She glanced at her compass. It still pointed to him. "I do not wish to inconvenience you, but it seems I still am not through with you. Do you mind keeping company longer?"
"Not at all. I had assumed I was a burden to you."
"No burden, Sherlock!" She hesitated. "However, there is a bit of awkwardness. I need to wash, and wash my clothing."
He understood immediately. "The near end of the pond is within the enchanted region, and is pleasantly warm. I will absent myself for a suitable time."
"No need of that," she said. But there was need; she did not care to expose herself to any man. It wasn't modest, for one thing, and there was a worse problem.
"Suppose I sit by the fire, facing away from the pond," he suggested. "The dragons will guarantee that I don't peek, much as I might be tempted to."
That was a neat solution. He had assured her privacy while complimenting her feminine appeal, without being crude. There were things to like about this man. "That will do."
She walked to the pond as Sherlock sat facing away from it. "Why don't you want him to see you wash?" Drew asked in a private communication as she removed her shoes and socks.
"Because it is not proper for unrelated men and women to see each other's bare bodies. It's a social error."
"He's not watching."
"Thank you." She nerved herself again, and pulled off her dress. She dropped it into the warm water and stood for a moment in her underwear. That needed washing too, so she removed it and added it to the dress. Even her hat was soiled, so that too was added.
"Does Getaway count?" Drew asked from the bank.
"He's looking?"
"He's staring. But I can't see into his mind; it's all reverse wood."
She made a decision. "Let him watch. He's a golem, not a true human person. Golems and dragons don't count." But she waded deeper into the water, so that her body was concealed from the shoulders down.
Now she remembered the nymph bark she wore. It was so comfortable that she tended to forget she had it on, but it got soiled too. She held her breath, ducked below the surface, and pulled its shell off over her head. She let it float beside her as she rubbed herself off.
"You seem to be a healthy person of your species," Drew said. He flew in to land on the bark. "Is this an item of clothing?"
"In a manner," she agreed. "I am endowed with no curves, so I wear this nymph bark to provide them. It's a foolish affectation."
"Curves are good," Drew agreed, circling around to admire his sinuous body.
"I'm glad you understand."
"Without those curves, you look almost like a human child, very young. Much younger than Sherlock."
"Appearances are deceptive. Chronologically I am much older. In fact, I am about quadruple his age. But physically I remain teenage, because of the effect of the leaf of immortality within the Mount Parnassus environs. Though my body is mature, the lack of curves makes me look younger yet."
"He thinks you are beautiful."
She clutched the wet dress to her bare front. "You said he wasn't peeking!"
"He isn't. When he first saw you yesterday, he was amazed by how young and pretty you looked, even in your clothing. Then he chided himself, because he thought the Muses are not supposed to be seen that way."
"He was being a gentleman." But she felt foolishly flattered, despite knowing it was really the nymph bark he had observed. She had thought Sherlock had never noticed her apparent physical age.
"He's sure you notice his age, though. He knows he's in the least appealing segment of his life, neither young enough to be handsome nor old enough to be wise. He regrets that."
Clio felt guilty as she scrubbed her clothing. She had demanded that Sherlock not peek at her, yet she was in effect peeking at him. But she couldn't help herself. "He ought to know that men don't have to be handsome or young. Intelligence and decency suffice."
"It seems not in the Black Wave. Especially not after the weird things started happening around him."
"His developing magic," she agreed. "But we are solving that. It's really a very strong talent, with its several facets. Once that is clarified, he should be able to return to his home and find a suitable woman."
She was done washing, but now there was another problem. Her clothing needed to be hung out to dry, and she couldn't wear it then. The nymph bark she could wear wet; moisture kept it limber. But that was hardly fitting apparel by itself. What was she to do?
"Would illusion help?" Drew asked.
"In what manner?"
"I could clothe you in illusion. That is, the appearance of illusion; it would be effective only for the minds within my range."
"The appearance of illusion," she repeated. "At some time we must discern the distinction between apparent illusion and real illusion."
"Real illusion is independent of the observer," he explained patiently. "Any creature or thing that can see or hear or feel will see, hear, or feel it, and all visitors will see the same thing. Apparent illusion is a perception of only those minds in which it is planted; others won't be aware of it. I will have to maintain it, but that's easy to do, just as I maintain the semblance of spoken words for you."
"That's right—the golem can't hear you speak." Then another thought occurred. "So will the golem see the illusory clothing?"
"No. He'll see you bare."
"I am not comfortable with that."
"If you wear the nymph bark, he will see that. It may be magic, but it's not illusory."
"And he will think it is my real bare shape?"
"Is that bad?"
She pondered briefly further. "I suppose not. It is human eyes I prefer not to be seen by, either in my nymphly state or truly bare."
"That is easy."
"Then that is the way it shall be," she said, ducking down to slide back into the nymph bark. She felt guilty for pretending to have curves she lacked, but the taunts of her childhood remained, and she preferred to continue faking it. It wasn't as if she were trying to tempt men into folly, in the manner of a demoness; she just wanted to make a good passing impression.
"Sometimes we tiny dragons use our fake illusion to make ourselves seem larger," Drew said. "Just to avoid trouble."
"Close enough," she agreed, appreciating his understanding. "I think every creature has a certain amount of foolish vanity. Now, if you please, clothe me in the semblance of the illusion of clothing."
"Done." And as she gathered her washed clothing and waded out of the pond, she looked down and saw that she seemed to be wearing a wooden barrel around her midsection.
"Uh," she murmured.
"I'm not very good at clothing," Drew said. "We don't use it ourselves."
"Perhaps something more like cloth wrapped around my body."
"Like this?" The barrel became the windings of a mummy.
She considered. The dragon was really doing his best, and it was in any event a temporary expedient. "This will do."
She spread her clean dress and underwear out across several may-pull branches. "Yes you may," she said, and the branches caught the clothing and pulled it flat so that it would dry without creasing.
"I seed her panties!" the adjacent tree rustled. "I seed her bra!"
Clio ignored it. Seed-her trees were more aromatic than grammatical.
She walked across to rejoin Sherlock, who had waited to eat until she was ready. "Thank you for your patience."
"What a shape!" Getaway said, staring at her.
"If you want a lady golem with a similar shape," Sherlock murmured, "best not to comment openly on the Muse's appearance."
"But she's bare!"
Sherlock looked at Clio, then at the golem. "You do not see her windings?"
"My apparel is illusory," Clio explained. "While my clothing dries. That is, it is the semblance of illusion; only full minds can see it."
Sherlock smiled. "Were I of a cruder nature, I might remark that I envy the golem."
"It's a good thing you aren't crude." Indeed he was
not; she liked the way he handled potentially awkward matters.
"Nevertheless, you make a rather fetching mummy."
"Thank you." She couldn't help it; she liked being complimented, even for what wasn't really hers.
They had their breakfast, and discussed prospects. The compass still pointed to Sherlock. "I must seek the red berry."
"The currant," he agreed.
"I would appreciate it if you would accompany me, at least until my business with you has been accomplished."
"I shall be glad to. I like your company."
"And I yours." She saw a motion as she spoke, and glanced again at her wrist. "The blue arrow has changed direction."
"Then our business together must be finished. You are free to resume your quest."
"I don't think so. The arrow changed only when we agreed to travel together. That suggests that this is our business with each other."
"Traveling," he agreed. "Perhaps there is some way I can assist you in your quest."
"That must be the case. I regret imposing on your time."
Sherlock laughed. "My time is nothing. You have done me the considerable favor of identifying my magic talent, which had seemed to be more like a curse. I am more than glad to repay the favor in any way I can."
"You are more than gracious."
"Some time we must settle who is truly gracious."
She smiled. "Sometime."
"Sickening," Getaway said. Then, as Sherlock looked sharply at him: "I mean, sometime." He moved to place Clio between him and Sherlock.
The arrow pointed to the east, off the enchanted path. That was unfortunate, but it was not her policy to rail at inconvenience.
"We can help," Drusie said. "We can identify hostile or dangerous minds before they get close enough to hurt you."
"That pipsqueak dragon is talking," Getaway said, peering around Clio at Sherlock. "I can tell by the way she looks at you."
"She was offering to help us travel."
"I'll help too, you know. We have a deal." He was plainly jealous.
"We will appreciate that too," Clio said. "You were extremely helpful last night, cleaning out those nickelpedes. Your qualities will surely be useful again."
Getaway looked at Sherlock again. "Is she making fun of me?"
"No. She is too nice a person to do that. She's complimenting you."
"That's weird."
"When you behave in a civilized manner, others treat you like a civilized person," Sherlock said. "In time you'll get used to it, foreign as it may be to your nature."
The golem frowned. "Are you making fun of me?"
"To a degree. I'm not as nice a person as the Muse is."
"Okay. I understand you better." The golem kept his distance from the man.
Soon Clio's clothing was dry. She donned it, and the windings disappeared.
"You still have a good shape," Getaway said. He had stayed close to her, probably concerned that Sherlock might yet squeeze him into some other form.
Clio realized that the golem was trying to cultivate her favor. He wasn't very good at it, but the effort was worth encouraging. "That brush is pretty thick. Suppose I carry you?"
"I can make it on my own!" Then he reconsidered. "But sure. I can see better from your height."
Clio bent down and closed her fingers gently around the golem's little body. She picked him up and set him on her shoulder. "Height can help," she agreed.
They set off, following the direction indicated by that arrow. It wavered some, but pointed generally east, into the thickest of the brush. It was awful. They had to wedge through dense vegetation, and it wasn't friendly. First there was a patch of flowers that turned out to be snapdragons, snapping at their feet. Drew made it back off by presenting himself as a dragondrop. The flowers did not want to be dragged and dropped, so they stopped snapping.
Then they came to a mass of blue hats. Sherlock was about to push through them, but Clio stopped him. "Those are blue bonnets! If you touch them you'll get Bluebonnet plague."
He halted immediately. "I didn't recognize them. Are you sure your blue arrow points this way?"
She checked her wrist. "Yes, right that way. But we certainly don't want to go through those."
"I can help," Getaway said. "Those flowers are magic, right? Hold me toward them. If they touch me, they'll reverse. Then they won't hurt you."
"That's a wonderful idea, Getaway," she said, lifting him off her shoulder. She advanced on the bonnets.
They refused to be cowed. One swayed forward to touch the golem—and turned into a red shoe. It had been reversed. The others, seeing that, leaned back, letting the party pass.
"See? I helped."
"You certainly did, Getaway," she agreed, and kissed him on the top of his head.
"Yuck! I mean, thank you."
She smiled. He really was trying.
They forged through the thicket, freely reversing threats, and came to a large stone arch. The clearest way through seemed to be under it, but again Clio was wary. "That's an arch enemy. Anyone who passes under it will become so nasty he'll make nothing but enemies."
"Let me at it," Getaway said.
She held him out to the arch. He touched it. Nothing changed. "Try it now," he said.
She walked under the arch—and suddenly felt like being friends with all of Xanth. It had indeed been reversed.
Beyond it was what seemed to be an inlet of the sea, though this was well inland. Along the shore grew plants with leaves like nets. But when she stepped close, they became more like sharp swords and stabbed at her. "Bay-o-nets!" she exclaimed, belatedly recognizing them.
"I've got it," Getaway said. She held him forth again, and he reversed the swords so that they became plowshares.
"I don't mean to be critical," Sherlock said. "But it seems to me that your compass could have selected an easier route."
Clio was curious about that too. Her route had been easier before; why had it abruptly turned difficult? But like the Good Magician's cryptic Answers, there was probably a reason.
Next they came to a small village hidden in the jungle. The people there appeared normal, but were very quiet. The blue arrow pointed right through it, so that's where they went: down the central street.
But it might help to ask directions, or at least inquire where they were. Clio approached a man sitting on a chair on his front porch.
"_____." she said.
And paused, confused. No sound had come out, at least nothing she could hear. She looked at Sherlock. "_____?" she asked.
"_____!" he replied. He did seem to be saying something, but she couldn't hear it.
She looked at Drew, in her front pocket. "_____?"
There's no sound, he thought. Everything is silent. We can't even make the illusion of sound.
That was it! They could neither make nor hear any sounds. That was what was so odd about this village and its people. There was a blanket of silence covering it.
No, Drusie thought. There is sound. We just can't hear it. That was it, of course. They were actually talking, but were unable to receive the words. The villagers, evidently accustomed to this, weren't trying to talk. Instead they were making gestures with their hands.
Sign language! They were communicating visually. Unfortunately she didn't know that language.
But Sherlock did. He was exchanging signs with the man on the porch. This is the deaf village, Drusie translated. They have lived and worked here all their lives, and get along well.
"But we're not deaf," Clio protested silently. "Why can't we hear?"
Because this is a silent zone. Other creatures don't like it; it makes them nervous. But the deaf folk are used to silence, so have no trouble. That's why they settled here. Hardly anyone bothers them, and no one ridicules them.
Clio appreciated why that would be so. "Tell them that we are just passing through, but are glad to have met them," she said without effect; it was her focused thoughts that counted.
They know. They are preparing a banquet for us. They want to catch up on all the news of Xanth.
For half an instant Clio thought to demur, as this would delay them for hours. Then the friendliness of the arch friend they had passed under asserted itself. What did time matter when among friends? "Tell them thanks. We'll do our best."
It was a good meal, and with the help of Sherlock and the dragons, who could read the minds of the villagers, they shared all the news of Xanth they could fit in. In the end they accepted a house for the night, unable to turn down such warm hospitality.
Unfortunately, the villagers had assumed they were a couple. The confusion wasn't evident until they entered the house and found a single bedroom with a single large bed.
Sherlock wasn't concerned. He got a pillow and blanket and made himself comfortable on the floor of the main room, leaving the bedroom to her. Almost she wished he had wanted to share the bed with her; they were both, after all, well into the Adult Conspiracy age. But he treated her deferentially, as the Muse of History, and suppose they considered stork summoning, as men and women in such circumstances tended to do? She would have to reveal the artificiality of her curves, and that would surely turn him off. So any attempt to broaden their relationship would destroy it.
He would have liked to share the bed with you, Drew thought. But he's afraid that even the faintest suggestion of such a thing would so affront you that you would hate him.
What an irony! She had never actually been with a man, and realized that she would like to if she got the chance, if only to discover what it was like. There was no chance on Mount Parnassus; she and her sisters were socially isolated there. An occasion like this, a temporary liaison with no expectation beyond—this was the time to do it, if ever. She felt a sudden resolve. She would do it. She would go and invite him to share. And if he indicated doubt, she would show him the truth: that she was not curvy. She would remove the nymph bark.
And he would be appalled. There was nothing about her body that would appeal to a man, even a middle-aged one. She had nullified the curse of curvelessness in appearance, but not in reality. Better to at least seem desirable, than to reveal the truth. It was a deception, and it made her ashamed, but she was stuck with it.
"Drew," she murmured. "I think it best if you and Drusie no longer tell Sherlock and me our private thoughts about each other. I think we need our privacy in that respect."