Up In A Heaval

Xanth 26 - Up in a Heaval

Demons did not normally assume mortal form or substance, but on rare occasion it was convenient for negotiation. The dialogue between the Demon JU(P/I)TER and the Demoness FO(R/N)AX occurred in neutral territory: the domain of the Demon X(A/N)TH. Jupiter, whose magic was the strong force, animated a nondescript male mortal body crafted for the occasion by Xanth, while Fornax borrowed the semblance of a lesser female demon. Xanth himself was in the humanoid form of Nimby, a donkey-headed dragon.

“What do you want?” Jupiter demanded, employing the cumbersome mortal sonic language so as to adhere to the limitations of the mortal form, “We defeated your last ploy and rescued Demon Earth from your clutch; you have no further influence in this region.”

“I have spot visitation rights,” Fornax replied similarly. “I made a deal with a mortal girl in Demon Earth's domain. But I want more.”

“We all want more,” Jupiter retorted. “That is why we contest constantly for status at each other's expense.”

“Exactly. But in this case I want a lesser thing. Having become acquainted with several mortal characters of the Land of Xanth, I find the mortal state intriguing. I wish to take this land to my own galaxy and vivisect it and its creatures.”

“No you don't!” Xanth protested. “That's my realm. Your challenge for status is with Jupiter; this is merely the setting for your limited dialogue.”

“Here is the nature of my offer: The stakes are your Land of Xanth against my empty contraterrene equivalent. If I win, I will transform Xanth to CT matter so that I may safely handle it, then vivisect it to discover what is intriguing about it. If Jupiter wins, I will turn over my contraterrene realm to you, so that your mortal characters can animate it and have a vast new realm to play in.”

“Those are fair stakes,” Xanth agreed. “But why contest with Jupiter when you could contest directly with me?”

The form of the demoness assumed enormous beauty and sexiness. “You have already committed your interest to a female creature; I can't distract you of your representative by employing mortal opposite-gender allure. Jupiter has not committed, so perhaps can be swayed, providing me a reasonable edge.”

“I doubt it,” Jupiter said. “I know your nature, Demoness.”

“Since when did knowledge have any relevance to a male?”

“Males are rational. Females are emotional.”

“Really?” She oriented on Jupiter's form, slowly drawing up the hem of her skirt. The thighs of the form she had assumed were very firm and well fleshed. His eyeballs locked into place and began to sweat. She had made her point.

“Agreed,” Jupiter said. He did not say that his interest had been aroused, but of course she knew it.

“If you win, I will also visit you in this fleshly form and do whatever you request, provided it is limited to a mortal nature.” She let her décolletage descend slightly.

Jupiter's mortal breath quickened. He nodded.

“Agreed,” Xanth said. “Now the rules of engagement.”

“The Land of Xanth to be the setting,” Fornax said as she let her hem and neckline drift back into place. “We will select Xanth characters to represent our interests. One must accomplish a particular task, or fail to accomplish it. On that will hinge the decision.”

“Agreed,” Jupiter said, flexing his eyeballs to restore their circulation. “I choose this character I have animated, rendering him apparent for the occasion.”

“But you must not animate him yourself,” Fornax said. “You must set him up and let him proceed without further direction, so that the outcome is not determined by direct Demon power.”

“Agreed. That is standard practice when we employ facsimiles. I will give him the semblance of body, life, and awareness, with a minor talent, and dissolve him when the game is done.”

“The semblance?” Fornax asked. “Why not the reality?”

“We terrene Demons do not have established mortal forms and do not live and die as they do,” Jupiter explained. “We have no direct experience, so must emulate. The real mortals will not know the difference.”

Her form nodded. “Neither do we contraterrene Demons. That is one reason I wish to dissect some mortals, discovering the secret of their living state. I understand they also have souls, which are a deeper mystery.”

“Souls greatly complicate their existence,” Xanth said. “I have been studying them for some time, without yet approaching a sufficient comprehension. It seems a soul is one thing it is necessary to possess in order to appreciate.”

“I would like to borrow and study a soul,” Fornax said.

“So would I,” Jupiter agreed.

“They can't be taken,” Xanth said. “They must be given.”

“Remarkable,” Fornax said. She reoriented on Jupiter. “Your entity must not know his origin or nature.”

“Emulation can go only so far,” Jupiter said. “If he operates long among genuine mortals, he will inevitably catch on, because he will discover what they can't: that he is limited in duration.”

“Then herein perhaps we have a basis for our game,” she said. “Give your character a pretext and a chore to accomplish. If he succeeds before he discovers his nature, the victory is yours. If he fails, or realizes before he succeeds, it is mine.”

“Agreed.”

Fornax smiled. “Not quite so simple, Jupiter. I am not satisfied to have a simple task simply accomplished. If your golem possesses a Demon's single-mindedness, he will forge through and accomplish his task regardless of the consequences elsewhere.”

“Readily fixed,” Demon Xanth said. “We can provide him with a soul emulation, giving him a strong conscience, compassion, and sense of fairness. He can be a surpassingly decent person, not given to single-mindedness at the expense of others.”

“But if he is highly intelligent or talented, he will still accomplish it readily.”

“I will make him of moderate intellect, with a moderate talent,” Jupiter said. “With a store of useless incidental information rather than insight.”

“One more thing: I will utilize this present character, whose purpose will be to prevent your character from accomplishing his mission.”

“But he will never succeed, if a Demon opposes him.”

“I will be indirect, motivating the female whose form I have borrowed, and will not allow her to understand the full nature of the contest. Then I will set her loose, as you will do for yours.”

“You will employ female wiles to distract him,” Jupiter said accusingly.

“Of course. It's the natural female emotional course.”

“Then my character should have a general appeal for females, as a natural rational male.”

Nobody was fooling anybody, but they liked the sparring. “Granted. Let them be mysteriously drawn to him. The challenge will be fair.”

“Yes, it will be fair,” Jupiter agreed grimly.

They settled down to detail bargaining, crafting a game that each agreed was fair. Occasionally Fornax allowed some interesting flesh to show, reminding Jupiter of the stakes. This was the essence of Demon interaction.

It all started, others agreed later, with Umlaut. Because he wasn't what he seemed to be. His talent was emulation, which was mostly a matter of causing others to see him as he represented himself to be, to a degree. But it might as well have been troublE with a capital E, because of the mischief it led to. It was the teenth of the month, and all the teens were out, but that was only the setting.

At the moment Umlaut was pretending to be a seventeen-year-old girl. The age was right, but not the gender. He was doing it to escape the attention of a real girl who had taken an unwholesome fancy to him. In fact she was chasing him. That might have been all right, for Sherry was pretty enough, except for her talent. That was in her kisses: They were sweeter than wine. Which was fine, up to a point. Unfortunately her first kiss made him feel so pleasant that he wanted more, and three made him tipsy, and last time he had awakened next morning with a dreadful hangover and no memory of the date. But Sherry's father had warned him that if he did it again, he'd have to marry her. That might not have been so bad, except that what good was an experience if he couldn't remember it? So he was trying to take it easy, at least until he figured out whether he really wanted to marry a sixteen-year-old girl just yet. She thought he was strong, handsome, and suitable; now he regretted emulating her ideal man quite so thoroughly. It would be impossible to do it continuously, and what would happen when she found out how dully ordinary he really was?

Umlaut rounded a bend and spied a group of teenagers having a party. That seemed ideal; he could merge with them and conceal himself until Sherry gave up the chase. Then he could sneak away, free, and return to his normal, somewhat inadequate self.

He ran up to them, hastily adjusting his emulation to make him seem like one of them. “Sorry I got lost,” he said somewhat breathlessly. “What's up?”

“We just got a package of Wetti shirts,” the tallest and handsomest boy replied. “We traded a rock hound for them.”

“Rock hound?”

“Don't you remember? We found it in the old rock mine last week. Friendly dog made of stone.”

“Oh, sure,” Umlaut said. Of course he didn't remember, because he hadn't been part of this group. Then, to hide his ignorance, he changed the subject. “What are Wetti shirts?”

“We're not sure, but they say they're a lot of fun for girls to wear and great for contests. So why don't you be the first? Put one on.” He shoved the package at Umlaut. Of course he took Umlaut for a girl, because that was what he was emulating.

At that point Sherry rounded the turn and ran up. She was breathing hard with the effort. She was a fairly full-figured girl, and several of the boys were looking with interest. “Have you seen Umlaut?” she panted.

“Who?”

“A strong, handsome, suitable boy, running down this path.” She paused for a deeper breath, straining a shirt button or two in the process, along with a male eyeball or two.

“No, only another—”

“Try a Wetti shirt,” Umlaut said quickly, shoving the package at her. “They're great fun for girls and contests.”

“Now wait,” the boy protested. “She's not one of us.” That got Sherry's dander up. The dander immediately flew off in search of a flock of deese, but that didn't stop Sherry. She grabbed the boy by a lapel and planted a kiss on his face. “You were saying?” she demanded, well knowing her power.

The boy looked pleasantly dazed, as if he had just downed a glass of something intoxicatingly sweet. “She's one of us,” he decided.

Sherry took a shirt from the package and put it on over her blouse. Suddenly a wash of water fell on her, making her scream pleasantly. The new shirt turned transparent and clung to her body, which seemed about twice as fully formed as before. “I like it,” she said. “Who else is in this contest?”

“Contest?” the boy asked, his eyes locked to her front profile. So were the eyes of the other boys in the group, and some of the girls, though there might have been a difference in the girls' expressions.

“The shirt is for contests,” she reminded him. “How can I win, if nobody else competes?”

“This girl, what's her name,” the boy said, prying his eyes away and turning to Umlaut.

Oops. Umlaut couldn't put on one of those shirts. Emulation had its limits, and it would be shattered if his top half got transparently wet. Then the teens would all know he was an impostor, and Sherry would nab him. All she had to do was plant one sweet kiss on him, and he'd linger for another and be lost. Next morning he'd wake up with a headache and married. He simply wasn't ready for that, apart from the problem of fooling her. Because Sherry, however sweet her kisses and full her body, was not his idea of the perfect wife. Anyway, he was too young to marry,

He bolted. “Hey!” the boy cried. In a moment all of them were chasing him.

Now he was in twice as much trouble as before. Where could he go to escape?

He came up on a young woman who was walking in the same direction.

“Uh, hello,” he said somewhat breathlessly.

She turned to face him. She had an explorer's cap and a name tag saying Miss Guide. “May I help you?”

“Yes! Please tell me where I can escape a group of pursuing teens!”

“Take the left fork,” she said. “Though you are welcome to dally a bit.”

“Thank you!” He ran on ahead of her. Belatedly he wondered why she might want to dally with another girl.

But before he found a fork, he came up on another young woman. From behind she had a remarkable figure, and from before also, when he passed her. Her name tag said Miss In Form. “Is the left fork the one?” he gasped.

“In Dubitably,” she agreed.

“Thanks!” He ran on.

He overhauled a third young woman, this one wearing a many-feathered bonnet. Her name tag said Miss Chief.

“Is the—?” he started.

“Oh, yes,” she agreed. “You'll make a fine Indian maiden.”

“Thanks!” He ran on. But something was nagging one corner of his mind. Those young women—if their name tags were literal, they might not be the best sources of information. Misguide, Misinform, Mischief...

Then he spied a fork in the path. The left fork was marked CONTEST BEACH and the right fork CASTLE ZOMBIE. Ordinarily Umlaut would have preferred the left, especially if he could have watched all the girls in the group donning Wetti shirts for the contest. But at the moment the right fork seemed better. Nobody much who wasn't a zombie went there.

Sure enough, the pursuit soon languished. Umlaut knew the teens wouldn't be too disappointed, because Sherry liked to kiss people, especially boys. But just in case any of the girls followed, he kept running. He let his emulation lapse; he'd run by the castle and then go home.

He almost collided with a group of teen zombie girls. He hadn't realized that zombies had teens, but of course they would be out today if they existed.

“Ooooz, ughsh!” one cried. “A live bzoy!”

“Who caresz?” another demanded. “He'z male.”

“Say, yesh,” a third said. “Letz kisz him!”

For some reason that escaped him at the moment, Umlaut did not want to be kissed by a group of zombie girlz. So he quickly refurbished his emulation. “I'm notz a boy,” he protested. “I'm an-ozer zombie girzl.”

“Oh, zo you are,” the second girl said, disappointed. “Whatz you got?”

“Wetti shirts,” Umlaut said, realizing that he still carried the package. “They're good for girls in contests.”

“Letz try them!” the first girl said.

The zombies quickly took the remaining shirts and put them on. In a moment all were thoroughly soaked, their upper bodies showing to disadvantage. What looked great on live girls was somewhat so did on zombie girls.

“Ooooz, ughsh!” they exclaimed, quickly appreciating that tact. “Welookawzful!”

They tried to remove the shirts, but the wet things clung, tangling with the regular clothing underneath, so that the effect became worse. The girls were screaming with frustration as bits of cloth tore and dangled.

“What's going on here?” It was an irate black girl who appeared to be fully alive.

“Wetzi shirs,” a zombie girl explained. “Contezt.”

“A wet T-shirt contest? Zombies have no business getting into that. Who put you up to this nonsense?”

“Zhee did!” the girls said, pointing to Umlaut.

More mischief! Umlaut tried to shrink away but couldn't think of a suitable emulation on the spur of the moment; the spur merely jabbed him uncomfortably.

The black girl turned on Umlaut, a small black cloud forming over her head. “I'll deal with you later,” she said menacingly. “For now, go muck out the dungeon.”

Umlaut decided not to argue; he was in enough trouble already. This was evidently a person of authority. He hurried toward the castle.

He had expected something pretty dingy. He had underestimated the case. Castle Zombie up close was a festering ruin of an edifice. The moat was covered with sludge, and there was slime on the worn stones. The drawbridge was rotten and about to collapse. He did not want to try to cross over it.

“Got a problem?” It was a young man, fully alive.

Umlaut decided to stick with his zombie girl emulation. “Who zhou?”

The man smiled. "I am Justin Tree, master of Castle Zombie. You don't recognize me?”

Umlaut thought fast. “Bad eyzs.”

“Of course; I should have realized. And you can't see the bridge clearly enough to cross.”

“Yez. I waz zent to muck the dunzeon.”

“Oh, yes, Breanna has been meaning to assign a crew for that. The dragon manure is accumulating. Don't be concerned; that bridge is stronger than it looks. Just walk across and take the first stairway down. You'll find a spading fork at the dungeon entrance.”

“Zank youz.” Umlaut walked cautiously across, and the bridge did turn out to be solid enough.

So the man was Justin Tree. Umlaut had heard of him. He had married a Black Wave girl a year or so back. That would be the one who had sent him here: Breanna of the Black Wave. They had taken over the castle after the original zombie master had retired. It looked as if they still had a lot of cleaning up to do.

He found the stairway down, as slimy as the rest of it. He made his way below. Now he got nervous: What was this about a dragon? A dungeon was not his idea of fun, and a dungeon and a dragon were definitely worth avoiding. But the only way out was back past the master of the castle. So he went on.

There was the spading fork. He picked it up. If the dragon attacked, maybe he could use the fork to warn it back. That didn't seem very promising, but what else was there? Maybe he could simply duck into a small, dark passage and hide from it. He might emulate an ogre, but that would set back only a medium to small dragon.

He walked on through cobwebbed passages and chambers, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. It wasn't pitch dark so much as intensely dim, with wan weak beams of light seeping through crevices in the walls. This dungeon region was huge; he could get lost in it. So he went back to the foot of the stairway, then advanced again, this time scraping a line with a tine of the fork. That would be his sure trail back. It was easier to make a good mark, one that would show up in the dusky recesses, if he walked backward and held it down behind his progress.

It got more difficult, because a layer of mucky manure was building up, thickening as he progressed. He would have a big job to do, once he had his route marked. Where was he supposed to put all this stuff? The odor was awful.

He bumped into something. Startled, he turned. There was a monstrous snout. “The dragon!” he cried and scrambled to escape. But his feet slipped on the solidified stench, and he fell on his rear and slid into a wall. He was done for.

After a moment he realized two things: His bottom was sore from the fall, and the dragon hadn't eaten him. He climbed to his feet, rubbing his soiled posterior. “Ooo, that smarts,” he said.

The dragon moved. The huge nose nudged a shelf Umlaut hadn't seen before, and a bottle fell off and rolled toward him. He stooped to pick it up. The crude label said HEALING.

Could that be true? If so, by what mischance had the monster happened to knock that particular bottle down at this time? Good fortune had never been Umlaut's forte.

He decided to try it. He opened the bottle, poured a drop of goo on his hand, and slid the hand down inside his pants to smear the stuff on his rear. Immediately he felt its benefit; not only did his bottom stop smarting, it suddenly felt great. He had gotten a bit tired from the constant bending and pressing on the fork; now his energy had been restored. It truly was healing elixir.

But the mystery remained: How had what he needed been so providently presented to him—by the action of a dragon? Umlaut did not have a lot of belief in coincidences, at least not favorable ones. Normally they just got him into deeper trouble.

Could the dragon have done it intentionally? That seemed incredible, but added to the fact that the creature had not attacked when it could have, it was a possibility. “Did you do that on purpose?” he inquired.

The huge head nodded.

Still, that was not absolute proof. “Are you going to gobble me up as soon as I turn my back on you?'”

The snout moved sidewise in a ponderous no gesture.

This was becoming more interesting. “Do you understand my words?”

The head nodded.

“What is two plus one?”

The head bobbed three times.

“You're intelligent!” Umlaut exclaimed.

The dragon hesitated.

“For an animal,” Umlaut amended.

The head nodded.

“So you understand me and mean me no harm?”

Another nod.

“Well, that's fine, because I have come here to muck out your stall. Do you happen to know where I can dump the stuff?”

The dragon turned and slithered away. Umlaut hesitated, then decided that it was best to trust the creature, since he could not get the job done otherwise. He followed.

The dragon led him to a large chamber with a hole in the floor.

“An oubliette!” Umlaut said. “Dump it down there?”

The dragon nodded.

“But there's a lot of this stuff. Won't it eventually fill up the oubliette?”