The Dastard (5 page)

They looked around. To the side was a pit, and in the pit was what looked like a bespectacled man. He was reading a book. That was all; the rest of the pit was completely bare.

“This must relate,” Harmony said.

“Somehow,” Rhythm said.

“Hello,” Melody called to the man.

He looked up. “Do you have something to eat?” he asked.

They hadn't thought to bring any food. “No,” Harmony said.

“I've got to eat!” the man cried. Then he took a bite out of his book.

They stared down at him, as he consumed the rest of the book. He was really hungry!

“Junk and a hungry man,” Rhythm said. “We have to figure out how it works.”

“Maybe he could help us clear that junk away from the door,” Melody said.

“If we just had something for him to eat,” Harmony said.

“And I guess he'll eat almost anything,” Rhythm said.

They looked at each other. There was the odor of a pun in the neighborhood. A bulb flashed over their heads. They couldn't be sure whose light it was.

They fetched some of the smaller debris from the pile and tossed it into the pit. The man grabbed it and gobbled it up. Soon they uncovered an old wooden ladder. They struggled to drag it to the pit.

“Don't eat this!” Melody called to the man. “Use it to get out of the pit. Then you can eat all the junk by the door.”

They slid the ladder into the pit. The man managed to control his hunger long enough to lean the ladder against the side and scramble up and out. Then he ran for the pile of junk and began eating. He just stuffed objects into his mouth and chewed them up so rapidly that fragments flew out. It was amazing. Before long the whole pile was gone, and the doorway was clear.

“He ate the litter,” Harmony remarked.

“He's litter-ate,” Rhythm said, completing the pun.

Then the literate man went back to eat the ladder, and the three little princesses walked into the castle.

Inside they came to a river. They paused, surprised; usually rivers were outside of castles rather than inside. They walked beside it, until they came to an irritable looking child about as old as the three of them put together. “Go away,” he said.

But by this time the princesses did not much feel like being stupidly balked. “Who says?” Melody asked.

“I say,” the boy said.

“You and who else?” Harmony asked.

“Me and my tangle tree.” The boy gestured, and they saw a tangle tree growing right by the path they had to follow to get the rest of the way into the castle. It was beside the water, growing from the river bank. “That's my talent: controlling tangle trees.”

It was the third Challenge. What were they to do?

They tried reasoning with the boy, but he was completely unreasonable, as boys tended to be. He was not about to let them pass, no way, not at all. They tried to approach the tree, but its green tentacles twitched menacingly. They tried to pacify it with magic, just in case, but had no success. They had to figure out the correct way.

“This has all been puns so far,” Melody said.

“That's because Xanth is mostly made of puns,” Harmony said.

“So maybe this is another pun,” Rhythm concluded.

Melody looked at the tree. “Are we getting into a tangle?”

Harmony looked at the river. “Are we all washed up?”

Rhythm looked at the path. “Is this the route to trouble?”

“Oh, put a sock in it, you little twits,” the boy said nastily. “You'll never figure it out.”

This annoyed them, so they concentrated really hard. There was a boy. What did boys do? They were obnoxious. There was a tree. What did trees do? They grew leaves, except for tangle trees, which grew tentacles. There was a river. What did rivers do? They flowed.

They weren't getting anywhere, so they changed places and tried again from their new perspectives. The boy, the tree, the river. The tentacles, the river bank, the path. Still nothing. They just weren't as good at using their minds as they were with their magic, and now that they couldn't use their magic, they weren't getting anywhere.

So they tried observation. The boy had curly black hair and a perpetual sneer. The river had a gently sloping bank. The tangle tree actually leaned out over the river, but not so much as to prevent it from grabbing anyone who tried to pass on the other side.

“Lean,” Melody said, trying to catch a fleeting notion.

“Bank,” Harmony said, pursuing another faint idea.

A bulb flashed over Rhythm's head. “Banks take leans,” she said. A passing spelling bee looked disgusted. It flew in loops, spelling out LIENS, but they ignored it.

The tangle tree leaned further. In a moment it splashed into the river. “Spoilsport!” the boy said, and walked away.

They had unriddled the third pun. They followed the path to a door. The door led into an anteroom. A woman was waiting for them. “Hello, Princesses,” she said.

“Hi, Wira,” the three chorused, hugging her from three small sides. Wira was the Good Magician's son Hugo's wife, and she was really nice. Also blind. But she had no trouble in the castle, because she knew exactly where everything was.

“The Good Magician is expecting you.”

“We know,” they said.

They followed her into the rest of the castle.

If anyone except the Good Magician had told her to do this, Becka wouldn't have believed it. She could tell already that the Dastard was nobody she would ordinarily care to associate with. He was nothing special in appearance, with hair colored hair, eye colored eyes, skin colored skin, and dingy dull clothing. His character was worse. She thought he had tried to kiss her against her will, and she had had to turn dragon to stop him. Actually that hadn't happened; it was just a stupid daydream, but she still didn't trust him.

“Why did you go to the Good Magician?” the Dastard asked her.

There seemed to be no harm in answering. It wasn't exactly a secret. “I wanted to know my purpose in life.”

“What did he say?”

“That my purpose was to effect the welfare of Xanth.”

“How can you affect it?”

“Effect, not affect. I don't know how.”

The man considered. “You intrigue me,” he said.

Then nothing happened, but she had the distinct impression he might have wanted to do something dastardly, like pulling up her skirt to see her panties, and she might have had to turn dragon and chomp his hand. He hadn't, of course, and she hadn't, but there was an odd half-memory, as though it might have been, maybe in some other realm. It was unsettling. “I'm supposed to help you,” she said. “That's all.”

“Then fetch me something to eat.”

So he thought she was some kind of servant. That rankled. But maybe that was the way she was supposed to help him, to effect the welfare of Xanth, far-fetched as it seemed. So she explored the area, looking for food.

She spied a group of cat tails growing in a swampy section. Some varieties of those were edible, so she went to pull some off. But the first one she grabbed made a horrendous screech. Then the cat tore out of the ground and bounded away. Oh. For some stupid reason she had thought it was a plant.

She saw a tree with a number of unfamiliar fruits. Those might be good. She went to pick one that looked like a little bomb, but it exploded at her touch, splattering juice all around. It wasn't a cherry; it must have been overripe. She tried another, that looked somewhat wasted, but its touch made her feel devastated. The third one resisted her pull, refusing to be plucked. The fourth one was tangled up in vines and thorns, making it too much of a project to get to it. What was going on here?

Then she recognized the type of tree. It was a shun tree, whose seeming fruits were really bad seeds. The seeds of destruc-shun, devasta-shun, opposi-shun, complica-shun and the like. Smart folk shunned this tree, as it bore nothing worthwhile.

She saw several sleepy looking plants with fruits like buttons. Those might be good. She picked one, and was about to eat it, when she hesitated; she vaguely remembered something like this, and it wasn't necessarily good. So she merely touched her tongue to it.

Sure enough, she suddenly felt drowsy. It was a snooze button, that tasted good but put people to sleep. She hardly needed this.

Then she reconsidered, and picked several buttons and put them in her handbag. They might after all be useful some time--for someone else.

She went on, and encountered a walking shape. It seemed to be a book, but it wore a skirt. “Hello,” she said uncertainly. “If you don't mind my asking--what are you?”

“I am Novella,” the book replied. “A small female novel. Isn't it obvious?”

In retrospect, it was. “I guess I'm not much of a reader,” Becka said, embarrassed. “I'm just looking for something to eat.”

“Food can be a long story,” Novella said. “I think the chain smoker knows where there's some. He's right over there.” She pointed with a page.

“Thank you.” Becka went to the chain smoker, who was a man sitting with his back against a tree-trunk, smoking a long chain. “Sir Smoker, can you tell me where there is some food?”

“My friend the pack-rat has plenty,” Chain replied. He patted the head of the rat sitting next to him.

The pack-rat obligingly opened his knapsack and gave her several rocks and what looked like a squashed squash.

“But this isn't food,” she protested. “It's pyrite and gneiss and disgusting gourd refuse.”

“Yes it is,” Smoker said. “That's pie-right, and nice, and a punkin pie.”

Becka looked again. So it was. “Oh. Thank you very much.” She wrapped the pies in a section of sheet and carried them back the way she had come.

The Dastard was not grateful. “What's this sheet?” he demanded.

“That's just a piece of sheet rock I used to wrap the pies,” Becka explained. “To keep them clean.”

He lifted one of the pun-kin pies. “I recognize this. If I take one bite, I'll be emitting foul puns for the next hour.”

Becka had forgotten about that quality of the pies. “Then I'll eat them,” she said regretfully, for she was hungry.

“Then I'll have to listen to you emitting the stinking things,” he complained. “Throw them away.”

She realized he was right. It was bad enough when men ate pun-kin; for girls it was downright unladylike. She knew they tasted good enough, but they did cause pundigestion, and nobody else could stand to be in the company of someone constantly letting fly with the filthy things.

Reluctantly she took the pun-kin pies and set them on a small round stone she saw nearby. Immediately they sank into the stone, and an arrow in it spun around to point at the remaining smear. Oh, no--she had converted it into a pun dial! Careless disposal of pun refuse was dangerous; it contaminated everything it touched.

Becka ate a leftover piece of pie, but part of it had hardened into stone; when she unwittingly chewed down on it, it knocked out a tooth. Ouch! Fortunately she had some tooth paste in her emergency kit. She brought it out, spread it on the tooth, and put it back in her mouth. The paste attached it securely back, just about as good as new. There was nothing like being prepared.

By this time they had wandered away from the statue of the Sea Hag, which was a relief, Becka had heard ugly stories about that ugly Sorceress. Why anyone would want to commemorate her life history was beyond her.

Another person was coming along the path toward them. It seemed to be a huge face with little arms and legs. “What in Xanth are you?” the Dastard asked it.

“I'm an Interface,” the thing replied. “I can make things easy or hard.”

“Make what things easy or hard?”

“Well, like relating to something,” Interface said. “For example, if you were trying to relate to that girl with you, I could make it much easier--or much harder. That's my talent: to make things relate, one way or another.”

The Dastard considered. He glanced sidelong at Becka in a way she didn't like. “So you could make her show me her panties?”

“Now wait a minute!” Becka protested.

“Sure,” Interface said.

“Go ahead then. Do it.”

“No way!” Becka snapped.

“No.”

“What?” The Dastard was clearly annoyed.

“I said no. She's too young.”

“What if I say she's not?”

“Doesn't matter. She's obviously only fourteen. Four years before she can show anything like that.”

Becka knew of girls who had done it before then, but she decided to keep her mouth shut.

“Do it anyway,” the Dastard said.

“Say, what are you?” Interface demanded. “Some kind of pervert?”

“I'm the Dastard. I do dastardly deeds. It's my nature. I'm trying to get this girl to be of some use to me. So are you going to do it?”

“Of course not. Instead, I'll make you relate to that boulder over there. Like head first at high velocity.” Interface began to concentrate.

Suddenly Interface was walking down the path toward them. “What in Xanth are you?” the Dastard asked.

“I'm an Interface,” the thing replied.

Becka was astonished. This scene had happened just about three moments ago. How could it be happening again?

Meanwhile, Interface explained about its talent. Becka braced herself for the Dastard's dastardly question--but this time he didn't ask it. Instead he said “That's interesting,” obviously bored, and walked on by.

Becka was having trouble assimilating this. Finally she asked “What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” the Dastard replied blithely.

“Yes it did. The Interface met us twice. It--”

“Oh, that. That's my talent. I make things unhappen.”

“You tried to get it to make me show my panties!” she said accusingly.

“Well, it was worth a try.”

“You're not even sorry!”

“Of course not,” he agreed. “Why should I be? I'm sure they're a fine sight.”

“Don't you even have a conscience?”

The Dastard paused, thinking. “I suppose I don't. I used to; I know, because it kept getting in my way. But it hasn't bothered me since I made the deal with the demon, trading my soul for this talent. The conscience must have gone with the soul.”

“You have no soul?” she asked, appalled.

“None,” he agreed, satisfied.

“But how can you live that way? Everybody needs a soul.”

“I don't. I get along just fine without mine.”

“So when you tried to see my--you have no morality at all!”

“Right. So why don't you either give up your foolish reluctance, or go somewhere else?”

Becka really wanted to be somewhere else. But the Good Magician had sent her here to help this despicable man, so she was committed. “No. I'm not going, and not showing.”

“Too bad,” he said indifferently.

But she wasn't through figuring things out. “You tried before! But I turned dragon, so you unhappened it.”

He turned to her. “Now that's interesting. You actually remember?”

“Some. I thought I was just imagining it. But it happened, didn't it?”

“Yes. Happened and unhappened. The first time I tried to kiss you. The second time to pull up your skirt. I got a good look, too.”

“You did not!” she flared, reddening. “I turned dragon before you saw anything.”

He nodded. “So you do remember. Nobody else does. You must have a bit of extra talent.”

“You're trying to see underage panties--and you don't care at all!” She was so angry she was starting to see around trees.

“Certainly I care. I'm frustrated because my effort was wasted. All I can see is your stupid feet.”

“I ought to turn dragon now and chomp you!”

The Dastard was unimpressed. “I'd only unhappen it. You may remember, but you won't get to chomp.”

He was probably right. That made her madder than ever. Then she remembered the snooze buttons she had saved. If she sneaked one of those into his food, he would fall asleep, and then she would be able to chomp him. If he ever succeeded in getting a dirty look at her panties, she would do that. But until then she would try to follow the Good Magician's directive, and remain to help this utter cad in some way. She had heard that the Good Magician's Answers could seem irrelevant or crazy, but always made sense in the end. She had to hope that this Service also made sense. Somehow. Eventually. By some incredible coincidence.

Another creature came down the path. This was a busy route! This one looked like a wolf. Could it be that lonesome dog she had almost seen before? No, it looked different.

“What are you?” the Dastard asked it.

“I am a who-what-where-wolf by the name of How?LL,” he replied. “I have a real nose for news, and a tail for truth.”

“Well, can you tell me how I'll get to see the panties of this obdurate girl?”

Becka shuddered. The man had no shame at all. Shame must be another quality of conscience or soul.

The wolf looked at Becka. “No. She's underage.”

The Dastard looked so frustrated he seemed about to burst. He didn't, but she did: Becka burst out laughing. She couldn't help herself. It was so great to see the heel balked.

But this time the Dastard didn't make it unhappen. Instead he continued to question How?LL. “What else can you tell me?”

How?LL took a step forward and sniffed him. “You are a man without a soul,” he said. “And a devastatingly devious magic talent.”

“Don't bother with the flattery. Will I succeed in my objectives?”

“That depends on what your objectives are.”

“To do dastardly deeds, mess up Xanth, become somebody, and marry a princess.”

How?LL pondered a moment. “I'm much better at sniffing out the past than the future. It does seem likely that you will succeed, considering the indications, but I can't be quite sure. There is a force gathering against you that may succeed in stopping you.”

“What force?” the Dastard demanded.

How?LL pondered again. “I can't quite smell it. It's far away, and secret. It may be fathomable, as there seems to be more than ten folk who know it, but I can't quite sniff it out. This girl has something to do with it.”

“You mean to tell me that this balky girl who will neither show me anything interesting nor go away is conspiring against me?”

“No. She's innocent. But she relates in some devious improbable way that no one will ever guess until it happens.”

“Can you tell me anything else?”

“No. There is too much vagueness surrounding you, because of the way you change what happens.”

Becka blinked. The who-what-where-wolf was coming down the path toward them. “You unhappened that dialogue,” she said.

“Of course. I don't want him knowing what I'm doing.”

Was there no end to this man's deviousness?

How?LL came close. “Where is there a good camping place?” the Dastard asked him.

“Not far on along this path,” How?LL replied.

“Thank you.” The Dastard walked on without pausing for further dialogue. The wolf continued in the other direction, unaware that there had ever been anything more.

“So you used him, then unhappened it,” Becka said. “But I remember. Are you going to unhappen me?”

“I can't unhappen people,” the Dastard said seriously. “I merely change their encounters with me.”

“Why do I think you're not telling me the whole truth?”

“Because I'm not. I see you're not entirely dull.”

“So you'll find out all you can about how I relate to the force against you, then unhappen our whole interaction?”

“Of course.”