Part 1 (2/2)
”Your what is sated?”
”Eccentric, irregularity, peculiarity, abnormality, quirk-”
”Curiosity?”
”Whatever! So I gather you don't even know what's so important about your Question.”
”Well, it's important to me. But I think not to many others. Does it seem important to you?”
”No. Who cares whether your baby is a stinkweed? So it must be something else. I've just got to know.”
Cynthia was beginning to be just the merest suggestion of concerned. The Good Magician was dithered about her Question? It was true that if the Answer turned out to be negative, she would have to seriously consider not marrying Che, which would break both their hearts, but since when did Humfrey care about centaur hearts? She hardly rated any such concern. ”I fear you will be disappointed. But I'll be happy to share my Answer with you, at such time as I obtain it. Then you can rest undisgruntled.”
”Rest how?”
”Calm, placid, peaceful, quiet, serene, tranquil-”
”That's six.”
”I beg your pardon?”
”I usually give only five explications.”
”Five whats?”
”a.n.a.logues, meanings, expressions, translations, ident.i.ties-”
”Synonyms?”
”Whatever. You gave six. That damages the cadence. I should have filled in the sixth.”
”I apologize.” Actually Cynthia remembered her giving six on more than one prior occasion, but she didn't care to argue the case. ”I meant merely to say that you can rest easy, once you know what I learn from the Good Magician.”
”Well, why didn't you say so?” the demoness demanded crossly.
”I fear I got distracted. Now about this crastination: I remain unclear as to its precise application. How will crastination help you?”
”By delaying my departure, so I can overhear Humfrey's verdict. I'm trying to stall.”
Cynthia nodded. ”Perhaps the word you want is 'procrastination.'”
”Yes! That's it. I couldn't quite get it. 'Amateur crastination' was as close as I could come.”
”And when an amateur does a job a professional should do, it can go wrong,” Cynthia said.
”It can get downright bungled. I want to stand here and pull you across, using the-” She hesitated.
”Leverage.”
”Of the pulley. Instead it's been reversing, leaving you slow while I zoom across the moat.”
”Try it again, this time thinking pro instead of amateur.”
Metria pulled on the rope. This time she remained in place, and Cynthia's boat slid smoothly across the moat. She had figured it out.
”Remember-you promised,” the demoness said. ”And souled folk keep their promises.”
”I will tell you what I learn,” Cynthia agreed. ”Though I suspect it will disappoint you. Nothing about me or my concerns is important to Magicians or demons.”
”We'll wash.”
”We'll what?”
”Brine, water, pool, bay, ocean-”
”Sea?”
”Whatever.” The demoness looked cross as she faded out.
”We'll see,” Cynthia agreed with half a smile. There was something almost amusing about the demoness's problem with words. Was the Good Magician really unaware of Metria's presence? The Challenge seemed remarkably apt for this particular individual.
She stepped out of the boat and surveyed the castle. There was a door in the wall. She tried the handle, and it turned, and the door opened.
Beyond was a s.p.a.cious chamber filled with harpies. They were dancing, strutting in messy patterns. Feathers were flying, the walls were filthy, and the smell was appalling. No wonder: there was bird p.o.o.p all over the floor, getting stirred up by the claws of the dancers. Cynthia stepped back, wrinkling her nose. Centaurs were natural about natural functions, but their manure was inoffensive and good for flowers. Harpy dung, in contrast, was truly nasty. It required special facilities for detoxification. To have it spread about a sealed chamber-that was dangerous.
But this seemed to be the only way into the castle. The first Challenge had been a test of her understanding; she had found the key word and thus gotten through. This second Challenge seemed to be a test of her fort.i.tude; how could she pa.s.s through this muck and stench without fainting?
The answer was that she couldn't. Cynthia had been cleanly all of her life, whether in human or centaur form. She had regularly washed or replaced her human clothes, then had to get used to going bare as a centaur. She had finally reached the point where she could trot past a group of human boys, knowing that their eyes were riveted to her bouncing b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and not be unduly embarra.s.sed. After all, clothing fetis.h.i.+sm was a human trait, not a centaur trait, and centaurs were not responsible for human hang-ups. Boys weren't supposed to see the s.e.xual parts of girls, so naturally they lived to sneak peeks, and the upper foresection of a centaur was similar to that of a human person. So human boys did stare at centaur fillies, and thought they were getting away with something, but if there was embarra.s.sment, it should be on the part of the boys. But going bare did not mean going dirty. The idea of going among these dirty birds repelled her.
Surely the Challenge could not be merely a matter of getting through filth. There must be a way to avoid it. But how? The ceiling of the chamber was not high; that was why the harpies were footing instead of flying. Cynthia could not fly through it, a.s.suming her wings were working now. She had to walk. Her very hooves curled inward at the thought.
So how could she pa.s.s through this noisome chamber without tracking putrid gook? How could she breathe? The stuff would surely get on her wings, even when tightly folded, making them reek. The very notion was nauseating. She wanted no part of this foul ball.
Foul ball. Could this be a pun? Puns were the bane of Xanthly existence. They were everywhere, like poisonous toadstools, and of course even the toads did not muck about in their stools. Puns were the lowest form of humor in much the way buns were the lowest form of bread, and even buns had naughty connotations to make boys snicker. Puns brought worse reactions than snickering. So it was conceivable that an obscene dance might be called a foul ball. But puns were also the main avenue for changing things.
Suppose she thought of another meaning for ball? She concentrated-and in a moment the dancers rolled into one feculent ma.s.s, a huge sphere that squeezed the limits of the chamber. But there was no way to pa.s.s it; the ball blocked the way. So that was evidently not the answer. She relaxed her focus, and the ball dissolved back into dancing harpies, who seemed not to have noticed their brief transformation.
Then a dim bulb flashed just over her head. The other word-foul. That could also be fowl. This could be a fowl ball. Harpies resembled fowl, which were barnyard birds-chickens, ducks, turkeys, pheasants, and the like. But by a further extension, all winged monsters could be said to have an affinity, because of their wings. Even winged centaurs.
She concentrated, and the harpies became winged centaurs engaged in mannerly dancing, their hooves keeping the cadence. The stench became odor, and the odor became smell, and the smell became healthy centaur musk. Now the chamber was bearable.
She moved on in and joined the dance. It was the Centaur Stomp, and she loved it. In a moment a centaur stallion came to join her. The Stomp did not require partners, but there could be couples if they wanted to be. ”May I join you?” he inquired politely. ”I am Center Centaur.”
”Join me to what?” she inquired in return, with a smile as she matched his hoofbeats.
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