Two To The Fifth (8 page)

“Or else what?” he asked, curious.

“Or else I will leave you forever, and you will never achieve your stupid dream. Now take me out to the real world. We'll talk further there.”

“Yes ma'am,” he agreed, picking her up carefully by the midsection. Whatever he had expected, it wasn't this.

He returned to the entrance, which turned out not to exist. “How do I get out?”

“You wait until your companion breaks your eye-line to the peephole,” she said. “Duh.”

“Oh, Of course.”

And suddenly it happened.

Cyrus found himself staring at the donkey's hoof, which had broken the line of sight to the peephole, “Thank you.” he said. “So did you get it?”

He looked at the block between his hands. It remained a block. “I'm not sure. I made contact with a—”

He broke off, because the block had changed. Now it was a statuette, or half of one. The upper half of the fragment of the Muse, except for the arms, which were missing. “Melete!”

She made a moue. “You were expecting Clio?”

“But you're only half there.”

“What are you talking about?” Don demanded.

“It's my Writer's Block, animated.”

“Writer's bust,” Melete corrected him, inhaling.

“Bust. Sorry.”

“What did you bust?” Don asked, “Your block? It's unchanged.”

“Look closer,” Cyrus said, holding up the bust. “Melete. My muse.”

“You named your block?”

“She named herself. Or identified herself. She's going to help me write my plays.”

“That dull block of wood will help you write?”

“Not the wood. Melete. Look at her!”

Don looked closely at the wood, then at him, “Are you suddenly tetched in the head, cyborg? I told you, that's just wood. Looks good enough to eat.”

“Don't you dare!” He turned to Melete. “Tell him.”

She shook her head. “It's no use, Cyrus. He can't see or hear me. I am your muse, exclusively.”

“Because he's a robot?”

“No one but you can appreciate me. To most others I'm just your original block of wood. Don't lose it.”

Cyrus digested that. “I fashioned the block, you animate it—only for me?”

She threw her head back so that her hair flung out. Without arms that was her most dramatic gesture, “I believe he's got it!”

“I got it,” he agreed. He turned to the donkey. “Let's just say I have a good imagination. It is as though this wood takes a form and talks to me. But now I should be able to write my plays.”

“Let's hope so,” Don said, “Otherwise this whole troupe is a bust.”

“A bust,” Melete agreed, laughing. That did more things to her own bust.

That reminded him. “Why don't you have arms? You did in the dream realm. In fact you had your whole body.”

“Which remains there,” she agreed. “I am your connection between reality and dreams. My better half must remain there until my job is done.”

“But without arms—”

“I have arms. They just don't show at the moment. I have to choose.”

“Choose?”

“Which portion of me to animate.”

“I don't think I understand.”

“Like this.” She changed, in a weird kind of shifting upward. Her head disappeared from the top down, while her belly and hips came into view—and beside them, her arms. These continued traveling up and disappearing, as her legs appeared. At last there was only a nice pair of legs standing on the pedestal that was the lower half of the block.

And of course she couldn't talk in this position. They were very nice legs; had they had panties he might even have freaked out. But they were silent.

“I hope you can hear me, Melete,” he said. “Please, bring your head back. Seeing only your lower half like this makes me uncomfortable.”

The shifting reversed. Her feet disappeared into the block while her hips reappeared, followed by her belly and arms. For a moment or two or three she was a central torso, with bottom, belly, and breasts. Then the head came down, and she was back as a bust. “Now you know. You can have any part of me, but never the whole of me, except in your dreams.”

“I see that,” he said, impressed and somewhat disquieted. “Maybe it's just as well that no one else can see you.”

“I am yours alone,” she agreed.

“If you're quite through talking to your block,” Don said sourly, “maybe it's time to get back to the troupe before that curse fiend absconds with it.”

“Curse friend. They're not actually fiends.”

“All in the viewpoint.”

He mounted Don, and they headed off to rejoin the troupe. He held the bust carefully before him.

“Tuck me in your pocket,” Melete said, “I must never leave you, because I am your creative spirit.”

“But the block is too big for my pocket.”

“Nonsense. Do it.”

“If you insist.” He lifted the block to his shirt pocket—and it fit. That had to be magic. Well, Melete was magic, so maybe it made sense.

“It does,” she said from his pocket.

“You can read my thoughts?”

“I am your thoughts. I know everything that's in your mind.”

“Everything?” he asked, alarmed.

“Everything I focus on. I can't help you meditate properly if I don't know your distractions. You have a problem with that?”

“Uh, no, I suppose. It's just that you're a—”

“I'm a what?”

“Nothing,” he said hastily.

“I'm a woman?”

“Uh, yes. And women are—different.”

“What's wrong with being female?”

“Nothing, It's only that—nothing.”

“What don't you want me to pick up on?”

“Nothing.”

“That means there's something. You'd better tell me, because if I have to ferret it out for myself by delving into your subconscious there's no telling what else I'll discover in those murky regions. Folk have all kinds of secret shames hidden in the nether realms. Make it easier on us both. Formulate your problem specifically.”

He seemed to be stuck for it. “Men—women—they think about them. It can be embarrassing.”

She delved on that, “Oh, those actresses. Why the naughty minxes! They're teasing you in bed.”

“Yes,” he confessed, feeling himself blushing.

“Well, we'll just have to put a stop to that. I'm the only one who can tease you now. We can't allow them to distract you from your creative writing.”

“But I can't stop them. Women govern men.”

“This is a special case,” she said seriously. “Women govern men in secret. The moment it becomes open, it loses effect. They have been more than open; they have become blatant. That nullifies their advantage.”

"It doesn't seem nullified to me. They—get me all excited, and I can't do anything about.

“Precisely. You have to assert yourself.”

“I wish I could!”

“You can. Here's how: call them together the moment we reach the troupe, and announce that you have found your Writer's Block and will now concentrate on writing the first play. Especially at night, because your dreams are essential. Say that any woman you find in your bed you will promptly nail to the mattress.”

“I couldn't do that! I don't even have a hammer.”

She laughed. “You do now. Trust me. Don't mistake subtlety for stupidity, or certainty for judgment. They'll get the message. Just make the statement, and they won't call your bluff.”

“But—but suppose they do—call my bluff?”

“Oh, you're fun.” She shook her head with some private amusement. “Then I will teach you how to nail a woman, as it were. One demonstration will make the point. But that should not be necessary. Henceforth women won't manage you, you will manage women.”

“But you're a woman! Why should you betray your own kind?”

“Because I have a higher calling. I have to make a playwright of you. To accomplish that, first I have to make a man of you. It's a tall order, but I think I can accomplish it, by night if not by day.”

“That's good,” he said dubiously.

“I wish I knew what you think that block is saying,” Don said. “Women, hammers, bluffs—I am not making sense of this.”

“You're an ass,” Melete snapped. But of course the donkey didn't hear her.

“It's a private dialogue,” Cyrus said.

“If you do it in public, folk will think you are crazy.”

“He's got a point,” Melete said. “You had better not talk to me when in company.”

“But then how can we have a dialogue?”

“Merely concentrate your thoughts as if you are talking, I will pick them up readily enough, and answer you.”

I'll try, he thought.

“That's the way,” she agreed. “You know, you should clean out your pocket sometime. You have cookie crumbs and a vial of lethe here.”

A nymph gave me that. She said it's just what I'll need, sometime.

“Well, we'll see, sometime.”

They rode along in silence for half a while. Then Cyrus thought of something else. “You said I should assert myself. Is that only with women?”

“No, it's with everyone. You will become a playwright of note, a man of importance. You must act like it.”

“What about Curtis Curse Friend? He stepped right in, telling me what to do. In fact he directed me to you.”

“I know him, I know all the curse friends. I have worked with their playwrights many times. Curtis is a good man, with a liability that doesn't affect the troupe. Just tell him that Melete is with you now. He will know exactly what that means.”

“What exactly does it mean?”

“It means that if he opposes you, he will have to deal with me. I'm a minor Goddess to the curse friends. He will give you no trouble.”

Cyrus's doubt remained. “But if he does give me trouble, what then?”

“Cyrus, there are three things never to antagonize, in ascending order: a woman, a Sorceress, and a Goddess. You can get away with the first, sometimes, if you're careful. The second is real trouble, and the third is disaster.”

“Disaster?”

“Where would the curse friends be if they abruptly lost their creativity?”

“They wouldn't be able to make new plays.”

“Or present the old ones effectively. They would lose their rationale for existence.”

Which would be a terrible curse. “You can really do that?”

“Oh, yes. Simply by departing.”

He believed it, “Suppose I, somehow, antagonize you?”

“Then you might as well go farm itch ants, because you'll never write another play.”

“Oh, Melete, I couldn't stand that! How can I make sure never to annoy you?”

“It is easy. Never oppose my will.”

“That's all?”

“That's enough.”

“Your will is law,” he agreed.

“That's an excellent start.”

“Troupe ahead,” Don said. “So shut up with your block.”

He had forgotten to keep it silent. “Right.”

The troupe had made a camp. Women were working industriously at various tasks, such as setting up tents and digging a trench to the side.

Curtis approached as Cyrus dismounted. “This will be our station while we recruit actors and rehearse them for the first play. When we are ready, we'll tour, making presentations to the villages on our itinerary. I have it all organized.”

“Melete is with me.”

The man took stock, “Organized by your leave, of course.”

“Of course,” Cyrus agreed. He had clearly risen from Nobody to Somebody. Melete did know what she was doing.

“Naturally I do,” she agreed.

“Do you have any directives, Playwright?”

“Summon the women; I have an announcement to make.”

Curtis clapped his hands, attracting their attention. “All actresses assemble here. The Playwright will address you now.”

The women obeyed with alacrity. In a moment and a half the four of them stood before him.

“I have found my Writer's Block,” Cyprus said. “Hereafter I will be concentrating on my writing. By day and night. I want no distractions. Any woman I discover in my bed I will promptly nail to the mattress. Any questions?”

“Bleep,” the Witch muttered. “He's calling our bluff.”

“What's that?” he asked sharply.

“We hear and obey, Playwright,” she said immediately.

“Very good. Return to your chores.”

They returned to their chores. So did Curtis.

“Dominance has been established,” Melete said with satisfaction, “Now go to your tent and start writing.”

“But I should help with the chores,” he protested.

Don gave him a hard nudge with his nose.

“Right. Thanks,” he said, to both Muse and donkey.

His tent was in the center of the camp, already set up with a bed, writing table, and chair. On the table was parchment, a quill, and a bottle bearing the LABEL BLUE BOTTLE, INC filled with dark blue ink. Everything he needed.

“Apart from me,” Melete agreed.

He sat down and lifted the quill. He dipped it in ink. And his mind went blank, exactly as before. “Nothing's changed!”

“Yes it has,” Melete said, “You just need to organize your thoughts as well as Curtis has organized the site. Put down the quill and go lie on the bed.”

“But that's not writing!”

“Are you opposing my will?”

“No!” He put down the quill and went to the bed. “Now what?”

“Close your eyes and meditate.”

He lay on his back and closed his eyes. “How do I meditate? I've never done it before.”

“Just think about life, the universe, and the play. What would move an audience?”

“Well, a romance, maybe.”

“Boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy regains girl?”

“Yes. I guess. But it doesn't turn me on.”

“Because it's unoriginal formula. What would you rather write?”

“A really dramatic story of thwarted love that turns out well by surprise.”

“That's not formula?”

He pondered. “I guess I want to write my formula.”

“Very well. Now think of some completely different idea.”

“Well, once I thought how nice it would be if I could see emotions. But that doesn't relate to this.”

“Yes it does. Or it will as you craft it. How can you make it relate?”

“Maybe if he's looking for his perfect woman, by her emotion. He finds pretty women, but their feelings are not pretty, so he knows better than to mess with them. So he orients on the aura of feeling instead. And finds the best one. He can see this lovely cloud around her, and knows she's his ideal. But then he sees her body, and she's a monster.”

“A monster?”

“She has the head of a frog. Something like that.”

“So what does he do?”

“He's got a problem.”

“What would you do?”

He laughed. “I'd probably take the pretty one with the bad feeling. I'm a typical male fool.”

“Yes. Your protagonist should be typical. But then he must emerge as smart and decent, so that the average male viewer will identify with him, and be satisfied with his progress. The greater challenge will be the woman.”