Vale of the Vole (30 page)

"What is it, then?" She fluffed out her fur, looking very pretty. Volney became conscious of the grime on his own fur, because of his two days of boring. He should have taken time to lick himself clean! But he had a remedy: he shifted to his surface suit, his fur turning gray, his eyes brown. Because he had not been boring in that, it was clean.

"I am from the Vale of the Vole, and we have a severe problem. The demons are harassing us, and they have straightjacketed our formerly friendly river, the Kiss-Mee, and made it and the Vale unfriendly. We are seeking some way to drive the demons off, so that we can restore the river to its natural and superior state, so that our Vale may be pleasant again."

"That is very interesting, I'm sure," she said politely. "But I think it is no affair of mine."

"It occurred to me that if a wiggle swarming were to occur in that vicinity, the demons would be discomfited, and would depart, allowing us to restore the river."

"But wiggles do not swarm on the surface," she protested. "There is no decent-tasting rock there!"

"There may be," he said. "According to the squiggles, who bore both in the depths and near the surface, there is a good deal of air-flavored stone at the surface."

"Air-flavored stone?"

"I understand that the flavor you prefer is of that nature."

"I know what I like, but I never knew what it was called. Do you mean to say that there is stone in the flavor I require at the surface?"

"The squiggles seem to think so. When I first encountered them, they mistook me for you, because of the odor remaining on my fur. Therefore it seems that the particular atmosphere of the Vale may be compatible for you."

"You don't smell like my rock," she protested.

"It has largely dissipated now, for I have been some time away from the Vale. But perhaps some smell remains in my pouch." He opened his pouch.

She sniffed. "Yes! That is my flavor! Oh, I wish I had known before! I must mate and go there immediately!"

"There is a complication," he said. "The larvae of a wiggle swarm are damaging to the creatures of a region."

"Damaging? I know nothing of this."

"That is because your kind normally swarms in limited veins of specialized rock, where no other creatures live. On the surface the range of a swarm becomes virtually unlimited, because the larvae travel through the air, which offers little resistance. They leave holes in the creatures, which is awkward."

"Oh, I see. I suppose that could be awkward, as you say. But why don't you use a containment spell?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"A containment spell. This has been used historically by our kind-on those rare occasions when our territory overlaps that of other creatures. It confines the swarm to a set radius, so that no harm occurs beyond it."

"But doesn't that interfere with your cycle of reproduction? If the larvae cannot travel freely, how can they find the rocks they need?"

"Not any more than a limited vein of swarming rock does," she pointed out. "We wiggles are accustomed to limitations. If the containment spell limits only the radius and not the depth, some larvae will find deep rock. Those that remain on the surface have no chance anyway, as they seek a different flavor."

Volney was highly gratified. "Then it appears we can exchange favors," he said. "Tell me where this containment spell is, and I will tell you where the Vale is."

She was visibly pleased. She fluffed out her fur some more, and gazed at him with eyes that shifted from brown to gray as her fur converted the opposite way. "It is lost at the moment; someone carried it into a gourd and failed to bring it out."

"Would that be on the Lost Path in the gourd?" he asked, remembering something that Esk had said.

"Why, yes, I suppose so. So if you go there, you should be able to find it." She gazed at him with those big eyes, that were now turning from gray to violet, while her coat became pleasantly green. It was evident that the wiggles were more versatile about coloration than the voles were. "You are a handsome vole, Volney."

"The Vale is—are you familiar with the outline of the land of Xanth? —it is in the central part, south of the Gap Chasm, north of Lake Ogre-Chobee."

"I am sure I can find it," she said. Her eyes were brightening to red, while her fur was turning silver. "I am so glad you came to see me!"

There was something about her attitude that nagged him. He looked into her face, and realized what an extraordinarily attractive creature she was. Those blazing red eyes—

Red eyes! That was the color of mating!

"I must dig on, now," he said quickly. "So nice to have encountered you."

"Remain awhile," she breathed. "We could have such a good time."

He realized now what had happened. Wilda had found a suitable place to nest, because he had told her of the Vale and confirmed it with a smell. That had moved her into her mating phase—and he was the closest male. Wiggles were not the brightest of voles, just as the diggles weren't; they were governed mostly by staggered instincts. First a wiggle found a place to eat and grow; then the males turned to prowling and the females searched for nesting sites. Once the sites were found, the females were ready to mate, and the first male who prowled their way was the one. That normally did not take long, because they put out a mating scent that attracted any males in the vicinity.

The mating scent! That was why she was becoming so attractive! She was starting to generate it, and he was feeling its initial impact. They might be of different species, but it seemed that this type of scent signal was universal. If he remained, he would soon be overwhelmed by it, despite the distinction of species, and—

And it was a trap. Not because there was any danger hi the act itself; it was apt to be quite pleasurable. But because they were of different species.

"Remember, I am a vole, while you are a wiggle," he reminded her.

"Don't tell me you are prudish about cultures," she murmured, rubbing her fur against his. The process sent an electric tingle through his body.

He took a deep breath—and realized that the mating scent was getting to him. He would be overwhelmed all too soon, and then he wouldn't care about species.

"It isn't prudishness," he explained. "It's pointlessness. We would not be fertile; you would produce no swarm."

"I don't understand that," she said. "When one mates, one produces. One swarm; then one joins adult society, and subsequent matings are infertile."

"The genes differ. You need to mate with one of your own species, a wiggle male. I'm sure one will happen along soon." Because the mating scent could circulate through the fissures of the rock, reaching prospective males, who would delay not a moment.

"Let's not wait," she said, nuzzling his neck.

The scent was about to overpower him. Volney knew why this was wrong, but now he was having trouble remembering. Did it really matter? She was such a lovely creature!

Then he had a desperately bright notion. He took the guide pebble from his mouth and jammed it up his nose. Now the bitterness of it overwhelmed the alluring mating scent, and his mind reverted to normal.

Now it was clear to him why this was a dangerous trap. If he tried to mate with her, it would not take. Therefore she would not become gravid, and her mating instinct would not abate. She would continue her desire to mate, and her scent and appearance would reflect that desire— and he would find himself locked into a perpetual mating role. She would not seek any other while he was there, and no wiggle male would intrude, however eager, for no volish creature was wanton about mating; thus there would be no way for her to become gravid. And no way for him to escape, because a male could not deny the mating scent when it was in full strength.

He would never leave this tunnel, not even to eat. He would gradually starve, unable to wrench himself away, and his last act before he died would be another mating with her. Nature's natural curtailment would not be invoked, because of the genetic incompatibility. Other creatures of Xanth could crossbreed, but not the voles; they were pure strains, kept pure by this limitation.

Well, it might be possible for the mating to take, if enhanced by the elixir of a love spring, or by an accommodation spell. But neither was present on this occasion, so that was of no significance.

"Don't you like me?" Wilda inquired.

He did not want to affront her, because he wanted her cooperation when she did successfully breed with one of her own kind. A wiggle swarm, suitably contained, should banish the demons from the Vale, and certainly it would rum the demons' dikes and let the water out of the Kill-Mee channels. "I simply want what is best for you," he said. "And that is a mating with one of your own species. I must go locate the containment spell." And that was most of the truth—about all she might be capable of assimilating.

"I really don't understand," she said, She tickled his nose with a whisker.

The tickle caused Volney to sneeze. The foul pebble flew from his nose, and was lost in the dust. Suddenly he was exposed to the full impact of the mating odor.

It was time for desperate measures. Volney held his breath and leaped for the wall. He jammed on his external claws and dug at the wall with extraordinary vigor. The rock powdered under the magic of the talons, and a new hole developed.

"What's the matter?" Wilda asked. "Did I say something to offend you? I apologize!"

"Don't apologize!" Volney gasped, remembering one more thing Esk had mentioned. Some folk had a most intimate mode of apology!

"But I only want to be nice to you!" she pleaded.

As Volney breathed, some of the scent reached him. Why not simply turn back and—?

But his rational mind still had enough sway to dominate—as long as he held his breath again. He continued his digging, getting his nose into the new rock, filtering out the scent.

"Ah, you wish to flirt," she said. "I will play! I will catch you!"

"Yes, catch me!" Volney gasped. He could dig his way out of her range, and before she found him, a wiggle male would pass within range of her scent, and would preempt the mating. Then, afterwards, she would remember the Vale, and feel no outrage at Volney's abrupt retreat.

But he had forgotten what good borers the wiggles were. Wilda started her own tunnel, parallel to his, pacing him, and she readily matched his progress. He had no more strength pills; he could not enhance himself with a spell to outdistance her. When she grew tired of playing, she would loop her tunnel and cut off his, and merge the two; and then her scent would overwhelm him, and they would be locked in the futile mating effort.

What could he do? She was tunneling above him, preventing him from going for the surface. She might not be bright about the details of genetics, but she was canny about tunneling, as all the members of the great family of voles were. It was inherent; any related creature who could not tunnel well was soon squeezed out of the ground. One of the shames of the surface creatures was surely their inadequacy as tunnelers.

Maybe he could double back, fooling her, and then head for the surface before she could catch him. She wouldn't brave the surface until after mating; it wasn't the wiggle way. He hoped.

He widened his tunnel, making room to turn his body around, then scurried back. It was much faster reexcavating refuse rocks than boring through solid virgin stone, and he made three times the speed. He soon intersected her original suite and scrambled through it.

"How nice," she murmured, wiggling her whiskers. "You have returned."

Volney held his breath and skidded to a stop. She had anticipated him! He could almost feel the scent caressing his fur. He spun about and plunged back into his tunnel. Soon he was back at its end, boring forward. Could he angle it up now, before she followed him back here?

He could not. She was already angling her tunnel toward his; he could tell by the sound of it.

Then he had a dark notion. He knew one place she wouldn't go!

Abruptly, he angled down. He had the excellent volish spatial memory that enabled him to orient on any region he had visited before. He knew where to go.

Wilda paced him, not closing in, evidently curious about this new ploy. She knew he couldn't dig down forever; eventually he would have to turn up again, and then she would end the flirtation and close in for the finale.

Wouldn't it be easier, he wondered, just to let her catch him? But then he realized that it was the scent influencing him. Every time he bored through a fracture zone, a suggestion of that scent filtered through, and now it was filtering through the fracture zones of his will to resist and centering on his desire. If he let her catch him, he would never make the rendezvous with his friends on the surface, and the Vale of the Vole would not be saved. He had to fight on through!

Now he was nearing his current destination: the living lava flow. If he played this too close, he would suffer another type of fate; and as he fried to death, he would wish he had remained with the wiggle princess after all. For if he died in the lava, then Wilda would mate elsewhere, and go to the Vale—and there would be no containment spell.

He felt the heat. He did not know the full extent of the flow, but did know where his prior tunnel to it was. He angled across to intersect that, hoping that Wilda did not realize what he had in mind.