Harpy Thyme (17 page)

“We're not sure exactly where Crombie's residence is,” Trent reminded her. “It might be under this very mountain. If we skip the mountain, we might already be beyond it, and the farther we went, the less likely we would be to fulfill your quest.”

She nodded. “But I hope it has nothing to do with the dragon who maybe lives near this path.”

“I'll transform the beast if necessary.”

They set off afoot. Gloha couldn't have flown ahead to check, but the path wound under such a dense canopy of foliage that it was impossible to see from above. So she kept her wings ready, but remained low.

There was indeed a dragon. A big one. It was snoozing with its head across the path. Its dragon ears perked up at their approach, and wafts of smoke surged from its nostrils.

“A smoker,” Trent said grimly. “We won't be able to get close enough to it for me to transform it.”

Gloha understood why. The most feared dragons were fire breathers, but smokers could be devastating too in close quarters. Their smoke surrounded and suffocated the prey, and when it cleared, the dragon could chomp victims at leisure. Here under the close canopy the travelers would have no chance.

“We'll have to go back and look for another path,” she said.

“I see no reason for that,” Marrow said, striding forward.

“But the smoke-” she cried warningly.

He walked on, straight at the dragon. The dragon was as surprised as they were. It huffed and it puffed and it shot twin jets of smoke from its nostrils that looked almost thick enough to walk on. The smoke bathed the skeleton-who plowed on through it, unaffected.

“He doesn't breathe!” Gloha murmured, remembering. “He can't choke!”

“He has no eyes,” Trent agreed. “He can't be blinded. And he's immune to any heat that isn't high enough to burn bone.”

“But what can he do to stop the dragon from simply chomping him into bonemeal?”

“That I am not sure. But he seems confident.”

The dragon's big eyes grew larger as he saw the skeleton emerge from the bath of smoke. He inhaled again, getting ready to send out a worse blast. But Marrow jumped forward and grabbed onto the dragon's nose!

“He'll get himself chomped to splinters!” Gloha cried, appalled. For the dragon's head was larger than Marrow's whole body.

“Maybe not,” Trent said appraisingly. “He has changed his form.”

“That's right-they can do that,” she agreed. “They can disassemble their bones and put them together in strings or other combinations. He looks like one big clamp now.”

Indeed, the long bones of what were Marrow's legs had become man-sized pincers, clamping the dragon's nose closed. The dragon tried to paw Marrow off, but immediately the clamp tightened painfully, forcing the creature to desist. The skull, perched at the top, looked around and spied them. “You may pass safely,” Marrow called. “He can't breathe smoke through his mouth, only his nose.”

“He's right,” Trent said appreciatively. “That dragon is largely helpless. Certainly I can now approach near enough to transform it. But I think I don't need to.”

They walked by, almost close enough to touch the dragon's huge nose. The creature looked as if he really wanted to chomp them, but that clamp tightened warningly and he had to relax.

“But won't he chomp you the moment you let go?” Gloha asked.

“It will take him a moment to get reoriented,” the skull said. “In any event, I don't taste very good. There's no meat on me.”

So they went on by. Once they were safely out of smoke range, they called, and heard a muffled whomp as the clamp let go and the dragon resumed stoking smoke. In a moment Marrow appeared, striding nonchalantly as if this were routine.

“This is a creature to be respected,” Trent murmured, not referring to the dragon. Gloha could only agree.

The path continued on around the mountain. There were no other dragons or other dangerous creatures. This was not surprising, because no smaller predator would dare to encroach on the territory of the big one.

The path finally left the deep forest and debouched into a halfway open valley. A village nestled within it, and there seemed to be a fair amount of activity therein. From the far side a cloud of dust or smoke wafted up into the sky.

“What are they doing?” Gloha asked.

“I believe this is the Magic Dust Village,” Marrow said. “They mine the magic dust and blow it into the air so that it will circulate throughout Xanth, enhancing the magic everywhere.”

“The Magic Dust Village!” she exclaimed. “Of course! I have heard of it. The most magical place in Xanth.”

“Why, that's right,” Trent agreed. “I should have realized; this is indeed the area. I shall have to be extremely careful about performing transformations, because the extra potency of magic in this region can be dangerous.”

They walked on down to the village. An elderly troll moved to intercept them. “As far as I know, the natives are friendly,” Trent murmured. “They have members of many crossbreed humanoid species living and working in harmony, including goblins and trolls. But perhaps you, Gloha, should stay behind me until we are sure.”

Gloha was glad to agree. They had encountered one friendly troll, but that was a rarity. Another would be pulling on their luck.

“Hail, man, goblin, skeleton!” the troll cried. “Do you come in peace?”

“We do, if left in peace,” Trent agreed.

“Then I must warn you that our village is about to become inhospitable. You must move on, lest you be exposed to hazard.”

“We have had a moderately arduous day's journey, and were looking forward to a relaxed night,” Trent said. “We are also on a quest, and it is possible that the object of that quest is to be found here. Let us exchange introductions and see whether it is possible for us to do each other any good.”

“By all means. I am Pa, the eldest troll of Magic Dust Village. I am too old to work well, so I walk around and warn away strangers.”

“Glad to meet you, Pa Troll. I am Magician Trent, formerly the transformer king of Xanth. This is Marrow Bones, formerly of the dream realm, and this is Gloha Goblin-Harpy, whose quest we are supporting.”

“Magician Trent!” Pa exclaimed. “Perhaps you are the one we are waiting for.” He paused. “Wait-you are far too young. You must be an impostor.”

“I have been temporarily youthened,” Trent explained. “I will demonstrate.” He pointed to a tiny flowering plant beside the path. It became a monstrous spreading acorn tree whose trunk obliterated that path, shoving them into the surrounding brush. “Oops-I forgot the intensity of magic! That was supposed to be a medium-small acorn tree.”

Pa Troll touched the massive trunk. “So it's not illusion. I apologize for doubting you, Magician.” He glanced at Gloha. “And a crossbreed harpy-this is most interesting. Come to the village, and we shall see. I am most excited.” Indeed, he was quivering in a manner trolls normally reserved for the anticipation of some truly dastardly deed. Gloha didn't need Trent's additional caution to remain on guard.

Trent restored the tree to its original state, this time getting it right. They came to the village square. A throng of crossbreeds of every description quickly gathered there. Not merely trolls, but elves, fairies, ogres, a small giant or two, goblins, gnomes, centaurs, griffins, masked basilisks, and other creatures too numerous or confusing to mention. “Ho, you rabble of low degree!” Pa Troll cried. “Maybe we have our salvation, and maybe not. This is Magician Trent, in the company of a walking skeleton and a honey of a harpy crossbreed.” He indicated the three.

There was a muted ooooh of appreciation. Gloha was surprised and discomfited to find most eyes focusing on her. She realized that there were no harpies here, oddly.

“You see, we have a problem,” Pa Troll continued, now speaking to the three visitors. “We have been told to carry on until Harpy Time, but no harpy has appeared, and we have only a day or two left before disaster. So if you are not able to help us, the village and all Xanth will be in deep dung.”

“Exactly what is the nature of your problem?” Trent inquired. “And how do you think a harpy could solve it?”

“First you must understand the nature of our village mission,” Pa said. “This is the site where the magic rock wells up from the unknown depths of magic. We pound it into dust, and our roc bird flaps his wings to blow it high into the sky, where it spreads and circulates and sifts down across all of Xanth. Without this service we render, the Land of Xanth would slowly lose its magic and revert to- pardon the expression-mundane nature. This is why we all work together despite having in our number creatures who otherwise would prefer to quarrel with each other and eat strangers.” He glanced at Gloha again and licked his thin troll lips in a reminiscent manner that made half a shiver scramble up her back. “We use little magic, preferring to do the job by hand and foot, because the use of magic is dangerous in this vicinity.”

He took a breath. “But recently a new vent opened in a nearby mountain. From it issues not magic stone, but poisonous thick fluid that slowly courses down toward the village, destroying all life in its path. We can not remove or divert it, because the fumes of its surface are also lethal. Our only resort is to remain well away from it. But soon it will ooze into the village itself, and begin to pool here, and then we shall have to flee, our labor will no longer be accomplished. The magic of Xanth will begin to fade, and in time our entire land will be as dreary as the drear region beyond.” There was another ooooh from the villagers. Gloha had to agree; the prospect was appalling.

“So we sent a representative to the Good Magician Humfrey, to inquire how we can prevent this disaster. She is now serving her year's Service with him. But we can't say that we are entirely satisfied with his response.”

“Whom did you send?” Gloha asked, unable to restrain her irrelevant curiosity.

“A winged monster, of another type than yourself. A glyph.”

“I met her!” Gloha cried with dear little delight. “A nice horse/dragon crossbreed. She was one of my challenges on the way in.”

“I hope they are treating her well,” Pa said in paternal fashion.

“Oh, yes. At first I thought they weren't, but that was part of the challenge. She's really quite happy there.”

“What was your Answer?” Trent inquired, more relevantly. “To carry on until Harpy Time?"

“Precisely. I must say that the Good Magician's Answers leave something to be desired, considering their expense.”

“But they are always accurate and relevant,” Trent reminded him.

Pa glanced at Gloha, this time refraining from licking his lips. “Were you satisfied with your own Answer?”

“Well, no. Actually, he didn't give me an Answer, exactly, so I didn't have to do any Service.”

“So you can no doubt appreciate our dissatisfaction.”

“Yes, I think I can. And I have to say that I don't think I'm the harpy you're looking for. About my only harpy aspect is my wings; apart from that I mostly resemble a goblin, unlike my brother Harglo. I have no idea how to stop that poisonous flow, because it would affect me too.”

“And it is not something I can transform,” Trent said. “But why didn't you make a dam to stop its advance?”

“We did, but it oozes between the stones and dissolves them, seeping on along its destined course. The only way we can stop it is to plug its source-if any of us could only get close enough.”

“Could a roc bird drop a boulder on it?”

“No. It issues from a fissure in the steep slope. It should be fairly easy to plug, if only any of us could approach it. But our every effort has led only to disaster.”

Then something occurred to Gloha. “Marrow, you were immune to the dragon's choking smoke. Would you be able to approach a poison vent?”

“Why, I see no reason why not,” the skeleton said.

“Then you are the ones we have waited for!“ Pa Troll cried. ”You signal the Harpy Time."

“Perhaps,” Trent said. “However, it should be clarified that Marrow Bones is also on a quest. He needs half a soul, so that he can remain indefinitely here in Xanth proper. If anyone here cares to-”

It was amazing how quickly the crowd dissipated. It seemed that the dedication of none of the villagers extended quite that far. Even Pa Troll had somehow found elsewhere to be. The three of them were left standing in the center of an apparently deserted village.

“These creatures have too much human nature," Trent remarked sourly.

“Yet their need is genuine,” Marrow said. “Xanth will profit. I will plug that vent.” He set off in the direction Pa Troll had looked when he spoke of the encroaching poison.

Trent shook his head, watching the departing skeleton. “I could almost swear he already has at least half a soul.”

“Certainly he doesn't seem to need more than he has,” Gloha agreed. “I had a lesson in decency not too long ago. This reminds me of it.”

“It may be that souls aren't what they used to be.”

“Maybe I'd better see if I can help him.” She spread her wings.

“Not too close,” he warned. “If you smell anything at all, get away from wherever you are.”

“I will,” she assured him. She pumped her wings and lifted into the air.

It was good to be flying again, in her own form. Her limber little legs had gotten worn with all that walking, while she was afraid her wings would dissolve with disuse. So maybe her decision to try to help Marrow was as much selfish as unselfish.

In a moment she saw the poison flow. It was like a messy black river flowing from a nearby mountain right toward the village. Every so often it jogged, and she realized that those were the places they had put up rock dams that hadn't quite done the job. No plants grew near it; everything within smelling distance was barren. It seemed to be aiming for the village as if guided by some malignant will. She would have dismissed that notion, except for her memory of how the inanimate things reacted when King Dor talked to them. They tended to be shallow, but they did have opinions and feelings. And of course Marrow Bones was not alive, being animated by magic, and he had an objective and a code of behavior. Then there was Pin-A-Tuba, the angry volcano who tried to stop folk from approaching it closely. So why shouldn't a poisonous flow have an objective too?