Night Mare (8 page)

“We must look like zombies so no one will know.”

Evidently so. Imbri humored her, since it was difficult to argue with a person of such low intelligence and sweet personality. They stopped, and the woman found stink-vines and ink pots, which she used to make each of them look and smell rotten. Her artistry was reasonably good; Chameleon did indeed resemble a buxom, flesh-loose zombie more than the lovely older woman she really was. Imbri looked like a half-dead nag.

Now they continued to the cemetery, where it lurked in the lee of Castle Roogna. The zombies were up and about in strength. Not many things stirred them, but marriage was in certain ways akin to death in its finality and disillusion. “We conspired with the Zombie Master,” Chameleon whispered to one of Imbri’s perked furry ears. “He roused his minions for the occasion, though he could not attend himself. One of the zombies is a justice of the peace. I don’t know what that is, but it seems he can marry them.” She was all excited with anticipation.

Zombies were loosely formed creatures, so naturally would have a justice of the piece, Imbri realized. It was not too great a stretch of the rationale to extend the authority to restore lost pieces of zombie to the union of full creatures of flesh. Marriage, in Xanth, was whatever one made of it, anyway; the real test of it would be the acceptance by the partners in it and by the wider community, rather than any single ceremony.

As they stepped onto the graveyard grounds, things changed. Suddenly the zombies were twice as ghastly as before, dressed in tuxedos and gowns that concealed much of their decay but made the parts that showed or fell off more horrible in contrast. All were standing quietly between the gravestones, facing the largest and dankest crypt at the north end, where an especially revolting zombie stood with a tattered book in his spoiled hands.

A female zombie came up. Her eyeballs were sunken, and parts of her teeth showed through her worm-decimated cheek. Her low décolletage exposed breasts like rotten melons. “Are you a centaur?” she inquired in a surprisingly normal voice.

“I’m Chameleon, your Majesty,” Chameleon said, dismounting, evidently recognizing the voice. “And this is the mare Imbri, who brought me back in time for the wedding. Have we missed anything?”

“Wonderful, Chameleon? Queen Iris cried, embracing her with a sound like funguses squishing. “Take your place in the front row, by the chancel; you’re the mother of the groom, after all. You haven’t missed a thing; these events always run late.”

“And you’re the mother of the bride,” Chameleon said, happy at the way this was working out.

The Queen Zombie turned to Imbri, her rotten body rotating at differing velocities. Her illusion was a morbid work of art! “You really are a mare?” she asked. “Yes, I see you are. Since you’re not related to the principals, you should stand in back.”

“But Imbri’s my friend!” Chameleon protested loyally.

“I’ll stand in back,” Imbri projected quickly. She knew little about human folk ceremonies and much preferred to be out of the way.

“Oh, my, that’s interesting magic!” the Queen said. “Almost like my illusion, only yours is all inside the head, or do I mean all in the mind? I didn’t know animals could do magic.”

“I am a night mare,” Imbri clarified.

“Oh, that explains it, of course.” The Queen turned away, going to greet other arrivals.

Chameleon went dutifully to the front, while Imbri made her way back. She came to stand between two zombies. It seemed the lucky couple for whom this ceremony was waiting had not yet arrived, so there was time to talk.

“Hello,” she projected to the one on the left.

The answer was an awful morass of foulness, resembling a blood pudding riddled with maggots. This was a true zombie, who might have been dead for centuries; she had just glimpsed its actual brain. Imbri was not unduly finicky, for every monster was allowed its own style in Xanth, but she was accustomed to the clean bones of the walking skeletons in the gourd. She tried not to shy away from this person, for that would be impolite, but she did not attempt to communicate with it again.

Imbri tried the figure on the right. “Are you a zombie, too?” she sent tentatively.

This person was alive but startled. “Did you address me, or was I dreaming?”

“Yes,” Imbri agreed.

He turned to peer more closely at her. “Are you a person or a horse?”

“Yes.”

“I’m afraid I’m not used to this concentration of magic,” he said. “I may have made a faux pas.”

“No, that’s west of here,” Imbri corrected him.

“It’s true! You are a horse, and you did address me!”

“Yes. I am the night mare Imbrium.”

“A literal nightmare? How original! One never knows what to expect next in Xanth! I am Ichabod the Archivist, from what you term Mundania. My friend the centaur Arnolde—he is currently in Mundania, as that’s his office, liaison to that region—brought me here so I could do research into the fantastic and, ahem, pursue a nymph or two.”

“That is what nymphs are for,” Imbri agreed politely. She knew it was a very popular human entertainment. But his reference to Mundania alarmed her; was he one of the enemy?

“Oh, no, I’m no enemy!” Ichabod protested, and Imbri realized she had forgotten to separate her private thought from the formal dreamlet. She would have to be more careful about that, now that she was among waking people. “Mundania is many things—you might say, all things to all people. It seems Mundania has extremely limited access to Xanth, while Xanth has virtually unlimited access to Mundania. This includes all the historical ages of our world. Therefore Xanth is but an elusive dream to the Mundanes, most of whom do not believe in it at all, while Mundania is a prodigious reality to Xanthians, who are very little interested in it. Am I boring you?”

He was doing that, of course, but Imbri had the equine wit not to say so. “I deal in dreams, and I am elusive, so I am certainly a creature of Xanth.”

“Really? You mean you are a dream yourself? You’re not really there?” He reached out a hand, tentatively, to touch her shoulder.

“Not exactly.” She phased out, and his hand passed through her.

“Fabulous!” he exclaimed. “I must put you in my notebook. You say your name is Imbrium? As in the Sea of Rains on the visible face of the moon? How very intriguing!”

He might be Mundane, but she saw that he was not entirely ignorant. “Yes. They named the Sea of Rains after my grandam, who lived a long time ago. I inherit my signature from her and the title to that portion of the moon.” She phased back to solid and stamped a forehoof, making a moonmap imprint with her own name highlighted.

“Oh, marvelous!” Ichabod cried. “I say, would you do that on a sheet of my notebook? I would love to have a direct record!”

Imbri obligingly stamped his page. The map showed up very clearly on the white paper, since of course there was a coating of good, rich, cemetery dirt on her hoof.

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” the Mundane exclaimed, admiring the print, “I have never before encountered a genuine nightmare—not in the flesh, so to speak. It is not every Mundane who receives such an opportunity! If there is any return favor I might possibly do you—”

“Just tell me who is here and how the ceremony is to proceed. I have never attended an elopement.”

“I shall be delighted to, though my own understanding is far from perfect. It seems that Prince Dor and Princess Irene—their titles are similar but have different derivations, as he is the designated heir to the throne, while she is merely the daughter of the King—both of whom I met eight years ago in Mundania, are at last to achieve nuptial bliss, or such reasonable facsimile thereof as is practicable.”

Imbri realized that Mundanes had a more complex manner of speaking than did real people; she cocked one ear politely and tried to make sense of the convolutions.

“But he seems not yet to be aware of this, and she is supposedly not aware that virtually everyone in Castle Roogna or associated with it is attending. It is supposed to be an uncivil ceremony, performed in the dead of night by a dead man—i.e., a zombie. A most interesting type of creature, incidentally. Queen Iris has cloaked all visitors with illusion—she does have the most marvelous facility for that—so they seem to be zombies, too, and she has mixed them in with the real zombies so that no one not conversant with the ruse is likely to penetrate it. Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive! That is a Mundane quotation from—”

He broke off, for there was a stir to the south. Just in time, for he had been about to bore Imbri again. He did seem to have a formidable propensity for dullness. All the zombies, real and fake, hushed, waiting.

The pale moonlight showed a young woman of voluptuous proportion stepping through the fringe of the Castle Roogna orchard, hauling along a handsome young man. “We’ll just cut through the zombie graveyard,” she was saying. “We’re almost there.”

“Almost where?” he demanded irritably. “You’re being awfully secretive, Irene. I’m tired; I have just come back from Centaur Isle, where I couldn’t make much of an impression; I’ve consulted with King Trent about the Nextwave incursion and how to contain it; and now I just want to go home and sleep.”

“You’ll have a good sleep very soon, I promise you,” Irene said. “A sleep like none before.”

A rock chuckled. “It’ll be long before you sleep, you poor sucker!” it said.

“Shut up!” Irene hissed at the rock. Then, to Dor: “Come on; we’re almost there.”

“Almost where?”

“Don’t trust her!” the ground said. “It’s a trap!”

Irene stamped her foot, hard. “Oooo!” the ground moaned, hurting.

“I wish you’d just tell me what you’re so worked up about,” Dor said. “Dragging me out here for no reason—”

“No reason! Hah!” a chunk of deadwood chortled. Irene kicked it into the moat, where there was a brief, wild splashing as a moat monster snapped it up.

“I suppose you do have the right to know,” she said as they entered the graveyard. All the guests had abruptly faded into invisibility, thanks to Queen Iris’s illusion. “It’s an elopement.”

“A what?”

“Elopement, idiot!” a tombstone cracked. “Better run before you’re lost!”

Irene rapped the stone on the top, and it went quiet. She seemed to have had experience dealing with talking objects. “We’re eloping,” she said clearly. “I’m taking you secretly away to get married. Then you’ll have something nice in bed with you.”

“Something nice?” Dor asked, bemused. “You mean you’re giving me a pillow?”

This time it was Dor she kicked, as the whole cemetery guffawed evilly. “
Me,
you oaf! Stop teasing me; I know you aren’t
that
stupid. I can be very soft and warm when I try.”

“Ooooo!” the crypt said in a naughty-naughty voice. “Not many of that kind
here
!”

“But we haven’t sat the date!” Dor protested.

“That’s why we’re eloping. We’ll be married tonight, before anyone knows. So there won’t be any foolishness. The job will be done.”

“But—”

She turned and kissed him emphatically. “You have an objection?”

Dor, obviously daunted by the kiss, was silent.

“Marvelous, just marvelous, the way she manages him,” Ichabod murmured beside Imbri.

The couple arrived at the crypt. “Zombie justice, where are you?” Irene called.

The officiating zombie appeared, holding his book. Also, slowly, the rest of them phased into dim view, under the continued glow of the moon.

“We’re going to be married by a zombie?” Dor demanded weakly. “Won’t the union fall apart?”

“Ha. Ha. I have laughed.” She shook her head, so that her green hair flounced darkly in the limited light. “It’s the only person I could get without alerting Mother,” Irene explained. There was a choked snort of mirth from the depths of the audience. Irene looked around and spied the crowd. “Well, all you zombies didn’t have to rip yourselves from your graves,” she said in a spooks-will-be-spooks manner. “But I suppose some witnesses are in order.”

“I didn’t know there were this many zombies buried here,” Dor said.

“There aren’t, you poor stiff,” the crypt said. “These are—”

“Quiet!” the Queen Zombie snapped.

Now Irene was suspicious. “That voice is familiar.”

“Of course it is, you luscious dummy!” the crypt said. Then a black cloud roiled out of nowhere and emitted a roll of thunder that drowned out whatever other information the crypt disgorged.

“There’s something very funny about this,” Dor said, squinting at the loud cloud.

Irene reverted to first principles. “What’s funny about zombies? They love grim occasions. Let’s get on with it”

The zombie magistrate opened his book. A page fell out the volume was as decrepit as the zombie.

“Oh, how I hate to see a book mistreated,” Ichabod breathed beside Imbri.

“Wait a moment,” Dor protested. “You tricked me out here, Irene. I didn’t agree to get married tonight”

“Oh? Well, I intend to marry someone! Should it be one of these zombies?”

“Now that’s a bluff I can call,” Dor said.

Irene stood in silent but almost tangible grief. Her shoulders shook. Tears plopped into the sod at her feet. Dor, aided by a touch of the Queen’s illusion, assumed a form somewhat like the hinder part of a giant’s boot: a firstclass heel “Ah, well—” he mumbled inadequately.

Irene flung her arms about him and planted another kiss that made the audience murmur with envy. Even the zombies seemed moved. When she was through, Dor stood as if numbed, as well he might.

“Classic!” Ichabod whispered. “That girl has absolutely mastered the art!”

The zombie magistrate mumbled something unintelligible. He had no tongue, and he was reading from the pageless book, with empty eyeball sockets.

“I do,” Irene said firmly.

The zombie mumbled something else as his nose fell onto the book.

“He does,” Irene said, nudging Dor.

The zombie made a final effort, causing several loose teeth to dribble out of his mouth.

“I’ve got it,” Irene said. She produced a ring with an enormous stone that glowed in the moonlight so strongly it seemed to illuminate the graveyard. “Put it on me, Dor. No, not that finger, idiot.
This
one.”