl said, sneezing.

Then the others were doing it too. There was a chorus of hays interspersed by sneezes and arguments. What was happening? The group was not normally this fractious.

Wenda looked more closely at the plants of the field. “Now I understand. This is not rye, it’s wry. It is making us react wryly. To be perverse or distorted.”

“Then let’s get the bleep on through it,” Hilarion snapped.

They hurried, but soon came up against a fort with a nasty attitude. It sat directly across the path, and had embrasures with crossbows galore. Meryl flew toward it, and several bolts were loosed at her. Only the fact that their party was still out of range prevented them from striking her.

They halted, gazing at the fort. “I don’t see anybody inside it,” Jumper said. “Those crossbows seem to be operating on their own.”

“That means we can’t reason with them,” Wenda said.

“Who is holding down the fort?” Hilarion asked.

“I’ll go see,” Angela said. She flew toward the fort. The crossbows did not loose at her, perhaps aware that she lacked substance and so could not be hit.

Angela landed at the base of the fort where the wall touched the ground. Then she flew back. “It is definitely being held down,” she reported. “The walls are made of cloud stuff that normally floats, but they are pressing down the wry grass. Something is pushing it to the ground.”

“An invisible giant!” Jumper exclaimed. “That’s who is holding down the fort.”

“Another confounded pun,” Hilarion remarked wryly. He couldn’t help it.

“How do we get an invisible giant to let go?” Wenda asked.

“Maybe Meryl has an idea,” Hilarion said.

“For a kiss!” Meryl remembered. “If it works.”

“If it works,” he agreed.

Meryl considered. “I don’t suppose we could just ask the giant?”

“We could try,” Jumper said.

Meryl flew up to where the giant’s head might be. “Please Mister Giant, stop holding down the fort.”

Now they heard the giant’s thunderous response: “HO HO HO!” There was a vaguely green tinge to the sound.

“So much for that,” Jumper said. “These puns will not let go voluntarily.”

Meryl fluttered back down. “Maybe that didn’t work, but seeing the field below me gave me another idea. If we could get the giant to roll in the wry and get hay fever, he won’t be able to keep holding down the fort.”

“How can we get him to do that?” Jumper asked, interested.

“Well, if there’s a summer salt pun nearby—”

“I’m sure there is,” Ida agreed.

And there was. They saw a salt lick to the side, with winter, spring, and summer salt. Meryl flew there, picked up a shaker, and promptly flipped over in the air.

“Somersault,” Hilarion agreed, almost smiling.

Meryl flew crazily upward, constantly turning over as the salt affected her. She returned to the region of the giant’s head. Then she unscrewed the shaker’s cap and flung the contents out into the invisible face.

“HO HO OOPS!” the giant sounded as the salt took effect. Then he must have somersaulted onto the field, because it flattened with his invisible contact. “BLEEP!” he cursed as the wry grass took effect.

The fort, loosed, floated up up and away.

In a large moment the giant overcame his wryness and ran after the disappearing fort. They saw and heard his giant footprints.