The Source of Magic (19 page)

“You know, I could get to respect women like these,” Crombie murmured as he paused from his exertions to watch the wrap-up proceed. Actually it was squawk-and-translation, but Bink was so used to it now that it made little difference. “They obey orders well, and fight damn near as well as a man, allowing for—” He paused in mid-squawk, listening.

Then Bink heard the siren’s call again, no longer drowned out by the battle. Oh, no! He tried to resist it—and could not. The siren had recovered her thrall.

Bink started walking toward that sound. His companions joined him, silently. The villagers, intent on their successful campaign, did not see them depart.

T
he sound of the battle faded behind. The males, Crombie included, moved on down the path, lured by the siren’s song. The unearthly quality was stronger now, thrilling Bink’s inner fiber. He knew the siren meant death, more certainly than the tangle tree—but what a satisfying death it would be!

It was a good path; nothing interfered with their progress. Soon they arrived at the shore of a small lake. In that lake were two tiny islands, like the tips of mountains mostly hidden beneath the surface. The path led over the water to one of these islands. This was the source of the music of the siren.

They started on the path. Bink thought Crombie might balk again, and in his heart hoped he would while fearing that that hope would be fulfilled, but the griffin did not. Apparently his resistance to females had been compromised by the spirit and sacrifice of the village women, and he could no longer muster sufficient suspicion. Indeed, he was the first on the water-path, the water depressing slightly under his claws but supporting his weight. The Magician was second, Bink third, and—

There was an angry bleat from the side. A small creature came charging along the small beach. It was four-legged and woolly, like a sheep, with broad curly horns that circled entirely around its head. Evidently the path crossed this creature’s territory, and the animal was taking action.

Chester, in the thing’s path, paused. “A battering ram,” he
remarked, recognizing the species. “Not subject to the siren’s call because it is a mere animal. No use to reason with it.”

A battering ram! Bink paused, his curiosity momentarily overriding the lure of the siren. He had heard of such creatures, and of their relatives the hydraulic rams, but never encountered one before. As he understood it, they existed only to batter, and they loved it. If there were a door to be broken down, or a castle to be breached, such a ram was invaluable. At other times, they were a nuisance, because they never stopped beating their heads against obstacles.

Chester was far larger than the ram—but it had cut him off from the siren’s path. Chester dodged it once, nimbly, but the ram screeched to a halt—a neat trick in sand, even with magic—and whirled to recharge. Chester would have been battered in the rear, had he tried to ignore it—and his rear was his proudest feature, despite the recent staining from the tangler’s sap—much handsomer than his face. So he whirled to face the ram, and dodged its charge again.

But there was no end to this. The ram would happily go on forever, screeching up more mounds of sand with each miss, but Chester had a siren call to answer. The ram had to be stopped, somehow.

Bink wondered: his talent could have had a part in saving him from the tangler, as it had used the motives and magic of others freely. Was the ram another device to stop him from reaching the siren? In that case, he should be rooting for the ram, not Chester.

Chester, no dummy, maneuvered between charges until he was directly in front of a large tree. He never took his eye off the ram, lest it catch him by surprise. Next charge would fire the ram right into the trunk that Chester had oriented on peripherally, with luck knocking the animal silly. Or at least starting the process, because it took a lot of knocking to knock a battering ram silly. These creatures were pretty silly to begin with.

Then Bink recognized the variety of tree. “Not that one, Chester!” he cried. “That’s a—”

Too late. Why was he always too late? It was getting quite
annoying! The ram charged, Chester danced aside, there was a flutelike trill of music, and the ram plowed headfirst into the tree. Such was the force of impact, all out of proportion to the animal’s size, that the entire tree vibrated violently.

“… pineapple tree,” Bink finished belatedly.

Now the fruits were falling: huge golden pineapples, quite ripe. As each hit the ground, it exploded savagely. That was how this tree reproduced: the detonating fruit sent shrapnel-seeds far across the landscape, where each could generate, with luck and magic, a new pineapple tree. But it was hardly safe to stand too near this process.

One pineapple struck the battering ram on the rump. The ram bleated and spun to face it, rear-scorched and bruised, but of course that was futile. Other fruits were exploding all around. One dropped just before the ram. With a snort of challenge the animal leaped boldly forth to intercept it, catching it squarely on the horns. The resulting concussion really did knock the ram silly; it staggered off, bleating happily.

Meanwhile Chester was doing a truly intricate dance of avoidance, trying to keep his flowing tail and sleek equine haunches out of mischief. He could avoid the pineapples falling to left, right, and front, but those behind were problematical. One dropped almost on his tail; in fact it brushed the elevated top. Chester, in a remarkable maneuver, whipped his entire hind-section out of the way—but in the process brought his head into the location vacated by the tail.

The pineapple exploded. Chester caught the blast right under his chin. His head was engulfed in flame and smoke; then the refuse cleared and he stood there, dazed.

Bink found himself unable to run back along the path, despite his concern for his friend. This was partly because the continuing summons of the siren allowed him to pause but not to withdraw, and partly because the path over the water was one-way. It was firm while he proceeded forward, but was mere water when he tried to go back. The lake was small, but seemed very deep, and he hesitated to trust himself to its reaches. Bad magic tended to lurk in the depths. So he could only watch and call. “Chester! Are you all right?”

The centaur stood there, slowly shaking his head. The explosion had not done much harm to Chester’s facial appearance, since that had always been homely, but Bink was concerned about the centaur’s fine mind. Had the pineapple damaged his brain?

“Chester! Can you hear me?” Then, as Chester ignored him, Bink understood the problem. The blast had deafened him!

Bink waved his hands violently, and finally Chester took note. “Speak louder—I can’t hear you!” Then the centaur realized it himself. “I’m deaf! I can’t hear anything!”

At least he seemed to be all right, otherwise. Bink, relieved of much of his anxiety, felt himself again overwhelmed by the continuing call of the siren. He beckoned.

“The hell with the siren!” Chester called. “I can’t hear her now. It’s stupid to go to her. She means death.”

Crombie had been briefly freed of the compulsion, back at the tangle tree, but had been recaptured by the siren. Now Chester had been freed by the intercession of the battering ram. It must be the operation of Bink’s talent! But Bink himself was still hooked. He turned about and proceeded toward the island. Crombie and the Good Magician were almost there now, as they had not paused as long as Bink.

Chester galloped along the path, catching up to Bink. His powerful hands picked Bink up by the elbows. “Don’t go, Bink! It’s nonsense!”

But Bink would not be denied. “Put me down, horserear. I have to go!” And his feet kept walking in midair.

“I can’t hear you, but I know what you’re saying, and it’s not worth listening to,” Chester said. “Only one way to stop this before the others are lost.”

He set Bink down, then unslung his great bow. The siren was still far away, but there was no archery like that of a centaur. Chester’s bowstring twanged, and the deadly shaft arced across the water toward the island and the female figure there.

There was a scream of anguish, and the melody halted abruptly. Chester’s arrow had scored. Suddenly they all were freed; the compulsion was gone. Bink’s talent had prevailed at last, saving him from harm without revealing itself.

They ran to the island. There lay the siren—the loveliest mermaid Bink had ever seen, with hair like flowing sunshine and tail like flowing water. The cruel arrow had passed entirely through her torso, between and slightly below her spectacular bare breasts, and she was bleeding from front and back. Her torso had collapsed across her dulcimer.

Yet she was not dead. Though the arrow, with that uncanny marksmanship of the centaur, must have pierced her heart, she still breathed. In fact she was conscious. She tilted her beautiful face weakly to look up at Chester. “Why did you shoot me, handsome male?” she whispered.

“He can’t hear you; he’s deaf,” Bink said.

“I meant no harm—only love,” she continued. “Love to all men, you—why should you oppose that?”

“What joy is there in death?” Bink demanded. “We have brought to you what you have brought to a hundred other men.” He spoke gruffly, yet his heart ached to see the agony of this lovely creature. He remembered when Chameleon had been similarly wounded.

“I brought no death!” she protested as vehemently as she was able, and gasped as the effort pushed a gout of blood from her chest. Her whole body below the shoulders was soaked in bright blood, and she was weakening visibly. “Only—only love!”

Then at last she subsided, losing consciousness. Bink, moved despite what he knew, turned to the Magician. “Is—is it possible she speaks the truth?”

Humfrey brought out his magic mirror. It showed the smiling baby face. “It is possible,” he said, wise to the ways of the mirror. Then he addressed it directly: “
Did
the siren speak the truth?”

The baby smiled again. “She meant no harm,” the Magician said. “She is not the killer, though she lured men here.”

The men exchanged glances. Then Humfrey brought out his bottle of healing elixir and sprinkled a drop on the siren’s terrible wound. Instantly it healed, and she was sound again.

The Magician offered Chester a drop of elixir for his ears,
but the centaur disdained it. So Humfrey sprinkled it on the centaur’s rear, and suddenly it was as beautiful as ever.

“You healed me!” the siren exclaimed, passing her hands wonderingly over her front. “There is not even blood, no pain!” Then, startled; “I must sing!” She reached for her dulcimer.

Chester kicked it out of her reach. The musical instrument flew through the air, smashed, and plunked into the water. “There is the source of her magic!” he cried. “I have destroyed it!”

The source of magic … destroyed. Was that an omen?

Experimentally, the siren sang. Her upper torso expanded marvelously as she took her breath, and her voice was excellent—but now there was no compulsion in it. The centaur had, indeed, deprived her of her devastating magic.

She broke off. “You mean that was what summoned all the men? I thought they liked my singing.” She looked unhappy.

Apparently she really was the lovely innocent, like Chameleon in her beauty-phase. “What happened to all the men?” Bink asked.

“They went across to see my sister,” she said, gesturing toward the other island. She pouted. “I offer them all my love—but they always go to her.”

Curious! Who could lure victims away from the siren herself? “Who is your sister?” Bink asked. “I mean, what is her magic? Is she another siren?”

“Oh, no! She is a gorgon, very pretty.”

“A gorgon!” Bink exclaimed. “But that is death!”

“No, she would not harm anyone, no more than I would,” the siren protested. “She cherishes men. I only wish she would send some back to me.”

“Don’t you know what the gaze of a gorgon does?” Bink demanded. “What happens to someone who looks upon the face of—?”

“I have looked into my sister’s face many times! There is no harm in her!”

Humfrey lifted his mirror again. “It affects men only?” he asked, and the smiling baby agreed.

It seemed the siren really did not know the devastating effect
her sister’s face had on men. So for years she had innocently lured in males—for the gorgon to turn to stone.

“We shall have to talk with your sister,” Humfrey said.

“The path continues to her island,” the siren informed him. “What will I do, without my dulcimer?”

“Your voice is pretty enough without any accompaniment, and so are you,” Bink said diplomatically. It was true as far as it went; had she a lower portion to match her upper portion, it would have been true all the way. “You can sing
a capella
, without accompaniment.”

“I can?” she inquired, brightening. “Will it bring nice men like you?”

“No. But perhaps a nice man will find you, regardless.” Bink turned to the Magician. “How can we approach the gorgon? One glance—”

“We shall have to deal with her in the morning,” Humfrey decided. Bink had lost track of time. The stars had been emerging at the village, then they had charged into the night of the jungle to battle the tangle tree, thence to this island—where it seemed dusk was only now falling. Did that make sense? Bink had somehow assumed that the sun set all over Xanth at the same instant, but realized that this was not necessarily so. But he had other things to worry about at the moment, and listened to the rest of Humfrey’s speech: “Siren, if you have food and bed—”

“I’m not really that kind of female,” she demurred.

Bink looked at her sleek fishtail. “Obviously not. We only want a place to sleep.”

“Oh.” She sounded disappointed. “Actually, I could become that kind, if—” She shimmered, and her tail transposed into two fetching legs.

“Just sleep,” Chester said. It seemed his hearing was returning naturally. “And food.”

But her indignation had not yet run its course. “After you impaled me with your old messy arrow, and broke my dulcimer?”

“I’m sorry,” Chester said shortly. “I have a headache.”