Part 6 (1/2)
”Not that bad, of course,” Irene said hastily. ”I'm sure Ivy will talk when she gets around to it. She's only three years old, after all.” But that tinge of uncertainty remained.
”Something must have happened to her,” Grundy said.
”The forget-whorl!” Chem interjected before Irene could get more upset. ”It must have touched the yak, and the animal forgot Ivy and wandered away.”
Irene relaxed. ”Yes, of course. We must backtrack, then cast about for Ivy's trail.”
There was a detonation of thunder that made them all jump, then a stiff gust of wind, and the rain began. This was definitely the fragment of the King of Clouds, restored to power by the moisture of the evening and a host of satellite clouds. Now it was getting even with Irene, and she was not in a position to do anything about it. She ground her teeth in private ire--she didn't like being bested by water vapor.
”The trail will have to wait a little,” Chem said. ”We aren't going to be able to trace anything in the storm.”
”Yeah, it'll be a real drenchpour,” Grundy said enthusiastically. ”I wonder who antagonized that cloud? They don't zero in like this for no reason.”
With bad grace, Irene took out a seed. ”Grow,” she directed it, and an umbrella plant sprouted. Its broad leaves spread out in an overlapping pattern, creating a watertight shelter. Soon it grew large enough to protect the three of them.
Just in time, for this was indeed a drenchpour. Water came down in traveling sheets, doing its best to blow in sidewise. Oh, that cloud was angry! Irene had to grow a wallflower to wall it off, but they were soaked before the flower completed its growth. Rivulets washed across their feet. Chem excavated channels with her hooves to drain the water, but now the ground was so soggy that it was no pleasure to stand on. Irene grew rock-roses in lieu of chairs for herself and Grundy. But then itch-gnats swarmed in, as they did when people were vulnerable, and she had to grow a giant toad plant to snap them up. The trouble was, the toad also snapped at dangling curls of Irene's green hair and Chem's blond tail, mistaking them for flies or spiders dangling on threads. All in all, it was an uncomfortable situation.
The zombie stood just outside the shelter, having no need of it and knowing that its kind wasn't wanted inside. The sluicing rain carried bits and pieces of the creature away, but it never seemed to lose ma.s.s. That was the thing about zombies; they were forever shedding their spoiled flesh, yet always had more to shed. It was one of the less appetizing types of magic in Xanth. But Irene knew how loyally the zombies had defended Castle Roogna through many crises, freely sacrificing whatever sort of lives they had when any trouble came. They were the ultimate selfless creatures. And she remembered how a zombie justice of the peace--maybe that was ”piece,” because of the way he had been falling apart--had agreed to officiate when she married Dor. Zombies were good people, despite being rotten.
Still the rain came, settling in for a long siege. Obviously the storm meant to pin them down for the night. h.e.l.l had no fury like that of an angry cloud, she reflected, for h.e.l.l was full of fire, while the cloud was full of water. Irene didn't like being pinned down; the wilderness was especially dangerous at night. Maybe the king cloud hoped something bad would happen to her while she was pinned. But she couldn't go home as long as Ivy was out here alone.
Something had to be done; Irene's teeth were chattering with developing chill. That cloud had reached high in the cold sky to find icy water! She used the last remaining light of day to grow a candle plant, lighting it with a small flame-vine. That provided enough artificial light for her to grow a few staples. Most plants wouldn't grow in the dark; they required the energy of sunlight. But her talent could force the issue with a few, with the artificial light.
She managed to grow a towel plant, with fine dry towels for all, so they could dry off and abate the chill. Since Irene had to strip to use her towel, she grew a curtain plant to give her some privacy. Actually, she wasn't sensitive about being seen by Chem, as centaurs had little personal modesty; and anyway, Chem was female. She showed all the time what Irene was showing only now. But Grundy was another matter. He would make obnoxious remarks, not because he had any real interest, but because that was his nature. He would feel inadequate if he let such an occasion pa.s.s by without some observation about cheesecake or the erosion of birthday suits. And his big mouth would be active when he encountered other males subsequently. Irene knew it was foolish of her to pay any attention to such nonsense, but she did.
Once dry, she wrapped two towels about her and pinned them with pins from another pincus.h.i.+on plant. The towels would have to do as clothing till morning, when she could grow a sunflower to dry her regular clothing and a lady-slippers plant to replace her sodden footwear. She grew a cheese plant and a breadfruit and a chocolate plant before the last natural light faded; these would suffice for supper. It was a miserable situation, but they could endure it for one night.
Irene hoped her husband Dor wasn't worrying too much. He seemed to think she would not survive by herself; it was one of the halfway charming male notions he retained. She missed him already, there in snug Castle Roogna with the dry floor and friendly ghosts and the continuing entertainment of the magic tapestry.
But she missed Ivy more. That sweet, innocent, inexperienced child lost in this jungle! Her child! Irene touched the ivy plant she wore; only its continued health rea.s.sured her that her daughter remained well. Without that a.s.surance, Irene would have been forging through the night, regardless of the danger, desperately searching for what she might never find. She was none too sanguine as it was, but the ivy made the situation bearable.
She saw the zombie at the fringe of the flickering candlelight. It looked miserable out there. Of course zombies were always miserable-looking, with one foot pretty much in the grave. A zombie would rest literally in the grave; some of them slept for centuries, quietly decaying, and only roused themselves to throw off their blanket of dirt when summoned by some strange awareness of need for their services. Still, the sight of this one bothered her. ”Are you hungry?” she asked it.
”Hhunnggh?” the thing said.
”Hungry. Eat. Food.” Irene extended a piece of cheese, not knowing whether such things ever ate.
The zombie reached a gangrenous hand to accept it. Irene forced herself not to flinch away from the contact. ”Ffooodh,” the creature said.
”Yes, to eat.” Irene ill.u.s.trated by taking a delicate bite of her own piece of cheese, though now her appet.i.te had diminished considerably.
The zombie tried it. Three teeth crumbled, and a segment of lip fell off. The firm cheese was impervious to the creature's feeble effort at mastication.
”I suppose not,” Irene said, controlling the roiling of her stomach. ”I really don't know much about zombies.”
”None of us do,” Chem agreed. ”They are not like us, if that is not a ludicrous understatement.”
”Easy enough to find out,” Grundy said, perceiving an opportunity for mischief. ”I can talk to the things as readily as to anything else, though they aren't strictly alive. It's one place where King Dor's talent overlaps mine; he can talk to them because they aren't quite alive, and I can talk to them because they aren't quite dead.” He smiled with happy malice. ”What intimate girlish secrets do you wish to exchange with this one?”
”Well--” Irene discovered that she really wasn't very curious about zombies. They were such appalling things! Most of the horror was the thought that someday she could find herself animated as a similar creature if she happened to die in the vicinity of Castle Zombie. Death was never fun to contemplate, and this kind of half-death was worse.
There was a low hissing roar from the damp darkness beyond the shelter. ”That's a bonnacon!” Grundy exclaimed with alarm. ”I'd know that noise anywhere.”
”Sounds more like a dragon to me,” Chem said, swis.h.i.+ng her tail nervously.
”The bonnacon is a dragon, horserace,” the golem responded. ”It has the horns of a bison--that's a mythical Mundane animal--and the posterior of--well, let's just say it's worse going than coming.”
”Dragons eat people!” Irene reminded them. ”And I can't grow many plants in the dark. We're in trouble!”
”You'd better grow something,, because the thing has winded us,” Grundy warned. ”The bonnacon is too big and fast for us to escape it; we have to fight it off.”
”With pieces of cheese?” Irene demanded. ”We need a weapon, and I doubt my knife will--”
Chem unslung her bow. ”Pinpoint its location, and I'll shoot it,” she said.
”No good, ponytail,” the golem said. ”Your arrows would only annoy it. We've got to have a tough plant, like a boxwood or tangler.”
”Not at night,” Irene said. ”Right now all I can grow is night bloomers.”
”Then grow the night bloomers!” Grundy cried. ”The monster's almost upon us!”
Irene heard the most horrendous rasp of the dragon's breath.
She was not the most timid of women, but now she was terrified. Her mind numb, she tossed down a seed, ”Grow!”
”Maybe we can make a lot of noise and scare it off,” Chem said.
”No good,” Grundy replied. ”When the bonnacon retreats, it blows out its whole quant.i.ty of digestive refuse--in simpler language, its--”
”Spare us your vernacular,” Irene said. ”We understand what the stuff is.”
”Right into the faces of its pursuers,” the golem continued with a certain enthusiasm. ”The stuff not only stinks to high heaven, it's so strong it sets fire to trees.”
”But if we can't escape the monster, and we don't scare it off--” the centaur said, understandably concerned.
”That's why we need Irene's fighting plants. Something that will balk the dragon without really frightening it, so it will go away peacefully. That's the key: we must discourage it without annoying it.”
”Lots of luck,” Irene muttered. ”Look at them!” She moved the candle to illuminate what she had grown. ”My night bloomers!”
There they were--several sets of delicately tinted feminine bloomer-panties, the kind worn at night or under voluminous skirts.
Grundy worked his little face in an effort not to guffaw.
”Now if we can just get them on the dragon--” he said. A smirk was obviously scrambling around in his head, trying to get out through his face.
Bloomers to prevent the dragon's voiding from splattering them! The notion was ludicrous; the people would be eaten long before the bloomers could do any such thing, and the dragon's refuse would burn out the bloomers on the way by. Yet the idea had a certain foolish appeal. A dragon in bloomers! That was almost as nonsensical as Irene's vision of a dragon on a pedestal.