“Oh!” Chlorine cried, for an instant mistaking it for the real thing.
The image vanished. “I'm sorry,” Ray said. “I should have warned you. That's my talent—to cause a picture of what I see to appear, in any size. I've seen that awful dragon so many times I can show it from my head. Normally I must be looking at something to picture it. I should have shown it much smaller.” The image reappeared, harmlessly tiny.
“I certainly hope we don't encounter that dragon,” Chlorine said. “I much prefer the harmless mule-headed variety.” She patted Nimby on the scales. The scales she touched brightened.
But they were not in luck. There was a bellowing roar, and the ground shook as something solid tramped toward them through the forest.
“Hide!” Chlorine cried, looking wildly around. But they happened to be in a broad glade; there was nowhere to hide.
“Maybe I can make a picture of a tree or something,”
Ray said uncertainly. “To hide us.”
But Tweeter had a better idea. He flew to the man and peeped imperatively.
“Maybe so,” Ray agreed. “I'll try it.” He fixed his eyes on Tweeter.
The dragon burst from the forest, trailing a plume of smoky fire. There was no doubt it had wind of them. But as its burning snoot oriented, a monstrous image of Tweeter appeared before them. As tall as the trees. Picture Tweeter peered down at the much smaller dragon.
The reptile hesitated, eyeing the big bird. It was clear it hadn't seen anything quite like this before: a parakeet as big as a roc. But it could smell Tweeter's bird odor, so knew there was a bird there. Tweeter hoped it wouldn't be smart enough to realize that the real bird wasn't as big as the apparent bird.
Tweeter took a giant step toward the dragon—and Nimby lifted a front foot and slammed it into the ground, making a dull thud. Tweeter took another step, with another thud. Tweeter opened his beak, and the giant mirrored him exactly. That beak was big enough to take in the whole dragon head.
The dragon had had enough. It turned tail and fled.
“Oh, glorious!” Chlorine exclaimed, delighted. “You saved us. Tweeter!”
Tweeter shook his head, and the giant bird did too. He hadn't done it; Ray's huge image had. Ray had more than repaid the favor he thought he owed. Yet Tweeter did feel a certain foolish pride; never before, and probably never again, would he back off a fire-dragon! It had been a great experience.
They walked on, and came to another glade. There sat a short fat man with short stocky legs, a bald pate surrounded by a fringe of gray hair, and an infamously huge stomach. Mundane-style spectacles perched on his nose.
He spied me party and smiled. “Hello, Ray. Who are your friends? They don't look much like children. Of course, few children dare venture out, with this remarkable recent weather we've been having.”
Ray smiled. “They found the money tree for me! Now Spider Mon will be happy. They need to find a fresh story thread, and I told them you were the one to see.” He turned halfway to face the group. “The damsel is Chlorine, the dragon is Nimby, and the bird is Tweeter. I hope you can help them. Now I must go home with my money, before the storm gets worse.” He departed.
“I am Gerald Towne, once from Mundania,” the Pawpaw Wizard said. “I believe I recognize a fellow Mundanian.” He looked at Tweeter. “A parakeet.”
Tweeter chirped agreement.
“So, of course, I'm not really a wizard in the proper sense, because only natives have magic, but the children do like my tales,” the Wizard said. “I have many fine story threads. And I know where others are. What kind do you need?”
Nimby assumed man-form and wrote a note. “I think you folk must have quite a story of your own,” the Wizard remarked, observing the change of form. “Perhaps someday you will share it with me.”
“Maybe when the crisis is over,” Chlorine agreed. Then she took the note. “We need a strong original reverse story thread.”
The Wizard whistled. “You must be on serious business indeed! Then I won't delay.” He gestured to a table beside him. “Have some peanut butter, jelly, and cheese sandwiches while I explain.”
They settled down to share the sandwiches. Chlorine put some peanut butter on her finger for Tweeter to eat, and it was good, because there were some peanut chunks in it.
The Pawpaw Wizard began his story. “There was once, about two hundred years ago, a very unpopular Magician named Joshua. His talent was to reverse magical properties, whether these were talents or charms. Because most folk did not like to have their talents reversed, especially when they were nice ones, they stayed away from Joshua in droves. For example, there was one young woman whose talent was to smell of perfume; when Joshua touched her, she smelled of stink horn. There was a young man whose talent was to scale walls by sticking to them with his hands and feet; when he brushed by Joshua, he became slippery instead, so that he couldn't even stick to the ground without slipping. Another man could always find the right spot for something, whether for an excellent snooze or for a dog to mark territory. After he met Joshua, he always found the wrong spot, leading to considerable embarrassment. So Joshua was not welcome in his home village, or anywhere else, once the people had experience with him, though he was a perfectly decent and well intentioned man. Fortunately his reversals were not permanent, unless done intentionally; they would slowly fade in the course of a few weeks or months, and the normal talents would reassert themselves. So people wanted Joshua to go away and stay away. And so Joshua traveled a lot.
“One day he happened to come upon a fine grove of Xanthorrhoed trees. They were unfamiliar to him, and grew so thickly they barred his passage, so he invoked his talent to reverse their magic. He did not realize that they belonged to a powerful witch, who had imbued them with special magic to enhance the magic of others. When he reversed them, they in turn reversed the magic of others, and were unusable for the witch's purposes. She, in a fury, set her pet griffins on Joshua, and they tore him to pieces before he could reverse them. Thus he died, and no one mourned him. The witch, still furious, then chopped up the trees and scattered them all around Xanth. She thought that would denature them, but instead the wood maintained its strength, and remains potent today. Thus the origin of reverse wood, the source of a great deal of mischief and some benefit throughout Xanth.
“But in the course of his career, Joshua once encountered a fine thread of a story. Again not realizing its nature—he was by no means the brightest of Magicians—he reversed it, ruining the story it was supposed to support.
Disgusted, the tale teller of the time threw it away, and it was lost. Thus that reverse story thread remains somewhere, we know not where, if it has not been destroyed.
That is the thread you require. But I have no idea how you can get it.”
The Pawpaw Wizard sat back. Tweeter sagged. How could they get a thread, if it had been destroyed two centuries ago? Their mission was surely doomed.
But Nimby was writing another note. Chlorine took it and read it. “ 'How do the forces of nature feel about traveling in time?' “
The Wizard whistled again. “They don't like it, because they regard it as being against nature. But they do have the power to give a person a pass to travel in time, if they can be persuaded that this is necessary. I suppose you could ask them, if you think your reason is persuasive.”
“Well, it's to save Xanth from being blown away,” Chlorine said.
The Wizard nodded. “That does seem persuasive. I wish you well.” He hesitated, then remarked, “I don't mean to pry, but if you really have a way to go back then, I may have some additional information.”
Chlorine looked at Nimby. “I think we do intend to go there.”
“Then I must warn you of another person who lived in that time.” And he plunged into his story.
He was Xanth's very worst vampire, a mean creature who really sucked. His very name would strike fear into the bravest of the brave, so I won't mention it here. Most people simply called him Fang F
ace. It was thought that he could be killed only by a reverse wood stake through the heart, but since reverse wood didn't exist quite then, it seemed he was invulnerable. A few people knew that he disliked garlic and feared sunlight, but it wouldn't be easy to kill him in those ways. You couldn't just take a bloodthirsty vampire for a stroll in the sun, or invite him to share a slice of garlic bread with you. No, it was going to take more than that to dispatch old Fang Face!
But after the vampire sucked a woman so dry that she had to be dunked immediately in a healing spring, and still looked rather desiccated, her husband decided it was time to get rid of him. “I'm going to get that sucker,” he swore.
Unfortunately his talent was just of the spot-on-the-wall variety, not worth mentioning. When it came to matching anyone's magic, he felt quite inferior. He knew that if he challenged the vampire directly, he would merely become another blood donor. But he was a strong man, and an intelligent one, so he concluded that he could probably do it if he just used his head. His name was, uh, well, forgettable. He wasn't a very memorable person anyway. All that matters is what he did this one time.
He fashioned a dummy out of various objects, such as a milk pod for a head and lady fingers for hands, and a pair of jugs for the upper torso. But he turned out to be pretty good at dummying, and the result had considerable stork appeal. It looked just like a very sanguine young woman—that is, filled with tasty blood. He propped her up atop a pile of dry wood. Then he covered her with supersticky sap, and arrow grass, and tangled tree tentacles. The tentacles looked like a skirt that covered not quite enough of her plump legs, and the sap looked like a clinging blouse over her ample bosom. But anything that touched that lush body would be stuck to it for some time.
He hauled the entire assemblage—body and woodpile— to a path near the vampire's crypt and set it up in a marvelously appealing fashion. The trap was set.
Now to bait it. “Help!” the man screamed in a falsetto voice from behind the dummy. “I'm an innocent lovely sweet juicy damsel in deep distress! I'm all tied up, and can hardly even kick my tender feet, let alone escape.
Won't someone please rescue me before I catch a sniffle from all this exposure?”
Soon a man came along the path. He was a cool character, which was obvious because he wore snowshoes. But the snow almost melted when he spied the lovely dummy.
“Well, now,” he said, and took a step toward her. “The storks will get no rest today.”
But this was the wrong man. He wasn't the vampire. He was just a typical sexist lunkhead whose elimination wouldn't make any difference to anyone. It was necessary to make him go away in a hurry.
“Oh, thank you, kind sir!” the husband cried in his cracked falsetto voice. “I never thought a man as handsome as you would take an interest in me. I'm just one of several aides to the cruel vampire.”
The lunk paused. “You're a what?”
“One of the aides,” the husband cried. “Aides! AIDES!”
“That's what I thought you said! I'm not touching any aides. I'm outta here!” And the lunk took off, leaving behind chunks of snow from his cold feet.
The husband sighed a breath of relief. Only his quick and dirty wit had saved his trap that time. He hoped the vampire would be the next one to pass by.
This time his fortune was good. The vampire arrived.
“Methinks I see a luscious creature,” he opined. “Sanguine and helpless—exactly the way I prefer.” He marched up and plunged his fangs into the temptingly exposed flesh of the dummy.
Then he recoiled. “This isn't blood!” he cried in outrage. “This is milk! What are you doing with milk in your body?”
“Exactly where did you bite me?” the husband asked in his falsetto. “You should know better than to bite a milkmaid in the heaving bosom.”
“I didn't bite your bosom, I bit your neck!” the vampire screamed. “Do you think I don't know where to bite a helpless damsel? Anyway, it wasn't heaving.” Then he realized the significance of that. “Hey! This isn't a real woman—it's a stupid dummy!”
“Fancy that,” the husband said, abandoning the falsetto, which was becoming a strain anyway. “I guess it takes one to bite one.”
The vampire tried to pull away, but the arrow-grass hair had caught his head, and the tentacle skirt had grabbed his legs. In addition, the sticky sap had glued his face to the dummy's neck. “Help!” he cried. “All I wanted to do was have a nice snack of blood, and now I'm stuck.”
“And in a moment you'll be a roast, you sap,” the husband said gleefully. “Just as soon as I light a fire under you.” And he proceeded to do just that.
“You fool!” the vampire cried out of the side of his stuck face. “You can't kill me! I'm immortal!”
“Oh, I'm sure that's an exaggeration,” the husband said, warming his hands as the fire blazed up.
“Not much of one,” the vampire clarified. “You'll see, you fool. I'll be back to taste your blood yet.”
“If so, you'll have to do it as ashes, because that's what you'll soon be. Maybe you'll find a nice piece of ash to bite. Maybe I'll bury your ashes in a hole, making you an ash hole.” The man laughed at his wit, which was just as well, because the vampire didn't find it very funny.
However, the husband should have taken the threat more seriously, because the vampire really was immortal in his fashion. As he burned to ashes, each ash became a mosquito. The mosquito knew only one thing, and that was to suck blood. Like cri-tics, they swarmed all over anything that lived, and sucked. The husband was their very first victim, but for some reason he didn't feel honored. He fled, swatting himself unmercifully.
“And ever since then, the vampire mosquitoes have plagued Xanth,” the Pawpaw Wizard concluded. “And Mundania too, where it seems as if they have been forever, but that's only because of the itching. But that is of little concern to you. The point is that the vampire didn't die until shortly before the Reverse Magician did, and he lived in the same general region. In fact, they were friends of a sort. The one did not try to suck the blood of the other, and the other did not reverse the one into a blood-spitting image. So if you go there and then, you are bound to encounter him. And you probably wouldn't care to.”
Chlorine shuddered. “Thank you for the warning. We shall do our best to avoid the vampire. At least we won't have to worry about mosquitoes.”
“And some believe that the story thread Joshua lost may be in the possession of the vampire.”
Chlorine looked at Nimby, evidently hoping for a negation, but Nimby nodded. “Oh, no,” she groaned.
Now Tweeter understood why Nimby had not felt this would be an easy mission. But they had no choice; they had to go after that thread.
So they moved on, after thanking the Pawpaw Wizard for the information and the sandwiches. Nimby knew where to find the forces of nature, who, as fortune would have it, were not far distant.
They came to a region of ashes. Chlorine looked around in alarm, but Nimby was unconcerned, so she relaxed. In its center was a burning circle, and in the circle stood an attractive young or seemingly young woman whose long hair was the color of flame and whose short skirt was the color of smoke. She was evidently enjoying herself, doing a dance, her bare feet unhurt by the hot coals.
Chlorine read Nimby's note. “ 'Fira, force of fire, we are on a mission to save Xanth from destruction. Will you give us a pass to travel two hundred years into the past?' “
Fira paused, and her fire and smoke paused with her.
She eyed Chlorine as if resenting her beauty. “What's in it for me?” she demanded.
“If Xanth gets blown away, there will be nothing left to burn,” Chlorine explained. “Your flames will expire for lack of fuel.”
“Um,” Fira said, impressed. “Very well, I will give you a quarter pass. But you may not find my sisters so amendable.” She extended a flaming fragment of paper.
Chlorine hesitated to take it, as did Tweeter, but Nimby took it in his hand. The fire died
down, though the paper continued to glow.
“Thank you,” Chlorine said. “We are burning with gratitude.”
They hurried on. Soon they came to a small lake. In the center of it stood a woman whose gown and headdress flowed liquidly across her frame, which seemed to be as completely supple as water.
Chlorine read another note. “ 'Mareen, lady of water, will you help us to save Xanth from dehydration?' “
It was clear that a key word had been uttered. “Please don't utter blasphemy in my presence,” Mareen said.
“I apologize,” Chlorine said quickly. “I meant that Xanth faces a severe loss of water, and will be all washed up, if we don't go to the past to—”
“Of course I'll help you,” Mareen said. “Here is a quarter pass.” She produced a blue square of water, which turned out to be an aqua-colored card when Chlorine took it.
“Thank you so much. We are overflowing with gratitude.”
They went on until they came to a gray rock statue of a woman in a plant green robe decorated with red strawberries. She carried a cornucopia from which a wheat shrouded pumpkin was about to emerge, and her other hand was extended with a handful of seeds.
“ 'Alanda, lady of land, will you help us to save the Land of Xanth from being utterly despoiled?'” Chlorine read from Nimby's note. Tweeter was coming to appreciate the finesse of language employed.
The statue came to life. “How's that again?” Alanda asked sharply.
“Xanth will be blown into nothing but windblown mounds of garbage, hardly better than the spoils of war that harpies so love, if we don't travel to the past to—”
“Here is a quarter pass,” Alanda said, presenting a cob of corn she culled from the cornucopia. The cob became yellow paper as Chlorine accepted it.
“Thank you most copiously,” Chlorine said.