Harpy Thyme (8 page)

He bent down to help her collect her scattered wits. “Then allow me to introduce myself,” he said as he handed them back to her. “I am Magician Trent.”

Cynthia wanted to crank up her persuasive powers and ask him to go away. Instead she said “I'm Cynthia. How may I help you, Magician?”

He smiled roguishly, and she realized that her present leaned-over posture was giving him rather too much of a glimpse down her bodice. She was after all not all that far from the innocence of childhood, and could almost feel the censorious eyes of the Adult Conspiracy following his eyes to exactly the same place. She nearly dropped her wits again, this time down into her nice new cleavage. Fortunately she managed to straighten up without too much of a blush.

“I would appreciate it if you would give me directions to the nearest good river,” he said.

Cynthia, being naturally sweet and innocent, clung to her recovered wits and sweetly and innocently misdirected him. If he followed her directions, he would wind up on the rail that rode strangers right out of town.

Magician Trent gazed at her. “Are you sure?” he inquired gently.

“Well, maybe I got it confused,” she confessed, fearing that he was suspicious. So she gave him directions to the nearest love spring instead. If he drank from that, he would fall hopelessly in love with the next female creature he encountered, like maybe a warty hog.

“Are you sure?” he inquired again.

“Quite sure,” she said, stifling her impulse to confess all and maybe kiss him for good measure.

“I am sorry for that,” he said. “You see, I happen to know this region. You have just directed me to a hostile rail and to a too-friendly love spring. I fear I shall have to deal with you, for such betrayal irks me. But I shall not interfere with your youthful beauty.” Then before she could attempt to protest, he gestured with one manly hand.

Cynthia knew she was in trouble. She tried to flee, but already her body was changing. Her squeezable torso unsqueezed, stretched, expanded, and distorted. She became grotesquely huge. Her (for want of a nicer term) rump pushed out behind monstrously and sprouted a long hair tail. From somewhere in the center of her body four new appendages grew. Two were legs, but they didn't have feet; they had heavy black horny terminations. The other two were behind, and were white, feathery, and grotesquely convoluted. Her body turned mostly brown and hairy, with knobby knees and a belly as big as a barrel. Only her scant surviving bit of human torso remained clothed; her nether section had burst out of her skirt and was now devastatingly naked. Oh, utter horrors! She had become a complete monster. And the Evil Magician had tortured her further by claiming not to interfere with her beauty!

Properly appalled, Cynthia cried out in despair and humiliation and ran off as fast as her four cowlike legs could carry her. She knew she could never return to her home like this. But where could she go? What could she do? No use to ask the Evil Magician who had transformed her; he would just say, “Frankly, my dear, I don't give a dam.” As if anyone could give or take anything as massive and watery as a dam. She would just have to hide until she could make her way out of Xanth and never be heard from again.

She was getting breathless, so had to slow to a trot. But she kept going as far as she could, hoping to get far enough away so that no one would know of her. But she couldn't go forever, the day was getting late.

She found a barn. Maybe she could hide there for the night, then sneak off early in the morning when few people were up and about Maybe she could find a burlap bag to put over her head so she could not be recognized. Because she could tell by the feel of her face that it had not been changed; the Magician had done her the ultimate indignity of leaving her most recognizable aspects untouched, so that everyone would know her shame. There just seemed to be no end to the exquisite refinement of his vengeance on her.

She went to the back door, opened it, and wedged her ungainly body in. She was thirsty; maybe she could find some water here. She was also tired; maybe she could find some hay to lie in. Assuming she could lie down, with this clumsy contraption of a body.

“Who's there?”

Oh! She had thought this barn was empty. Cynthia tried to back out, but her huge hairy rump banged into the doorpost, making a crash that could be heard throughout. She tried to turn around so she could flee headfirst, but there wasn't room in this narrow passage. She was stuck, as the farmer tramped toward her from elsewhere in the barn.

He appeared around a corner. “Speak up, or I'll jab you with my pitchfork,” he said gruffly, squinting into the gloom of her corner.

“Oh please, sir, don't hurt me!' she pleaded. ”I'm trying to get out of your barn!"

“Why, it's a girl,” he said, surprised.

“No, it's a monster. Please just let me go and I'll never bother you again.”

“You sure sound like a girl. Let me get a look at you.”

“No, please! Don't look at me! I'm all hairy and awful.” She tried to hide her face, though that wasn't the hairy part.

The farmer appeared before her. He stared. “Why, you're a centaur filly! What's your kind doing here?”

Cynthia paused. “A what?”

“A centaur. Don't you know your own kind? What do you want in my old barn?”

A centaur! Suddenly she realized it was so. The four furred legs with their hoofed feet. The hairy tail. The massive belly. The human head and upper torso. “I didn't realize,” she said. “The Evil Magician transformed me into a centaur. Except-what are these?” She spread the folded white feathery appendages on her backside. They promptly banged into the walls, and she had to stop.

“Why, those are wings,” the farmer said. “You're a flying centaur!”

“So even the centaurs won't accept me,” she said, realizing how completely the Magician had punished her. She would be an outcast from both human and centaur folk, because there was no other creature of this kind in all of Xanth.

“The Evil Magician did this to you? Why?”

“I tried to deceive him, because I didn't want him taking over our land. But he wasn't fooled, and he transformed me. I'll never be able to live it down.”

The farmer nodded. “I guess I'd feel the same way. Very well, you can spend the night here. I've got a stall I'm not using. I'll bring you some food. There's water in the stall.” He showed the way to the central part of the barn.

She found a bucket of fresh cool water, and used her hands to dip some out to drink. It was wonderfully refreshing. Then the farmer returned with some wry bread. The chunk was warped, with a twisted expression, but that was the nature of this variety. She bit eagerly into it, and it was very good.

“Oh, sir, how can I ever thank you?” she asked gratefully, belatedly remembering her manners.

“What are you good at?”

“I used to be good with children. I was apparent: children saw me as a parent, so I could baby-sit.”

“Well, I have a little boy, but he's such a handful that no one wants to take care of him. His talent is making things go awry. I think it's because he ate too much wry bread. This is a wry farm; it's what we grow, so we use it.”

“All children get into mischief,” Cynthia said. “I'm used to that.”

“I have to go into town tomorrow for supplies. The wife's away visiting her endless relatives. If you could watch him tomorrow-”

“I'd be glad to.”

So she slept on the soft hay, getting the hang of her new body. The horse section had no trouble, but it took her a while to get her human portion comfortable, because it couldn't lie flat the way it had before. She finally propped it against a wall, resting her head against her braced forearms. In the morning she combed some of the tangles out of her hair and washed her face. She wished she could change her shirt, but it was the only one she had. She knew that centaurs normally went bare-breasted, but she couldn't bring herself to be so exposive.

The nice farmer brought her a bowl of wry pudding. Then he brought out the boy, who seemed to be about six years old, and toe-headed. That was not a concern; children normally grew out of the toes as they matured.

“This is Wryly,” the farmer said. “Wryly, this is Cynthia Centaur, who will watch you while I'm gone.”

“Gee, a centaur!” the boy said, pleased. “I'll ride her all around.”

Cynthia hadn't thought of that. The notion did not especially appeal. “Maybe later,” she said.

“See if you can manage him,” the farmer said.

Cynthia tried her talent on the boy. But she realized almost immediately that something was wrong. Wryly didn't change; he looked just as mischievous as ever. But the farmer seemed to go into a trance. His jaw went slack and his eyes stared fixedly.

She waved a hand before his face. Nothing happened.

Cynthia worked herself into a worry. She put her hands on his shoulders and shook him. “Snap out of it!”

The farmer blinked once, then again to be certain he had the motion right. “Wh-where am I?”

“You're here in your barn, about to go into town,” Cynthia reminded him.

He looked around in bafflement, then wandered off in the rough direction of his house. The boy, bored with such activities, reached into his pocket and pulled out what appeared to be the rest of his last night's supper of chicken and wrys. He chewed on that while pondering what new mischief he could get into.

Cynthia was not stupid as girls went, though she wasn't sure that was also true as filly centaurs went. She assessed the situation. When she had tried to use her talent on the lad, his father had gone into a daze. A dim bulb flashed over her head.

“Oh, no!” she exclaimed, laying a hand on her fair cheek. “My talent-it's gone trance-parent! I send parents into trances!”

She realized that the boy's mischievous talent had affected her. It had gone awry.

She ran after the farmer, who was slowly recovering his common sense. “I can't use my talent on your son,” she said. “It just messes up. But I think I can watch him while you go into town. Then I'll have to be on my own way.”

He nodded. He was used to this. “There's wrys pudding in the kitchen for lunch,” he said. “I'll be back as soon as I can.”

It turned out to be a real chore, keeping Wryly out of mischief, but somehow she managed without invoking her useless talent. She was able to clean up most of the pudding the boy had thrown before the farmer got back, and had found enough water to put out the fire before it burned up the barn. But it was definitely time to be on her way. The boy was too eager to live the life of Wryly, which could be the death of Cynthia.

“You know, if you're looking for a place to be out of circulation,” the farmer said, “what about the Brain Coral's pool?”

“The what?”

He explained how deep in the underworld there was supposed to be this really intelligent coral that lived in a pool and collected things. “I hear it's not a bad creature,” he concluded. “It just likes to keep things a while, and let them go later. Maybe you could stay there until folk have forgotten about you.”

The notion appealed. So Cynthia went in search of the Brain Coral. But that was a separate adventure, along with how she learned to use her new wings to fly. The odd thing was that when that happened, she lost her baby-sitting talent. She realized, when she thought about it, that a creature could have only one magic talent, and hers was now flying. Maybe she would get back her old talent if she ever got back into full human form. Meanwhile, she had to confess, flying was rather fun, and really handy when there was a rushing river or nickelpede-infested chasm to cross.

“And now I guess a couple of years have passed, and you've been exiled to the Brain Coral's pool too, Evil Magician,” she concluded brightly. “I guess I can't really blame you for transforming me, because I did try to deceive you. And you have transformed another girl, to another winged form, but this time you got caught. So it must be all even.”

Trent exchanged a rather wary glance with Gloha. Cynthia had the wrong idea!

“It's not quite that way,” Gloha said. “Maybe I can explain. I'm natural. That is, I'm the product of the first goblin/harpy romance in several centuries. I'm looking for a man of my kind, that is, a winged goblin; my brother Harglo doesn't count, and Magician Trent is helping me. We came to take you back to Xanth, if you want to go.”

“Goblin/harpy romance? I never heard of that,” Cynthia said. "I thought they were enemies.”

“Well, it happened after you came here. They're still enemies, mostly. But that's changing, because there's a lady goblin chief now, my cousin Gwendolyn.”

“But you must be as old as I am. There hasn't been time to-to notify the stork and grow up.”

“I am nineteen,” Gloha said.

Cynthia was amazed. “You mean it's been twenty years? I had no idea!”

“Even longer,” Trent murmured.

“Impossible! You don't look any older than you were when you transformed me. You're still as evilly handsome as ever.”

Trent looked somewhat helplessly at Gloha. Gloha realized that she was better equipped to handle this particular revelation. “Do you know how winged monsters never lie to each other?” she asked Cynthia.

“Yes, that's in the Big Book of Rules. I encountered a winged dragon in that part of my adventure I didn't cover, and he told me that winged monsters might fight among themselves, but that they had to unite against ground creatures, and they never deceived each other. He also told me that I was a winged monster, and that was a compliment, not an insult, because he thought I was luscious.” She switched her tail thoughtfully. “I believed him, because he didn't chomp me. Maybe he just wasn't hungry at the time.”

Gloha wasn't quite sure of the logic, but let it pass. “Then I'm telling you as one winged monster to another that seventy-two years have passed since your transformation.”

Cynthia's pretty mouth dropped open in astonishment.

“And Evil Magician Trent was exiled to Mundania, and later returned and was king of Xanth, and now his daughter is queen of Xanth, and he's not called evil any more. He is now ninety-six, and just took youth elixir to restore his youth so he could help me in my quest. Xanth has changed a lot since you left it.”