In the morning they thanked the ogre and continued on their quest, while Crunch tramped eagerly into the dead forest to rouse his beautiful bride: her with the hair like nettles and skin like mush.
They had new material for thought. Now they knew the cause of the death of the trees—but what of the evil fiends who dwelt in the lake and possessed such devastating curses? Were there Magicians among them, and was the source of magic near them?
Magician Humfrey was particularly thoughtful. Either he had not been entirely asleep during the evening session, or he had drawn on his informational magic to ascertain the situation. He had to know that the demon Beauregard was gone. “What magic,” he murmured, “could devastate an entire living forest by the dissipation of a single curse? Why have I not known of this before?”
“You never thought to look,” Chester said undiplomatically.
“We’re looking now,” Bink pointed out. “Magic should be stronger near the source.”
Crombie squawked. “Strong magic is one thing. Magician-class curses are another. Let me get another line on it.” And he did his act once more.
They were headed in the right direction. The terrain seemed ordinary; large trees glowered at the trespassers while small ones shied away as well as they were able. Fruit flies buzzed about: berries, cherries, and grapefruits hovered as if in search of another salad bowl. Tempting paths appeared through tangled reaches, which the party avoided as a matter of course. In Xanth, the easy course was seldom best! There was a dragon run, with scorch marks on the trees to show the dragon’s territorial limits. The safest place to be, when pursued by a dragon, was a few paces within another dragon’s marked demesnes; any poaching would lead to a settlement between dragons.
But soon the way became more difficult. Brambles with glistening points and ugly dispositions closed off large sections, and a pride of ant lions patrolled others. A copse of stinkweeds surrounded the most direct remaining route, and they were of a particularly large and potent breed. The party tried to pass through them, but the stench became so intense that even the ogre might have hesitated. They retreated, gasping.
They contemplated the alternatives: brambles and ant lions. Bink tried to clear a path through the plants with his sword, but every time he made a cut, several more branches closed in, threatening his body. These were exceptionally alert brambles, and the sheen on their poults suggested poison. Bink backed off. Once again he was up against the possibility that his talent might protect him while letting his friends die.
He approached the ant-lion section. The lion-headed ants had beaten out good highways throughout, and ruthlessly eliminated all hazards in their way. All hazards except the ant lions themselves.
Bink’s sword might dispatch one lion, and Chester’s arrows and hooves could handle two or three more, and as a griffin Crombie could take on as many as four—but the creatures would attack a dozen at a time without fear or mercy. Again, Bink himself would probably emerge intact, by some incredible fluke—but what of the others?
He turned back—and his eyes wandered skyward, he saw a path through the trees. The tops of the trees.
He rubbed his eyes. A path in air? Yet why not? With magic, he reminded himself for the umpteenth time, all things were possible. The question was, could men and half-men walk on it? And if they could, where did it lead?
Still, it seemed to be the most promising route. If he rode Chester, his talent would not let them get on the airy path unless it would support them both. The griffin, Magician, and golem weighed much less, so they would be safe if they followed. “I think I see a way,” Bink said.
They tried it. They located a place where the magic path looped down within reach of the ground, and Crombie whirled and pointed to discover whether there was any danger along this limited-access highway. There was not. They climbed aboard and followed it up high into the trees. The strange thing about it was that the path was always level, no matter how it looped. The forest turned crazy circles about it, however. At times the sun was underfoot, and at times to one side, while the trees assumed varying angles. Bink, curious, reached out to touch the foliage of one tree whose trunk reached up into the ground above; it was solid. Of course he knew that he was the one who was upside down; the path established its own orientation. Looking back, he could see the griffin, marching at a different tilt, and knew that to griffin, Magician, and golem the centaur was the tilted one. Intriguing magic, but harmless. So far.
Meanwhile, he enjoyed the convenience and the view. The path led through the forest, generally high above the ground, and this new view of things was refreshing. Slants of sunlight crossed it, and gently hued columns of mist. It was neither man’s-eye nor bird’s-eye, but an intermediate and unique perspective. The path passed safely above the ant-lion range, yet below the flying-predator range. Bink observed several small flying dragons, a harpy, and a distant roc, but none flew near the path.
The plants, too, were unusually passive. Constrictor tentacles dangled in the vicinity of the path, but never on it, and no branches reached across to block it. Obviously this path was charmed, and that was suspicious; the best paths were almost by definition the worst ones. Bink remembered how easy it had been to penetrate the forest around Castle Roogna, back when it had been derelict, and how hard it had been to escape it. What were they walking into now?
Crombie’s talent said there was no danger in the direction the path went—but Crombie’s talent could be too literal. To Bink, anything that might delay the completion of his quest was a threat. One simply could not afford to trust strange magic. He’d better ask the Good Magician.
“Of course it’s safe, Bink,” Humfrey said with irritation. “Do you suppose I would be riding it otherwise?”
Bink hadn’t even asked the question yet! The Magician retained his special talent, though his grumpy refusal to use it for the convenience of the party made his company seem at times to be worth little more than that of a harpy. What point was there in having a Magician along, if he never used his magic to facilitate things? Even the Evil Magician had freely pitched in when danger threatened to—
“That is the point, Bink,” Humfrey said. “There is no present danger. When the situation changes, I will expend my carefully hoarded magic. You are young, yet; you dissipate your resources heedlessly, and get into scrapes you should have avoided.”
Served him right for letting his thoughts flow carelessly! Bink shut up, mentally, and rode on. In due course the path wound down to a pleasant little village, with houses thatched with hay and daubed with colored muds, and neat walkways connecting places of fault interest.
“Do you notice,” Chester said, “there is no magic in the local construction? Only mundane materials.”
“That’s right,” Bink said, surprised. “If we’re approaching the source of magic, on a magic path, shouldn’t there be more magic rather than less?” He turned to the griffin. “Crombie, are you sure this is—?”
Crombie squawked. “Birdbeak is sure this is the right direction,” the golem said. “But the village may be a mere item on the way, not the destination itself.”
A grizzled old harpy flapped out to meet the party as it reached the foot of the path. All of them braced for trouble, for harpies were notorious. But this one, though suitably hideous, was clean and unaggressive. “Welcome, travelers,” she said without even bothering to insult them. A most restrained harpy!
“Uh, thanks,” Bink said. “We’re looking for—a place to spend the night. We don’t mean any mischief.” He had never heard of a harpy acting polite, so remained on guard, hand over sword.
“You shall have it,” she agreed. “You are all males?”
“Yes,” Bink said uneasily. “We are on a quest for the source of magic. Your village appears to lie near this. We—“
“Five males,” the harpy said. “What a bonanza!”
“We’re not interested in your females,” Chester said with some of his normal belligerence.
Crombie squawked. “Not their minds, anyway,” the golem translated.
Chester’s lip curled with almost equine facility. Bink had to speak at once, before another quarrel brewed. “We shall be happy to do some chore for you, in return for food and safe lodging overnight. Then tomorrow, if you have information about magic—“
“You will have to discuss that with Trolla,” the harpy said. “This way, please.” And she flapped off, muttering once more: “Men!” with hideous excitement.
“Then again, you may have a point,” Chester murmured to Crombie. “If we have fallen into a nest of harpies...”
“We may be best advised to get on that aerial path and go back the way we came,” Bink finished, glancing back.
But the path was gone. They could not escape that way.
Trolla turned out to be—a female troll. She was almost as ugly as the harpy, but she too was amazingly polite. “I realize you are uneasy, you handsome male visitors,” Trolla said. “And you have reason to be. But not because of any of the residents of this village. Allow me to serve you supper, while I explain our situation.”
Bink exchanged glances with the others. Both centaur and griffin looked distinctly uncomfortable, but the Good Magician seemed to have no concern.
Trolla clapped her horny hands, and several wood-nymphs came in, bearing platters. Their hair was green, their skin brown, their lips and fingernails red: like flowering trees. But their outlines were human; each was a pert, lithe, full-breasted bare beauty. Each eyed Bink and Humfrey with more than casual interest. “Hunger” might be a better term. The food was virtually mundane: vegetables and fruits harvested locally, and small dragon steaks. Milkweed pods provided the liquid; it was good milk, but in no way special.
“You may have noted we have used no magic in the preparation of this meal,” Trolla said. “We use as little magic as possible here, because there is more magic here than anywhere else on the surface of Xanth. I realize that may not make much sense to you—“
“Quite sensible,” Humfrey said, chomping into another steak.
Trolla focused on him. “You must be a Magician, sir.”
“Umph.” He seemed to be more interested in his food than in her discussion. Bink knew that was deceptive. Humfrey paid close attention to all things magic.
“If you are—if any of you have strong magic—I must caution you to be extremely careful in exerting it,” she said. “Please do not misunderstand; this is no threat. We do not want you to feel at all uncomfortable here. It is simply that all magic—well, permit me to make a small demonstration.” She clapped her hands, and a nymph entered, as buxom and bare as the others. “Bring a small firefly,” Trolla said.
In a moment the nymph returned with the firefly. It was very small—the kind that generated hardly more than a spark, harmless. It squatted on the table, rather pretty with its folded flame-hued wings and insulated legs. “Now observe what happens when I frighten it,” Trolla said.
She rapped the table with a hooflike knuckle. The firefly jumped up, startled, and generated its momentary fire. A burst of light and heat emanated from it, and a ball of smoke roiled up toward the ceiling. A spot on the table a handsbreadth in diameter was charred. The firefly itself had disappeared.
“It burned itself up!” Chester exclaimed.
“It did not mean to,” Trolla said. “This was a normal Xanth firefly, not acclimatized to this region. Here near the source its magic is multiplied a hundredfold. Thus its little spark became a self-immolating fireball. Until you males become acclimatized, I urge you not to practice your magic in this village. We value your presence, and do not wish you to suffer any mishaps.”
Bink looked to Humfrey, but the Good Magician continued eating. “Uh, none of us have inflammatory magic,” Bink said, realizing that it was up to him to respond for their party. Yet he wondered: what would his talent do if anything threatened? What it might intend to be a mere “coincidental” amelioration might become much worse. “But it would be best if—if nothing seemed to threaten our welfare.”
“There is, unfortunately, a most extreme threat to your welfare,” Trolla said gravely. “Because you are males. You must have noticed we have no males in this village.”
“We noticed,” Bink agreed. “Your nymphs seem quite intrigued by us.” Indeed, the nymphs were hovering so close that Bink’s elbows tended to bump their soft midriffs as he ate.
“Our problem is this,” Trolla continued. “A siren has been luring away our males. Originally we were a normal human village, except for our unique and critical task. Then the siren came and deprived us of our men. Because our job could not be neglected, we undertook at great personal risk the construction of the charmed access route you arrived on, so as to encourage immigration. But the new men, too, were soon taken away from us. We extended our search to non-human people; this was how I myself came here, with my husband the troll. But the awful drain continued; I was soon a widow—and not by the proper route.”
Bink felt sudden alarm. Some female trolls ate their husbands. It was said that the only thing a troll was afraid of was his wife—with excellent reason. Was this predaceous female looking for another husband?
“Our village now is composed of every type of intelligent female,” Trolla continued. “And a number of supporting animals. The magic access route transports only intelligent creatures, but some animals drift in through the jungle. But the siren—this is what I meant by the danger to you. Once you hear her call, you will disappear into the forest and never return. We would spare you this if we could, but we are helpless unless we resort to unconscionable measures.”
“What would those be?” Bink asked nervously.
“We might deafen you so you could not hear her,” Trolla explained. “Or geld you, so that you would not react to—“
“Why don’t some of you females go out and slay the siren?” Chester asked. “Meaning no offense, madam, but you could probably handle it.”
“The siren I would gladly tear apart and consume in bleeding chunks,” Trolla said. “But I cannot pass the tangle tree. The siren has made a deal with the tangler; the tree lets the males through to her, but grabs the females.”
“Then you need to eliminate the tangle tree,” Bink said. “With magic as strong here as you’ve shown, it should be a fairly simple chore. A few fireflies, or some pineapple bombs—“
“This is no ordinary tangle tree,” Trolla said. “We have tried to destroy it, but though it is outside our village, it has absorbed enough extra magic to foil our efforts. We are, after all, only females—and the men will not fight it when they are in thrall to the siren.”
Bink took a deep breath. “I believe this is the service we can render, in return for your hospitality. Tomorrow we shall slay the tangler.”
Trolla merely shook her head sadly. “It is kind of you to think so,” she said. “But the siren will not permit it.”
The siren did not know about Bink’s talent. Since both siren and tangle tree were magical entities, his magic would protect him against them. Somehow. But considering the possible complications of the enhanced potency of magic here, he would do best to tackle the tree alone. He didn’t want his friends being hurt by the backlash. Maybe he could sneak out at night and do it, while the others slept.
Crombie squawked. “What is the village employment, crone?” the golem translated.
“We are situated atop the source-lode of magic,” Trolla said. “This is the origin of the magic of Xanth. The dust is highly charged with magic, and were it allowed to accumulate, most of the rest of Xanth would slowly become mundane, while the village would develop a fatal concentration. Thus we must spread the dust about, maintaining a reasonable equilibrium.” She looked about. “We seem to have completed our repast. Allow me to show you our operations.”
“Umph,” Humfrey agreed. Now Bink was sure the Magician was only feigning disinterest, as was his fashion; the conclusion of their quest was at hand! Yet Bink found himself disappointed; he had expected more challenge to the acquisition of this knowledge than this.
Trolla showed them to a large central building fashioned of mundane stone. Inside, it was one huge gravel pit, where small female elves, gnomes, and fairies dug and scraped out sand with their little picks and scoops. They loaded it into wheeled wagons drawn by female centaurs, a manticora, and a small sphinx. Bink’s skin prickled when he approached the sand; strong magic was associated with it, no doubt of that! Yet this was the first time he had encountered indeterminate magic. That sand performed no magic of its own, and cast no spells; it merely was magic, waiting for direction. Bink was not quite sure he could believe that.
The sand was hauled to another structure, where three huge hephalumphs tramped it constantly into dust. The hephalumphs were animals, normally wild creatures of the wilderness, but these were evidently tame and well cared for, and seemed happy. Then a captive roc-bird blew the dust into the air, employing great sweeps of her monstrous wings. So powerful was this forced draft that small tornadoes formed in the turbulence.
“The Technicolor hailstorms!” Bink exclaimed. “Fallout from this operation!”
“Exactly,” Trolla agreed. “We try to feed the dust high into the sky so that it will ride the upper currents all over Xanth before it falls, but localized storms bring it down prematurely. The region immediately downwind of us is untenable for intelligent life; the concentration of airborne dust disrupts the local ecology and leads to madness. Thus there are risks associated with our operation—but we must continue. We should be pleased if you males would remain here, encouraging our females—but we know you must flee before the siren calls. Unfortunately our access route is one-way; we have been too busy recently to construct a departure ramp. You can escape only through the Region of Madness. Yet this is preferable to the siren. We shall help you all we can, but—“
“Not until we render our service,” Bink said. “We have assorted talents, and should be able to handle this.” But privately he was uneasy; he found it hard to believe that they should prevail where all other men had failed. And he wondered again why the source of the magic of Xanth had remained unknown all these centuries, if the people of this village had known about it all along. Maybe the fact that no one ever seemed to leave this village and live—or maybe the magic dust fogged up other magic, so that things like magic mirrors could not focus on this area. There were probably a lot of secrets in the Land of Xanth that remained to be discovered....
“We shall have a gathering this evening,” Trolla said. “Some of our younger girls have never seen a male, and deserve this chance. You will meet everyone, and we shall plan how we can best help you to escape the siren. So far, no way has been found to block off her sound from the males, though we females cannot hear it. We can, with your permission, confine you in cages so that you cannot respond to—“
“No!” Bink and Chester said together, and Crombie squawked.
“You are true males, always ready for a challenge,” Trolla said with sad approval. “In any event, we would have to let you out sometime, and then the siren would get you, so cages are no solution. We need to be rid of the siren!” Her face, for a moment, assumed the aspect of savage hate that was normal to trolls. But then she softened. “I will show you to you're lodging, and call for you again, at dusk. Please be courteous to our villagers; your presence here is a considerable event, and the girls are untrained in social decorum.”
When they were alone, Bink addressed the Magician. “Something is funny here. Will you use your magic to fathom the true situation?”
“Do I have to do everything?” Humfrey grumped.
Listen, you dwarfish gnome!” Chester snapped. “We’ve been working our tails off, while you just loaf along.”
Humfrey was unruffled. “Anytime you wish to have your payment for your efforts—
”
Bink decided he had better intercede, though he had considerable sympathy for the centaur’s position. He had not realized there would be so many problems in leadership! “We seem to be at our objective, the source of magic. But it has been too easy, and the villagers are too accommodating. Only you can tell us whether we have in fact completed our quest, or whether we have walked into a man-consuming trap. Surely this is the occasion to employ your magic, if you would be so generous.”
“Oh, all right,” Humfrey said ungraciously. “You don’t deserve it after the way you loosed Beauregard, I but I’ll take a look.”
The Magician drew out a mirror. “Mirror, mirror in my hand, are you the finest in the land?”
The mirror clouded, turning deep red. “Oh, stop blushing!” Humfrey snapped. “I was only testing.”
Bink remembered a mirror like this. It answered only in pictures, and somewhat circuitously; a too-direct question about a too-delicate matter could crack it up.
“Are you aware of the source of the magic of Xanth?” the Magician asked.
A picture of a baby appeared, smiling. That evidently meant “Yes.”
“Can you tell me the location of that source?” Aside to the others he murmured: ‘This is the crucial point. At home, the mirror never could reveal this information, but here with stronger magic—“
The baby smiled again. Humfrey echoed that smile, anticipating victory. “Will you tell me that location?”
Again the cherubic smile. Bink felt his pulse pounding. He realized the Magician was approaching the subject with extreme caution. The mirror took each question literally, and did not volunteer anything; this circuitous approach insured that the mirror would not be overwhelmed by too abrupt a challenge.
“Please show that location on your screen.” The mirror went dark.
“Oops,” Bink murmured. “Is it broken?” The mirror brightened. A crying baby appeared.
“It tells you no,” Humfrey snapped. “Kindly allow me to continue my investigation.” He returned to the mirror. “Are you showing me a scene of underground?”
The baby smiled.
“In short, you verify that the source of magic is not in this village we are presently sitting in?” A big question mark appeared. “You are saying the source of magic is in this village?” the Good Magician asked sharply.
The question mark returned. “Hm, a problem of resolution here,” Humfrey muttered. “The mirror can’t choose between truths. Anybody have another approach?”
“It’s a matter of perspective,” Chester said. “If the magic dust is the source, there may be more than one cache of it. More likely, a channel of it, welling up from the depths. Thus the source has a multiple definition, depending on whether you are thinking of the source on the surface, or the source of the source.”
“Now there is a creature with a disciplined mind,” Humfrey said approvingly. “If only he would discipline it more often instead of quarreling with the soldier.” He faced the mirror. “Is the centaur’s analysis correct?”
The baby smiled.
“Now,” the Magician continued. “Are you aware of the motivation of these villagers?” When he received the smile, he asked: “Do they mean well by us?” The smile confirmed it. Bink felt relief. “And Trolla spoke the truth about the curse of the siren?” Another smile.
Humfrey looked up. “Now it gets difficult,” he said, seeming pleased. Bink realized that this man, too, enjoyed a challenge. The magic ability the Good Magician had held in reserve was now being used, and it was good magic. “So far we have merely been confirming what we already knew. Now we must venture into the unknown.” He returned to the mirror. “Are you able to tell us how to deal with the villagers’ problem?”
The cherub smiled. “Unusually responsive,” Humfrey remarked, aside. “The local magic-enhancement is indeed multiplying the mirror’s power. We have a major research tool, now, rather than a minor one.” He returned once more to the mirror. “How—“
“Are you males ready?” Trolla inquired from the door.
They jumped. Bink was about to explain, then saw Humfrey’s quick negative nod. The mirror had disappeared. The Good Magician did not want to reveal the secret of his magic to these villagers. Not just yet
Well, they had gleaned a lot already, and could resume the use of the mirror when convenient “That’s a pretty dress,” Bink said to Trolla. This was no lie; the dress was very pretty, though she remained a female troll. Evidently a festive occasion was in the making. They followed her out
The center circle of the village had been transformed, nonmagically. A genuine wood bonfire blazed, sending sparks and smoke up to the sky. It was dusk, and the stars were beginning to show. It was as if the sparks went up into the sky to become those stars— and perhaps, Bink thought, the potent magic of this region made that so. The stars had to get up there somehow, didn’t they?
The females of the village were lovely in their party apparel. There were many more young ones than had been evident before, and now that their work shift was over they were eager and more than eager to mingle with the strange guests. Bink was surrounded by nymphs, sprites, and human maids, while Humfrey was mobbed by fairies, lady elves, and minionettes. Three fetching centaur fillies attended Chester. A pair of griffin cows eyed Crombie, but they hardly had a chance with this transformed woman-hater. They were, after all, animals. There was even female golem for Grundy.
Yet how sad the remaining females looked—the manticora, the sphinx, and the harpies. They had no males to cater to.
“Uh, girls—I’m a married man,” Bink protested as his covey pressed in.
“She will never know,” a buxom blue-maned lass informed him. “We need you more than she does.” And she planted a firm kiss on his left eye—the only part of him she could reach, because of the density of other girls.
“Yes, no man leaves this village, except at the call of the singing bitch,” a furry beauty added. “It is our duty to hold you here, to save your life. Wouldn’t your wife rather have you used than dead?”
Awkward question! How would Chameleon feel about that? In her lovely, stupid phase she would be hurt, confused, and forgiving; in her ugly, smart phase she would comprehend the situation and be realistic. So she would accept what had to be accepted, and certainly not want him to die. Still, he had no wish or intent to indulge himself with any of these—
Something distracted him. It was a faint, eerie, but somehow most intriguing sound.
He tried to listen, but the clamor of the girls almost drowned it out “Please, I want to hear—there is a melody—“
“It is the siren!” a fairy screamed. “Sing, girls, sing! Drown out the bitch!”
They sang, loudly, passionately, and tunelessly. Still, that insidious melody penetrated, the single clear theme cutting through the nearby cacophony, compelling Bink to respond. He started toward it.
Immediately the girls restrained him. They flung their arms about him, dragging him back and down, burying him in their exposed softness. Bink collapsed in a tangle of arms, legs, breasts, and assorted other aspects of distaff anatomy he didn’t bother to define.
The girls meant well—but the siren’s call was not to be denied. Bink fought, and caught glimpses of other thrashing mounds where his male companions fought similarly. Bink was stronger than any of the nymphs, for they were delicate, shapely things; he did not want to hurt any of them. Yet he had to free himself of their near-suffocating embrace. He heaved them off his body, cuffing their hands loose, shoving wherever his hands made contact. There were eeeks and cries and giggles, depending on the type of contact he made; then he was on his feet, charging forward.
Chester and Crombie and the Magician closed in about him, all riveted to that compelling sound.
“No, no!” Trolla cried despairingly behind them. “It is death you seek! Are you civilized males or are you mindless things?”
That bothered Bink, What did he want with a magical temptress? Yet still he could not resist the siren. Her lure had an unearthly quality that caught at the very root of his masculinity, beneath the center of his intelligence. He was male, therefore he responded.
“Let them go, they are lost,” Trolla said despairingly. “We tried, as we have always tried—and failed.”
Though he was in thrall to the siren, Bink felt simultaneous sympathy for Trolla and the girls. They offered life and love, yet were doomed to be rejected; their positive orientation could not compete with the negative compulsion of the siren. The villagers suffered as horrible a damnation as the men! Was it because they were nice girls, making only promises they could keep, while the siren had no such limit?
Crombie squawked. “As all females always fail,” Grundy translated, responding to Trolla’s despair. “Though why any of us should bother with this bitch-female call—“ The griffin shrugged his wings and charged on.
Did even the golem feel it? He must, for he was not protesting.
They ran down a path that opened magically before them. It was a perfect path, exactly the kind that usually led to something huge, predatory, and stationary, like a tangle tree. But of course this particular tangler would not attack them, because they were males in thrall to the siren. She would dispatch them, in her own fashion.
And what might that fashion be? Bink wondered. He could not quite imagine it, but the prospect was wrenchingly exciting. “What a way to go!” he breathed.
The tree came into sight. It was monstrous, even for its kind. Its dangling tentacles were as thick as the legs of a man, and extremely long and limber. Its tempting fragrance surrounded it like an evening gown, making it seem thoroughly desirable. Gentle music emanated from its foliage, no siren call, but nice: the kind of music that made a person want to lie down and listen and relax.
But no veteran of the wilderness of Xanth could be fooled for an instant. This was one of the most deadly life forms available. Even a dragon would not venture near a tangle tree!
The path passed right under it, where the curtain of tentacles parted neatly and the soft sward grew. But elsewhere around the fringe was a developing cone of bleaching bones, the remainders of the tree’s past victims. Shapely female bones, Bink suspected, and felt another twinge of guilt
Yet the siren still called, and they followed. They tunneled down to single file, for the path beneath the tree was narrow. Chester galloped first, then Crombie, for their forms were fastest; Bink and the Magician followed as well as they could. There had not been occasion to mount the steeds for faster travel. Chester paused under the awful tree, and the tentacles quivered with suppressed eagerness but did not grab. So it was true: the siren’s song nullified the tangle reflex! The distant music was stronger now, and more compelling: the very essence of female allure. The nymphs of the village had been pretty and sweet, but the siren’s promise was vital; it was as if the sex appeal of all womankind had been distilled and concentrated and—
Ahead of Bink, the griffin suddenly halted. “Squawk!” Crombie exclaimed. “What am I doing here?” the golem translated, coming up behind, surprisingly fleet on his feet, considering his size. “The siren is nothing but a damned conniving female out for my blood!”
Literally true, but the others ignored him. Of course the siren was a conniving female, the ultimate one! What difference did that make? The call had to be honored!
The woman-hater, however, decided to be difficult. “She’s trying to trap me!” he squawked. “All women are traps! Death to them all!” And he pecked viciously at the nearest thing available—which happened to be the slender extremity of a tentacle.
In a small bird, such a peck would have been a nuisance. Crombie, however, was a griffin. His beak was sword-sharp, powerful as a vise, a weapon capable of severing a man’s leg at the ankle with a single bite. The tentacle, in this case, was the diameter of an ankle, and the chomp severed it cleanly. The separated end dropped to the ground, twitching and writhing like a headless green snake.
For a moment the whole tree froze in shock. No one took a bite out of a tangler! The truncated upper section of the tentacle welled dark ooze as it thrashed about as if looking for its extremity. The gentle background music soured.
“I think the truce has been broken,” Bink said. But he didn’t really care, for the song of the siren continued, drawing him on to better things. “Move on, Crombie; you’re blocking my way.”
But the soldier remained unreasonable. “Squawk! Squawk! Squawk!” he exclaimed, and before Grundy could translate, he nipped off another tentacle, then a third.
The tangle tree shuddered. Then, furious, it reacted. Its music became a deafening blare of outrage, and its tentacles grabbed for the griffin—and the centaur, man, and Magician.
“Now you’ve done it, birdbrain!” Chester screamed over the noise. He grabbed the first tentacle that touched him and wrung it between his two hands the way the ogre had wrung out the log. Tough as the tentacles were when grabbing, they had little resistance to cutting or compression, and this one was squished into uselessness in a moment
Suddenly the lure of the siren was drowned out by the rage of the tree, and they were in a fight for their lives. Bink drew his sword and slashed at the tentacles that swept toward him, cutting them off. Beside him Crombie pecked and scratched viciously, all four feet operating. Long cuts appeared in the tentacles he touched, and green goo welled out. But more tentacles kept coming in, from all sides, for this was the very center of the tree’s power.
Chester backed up to the trunk and operated his bow. He fired arrow after arrow through the thick upper reaches of the tentacles, paralyzing them. But—
“No, Chester!” Bink cried. “Get away from—” Too late. The tree’s huge maw opened in the trunk, the bark-lips lapping forward to engulf the centaur’s handsome posterior.
Bink leaped to help his friend. But a tentacle caught his ankle, tripping him. All he could do was yell: “Kick, Chester, kick!” Then he was buried in tentacles, as firm and rounded and pneumatic as the limbs of the village girls, but not nearly as nice. His sword arm was immobilized; all he could do was bite, ineffectively. That green goo tasted awful!
Chester kicked. The kick of a centaur was a potent thing. His head and shoulders went down, counterbalancing his rear, and all the power of his extraordinary body thrust through his two hind hooves. They connected inside the maw of the tree, against the wooden throat, and the ground shook with the double impact A few old bones were dislodged from the upper foliage to rattle down to the ground. But the wooden mouth held. Sap juices flowed, commencing the digestion of the centaur’s excellent flesh. Chester’s instinct would have been sound for any ordinary tree, using the inert trunk as protection for his valuable but vulnerable rear, but it was disaster here.
Chester kicked again, and again, violently. Even this predator-tree could not withstand much of this punishment. Normally its prey was unconscious or helpless by the time it reached the consumption stage, not awake and kicking. Slowly, reluctantly, the bark gave way, and the centaur dragged free. His once-beautiful flank was discolored by the saliva sap, and one hoof had been chipped by the force of its contact with the wood, but at least he was alive. Now he drew his sword and strode forward to help Bink, who was not-so-slowly suffocating in the embrace of the tentacles.
Meanwhile Magician Humfrey had problems of his own. He was trying to unstopper one of his little vials, but the tentacles were wrapping about him faster than the stopper was coming loose. The tree was overwhelming them all!
Crombie had clawed and bit his way to the fringe. Suddenly he broke out. “I’m free, you vegetable monster!” he squawked exultantly. “I’ll bet you’re another female, too!” He was really uncorking his worst insult! The golem had gotten aboard again, so was available for instant translation. “You can’t catch me!”
Indeed the tree could not, for it was rooted. Crombie spread his wings and flew up and away, escaping it.
Yet what of the others? As if enraged even further at the loss, the tree concentrated savagely on the remaining prey. Pythons of tentacles whipped about limbs and bodies, squeezing tight. Chester was trying to help Bink, but dared not slash too closely with his sword lest he slice some of Bink along with a tentacle. Bink, now closest to the trunk, found himself being dragged headfirst toward the dread orifice.
Humfrey finally got his bottle open. Smoke issued forth, expanding and coalescing into—a spiced cheesecake.
“Curses!” the Magician cried. “Wrong vial!”
Chester kicked at the cheesecake. It slid across the turf and into the slavering maw of the tree. The bark-lips closed about it. He could hardly have made a nicer shot had he been trying for it.
The tree choked. There was a paroxysm of wooden coughing, followed by a sylvan sneeze. Gross hunks of cheese flew out of the orifice.
“The spice on that one is a bit strong,” Humfrey muttered as he scrambled for another vial.
Now Bink’s head was at the maw. The bark was writhing, trying to get the taste of spiced cheese out. This monster liked fresh meat, not processed dairy products. Sap coursed down and dripped from tooth-like knots, cleaning out the maw. In a moment it would be ready for Bink.
Chester was still trying to help, but three tentacles had wrapped around his sword arm, and more looped his other extremities. Even his great strength could not avail against the massed might of the tree. “And the cowardly soldier ran out on us!” he grunted as he fought. “If I ever get my hands on him—“ He wrung out another tentacle before his free arm was pinioned.
Humfrey got another vial open. The vapor emerged —and formed into a flying vampire bat. The creature took one look at its environs, squeaked in terror, swore off blood, and flapped away. A single tentacle took one casual swing at it and knocked it out of the air. The tree was really getting on top of the situation.
The last of the cheese cleared. The orifice reopened for business, and Bink was the client. He saw the rows of ingrown knots that served as the monster’s teeth, and the flowing saliva sap. Fibers like miniature tentacles extended inward from the mouth-walls, ready to absorb the juices of the prey. Suddenly he realized: the tangler was related to the carnivorous grass that grew in patches in the wilderness! Add a trunk and tentacles to such a patch—
Humfrey got another vial open. This time a basilisk formed, flapping its little wings as it glared balefully about. Bink closed his eyes to avoid its direct gaze, and Chester did the same. The tree shivered and tried to draw away. There was no creature in all the Land of Xanth who cared to meet the gaze of this little lizard-cock!
Bink heard the flapping as the basilisk flew right into the tangler’s mouth—and stopped. But nothing happened. Cautiously Bink opened one eye. The tree was still alive. The basilisk had not destroyed it at a glance.
“Oh—a mock basilisk,” Bink said, disappointed.
“I have a good remedy for tanglers somewhere,” Humfrey insisted, still sifting through his vials. Whenever a tentacle encroached too closely he stunned it with a magic gesture. Bink had not known such gestures existed—but of course he was not a Magician of Information. “They’re all mixed up—“
The tentacles shoved Bink into the mouth. The odor of carrion became strong. Helpless, he stared into his doom.
“Squawk!” sounded from beyond the tree. “Charge!”
Crombie had returned! But what could he do, alone?
Now there was a sound as of the rush of many feet The tangle tree shuddered. The odor of smoke and scorching vegetation drifted in. Bink saw, from the corner of his eye, orange light flaring up, as if a forest fire raged.
Torches! Crombie had marshaled the females of the magic-dust village, and they were attacking the tree with blazing brands, singeing the tentacles. What a brave effort!
Now the tangler had to defend itself from attack by a superior force. It dropped Bink, freeing its tentacles for other action. Bink saw a pretty nymph get grabbed, and heard her scream as she was hauled into the air, her torch dropping.
“Squawk! Squawk!” Crombie directed, and other females rushed to the captive’s rescue, forming a screen of flame. More tentacles got scorched, and the nymph dropped.
Bink recovered his sword and resumed hacking, from inside the curtain of tentacles. Now that the tree was concentrating on the outside menace, it was vulnerable to the inside one. With every stroke Bink lopped off another green branch, gradually denuding the tree of its deadly limbs.
“Squawk!” Crombie cried.
“Get outside!” the golem translated.
That made sense. If the tree should refocus on the interior, Bink, Chester, and Humfrey would be in trouble again. Better to get out while they could!
In a moment they stood beside the griffin.
“Squawk!” Crombie exclaimed.
“Let’s finish off this monster!” Grundy cried for him.
The ladies went to it with a will. There were about fifty of them, ringing the tree, pushing in with their fires, scorching back every tentacle that attacked. They could have conquered the tree anytime, instead of letting it balk them all these years—had they had the masculine drive and command. Ironic that Crombie the woman-hater should be the organizing catalyst!
Yet perhaps this was fitting. Crombie’s paranoia about the motives of women had caused him to resist the siren, finally breaking her spell. Now he was using these females in the manner a soldier understood: as fodder for a battle. They might not have responded as well to a “nicer” man. Maybe they needed one who held them in contempt, who was willing to brutalize them for his purpose.
The tree was shriveling, half its awful limbs amputated or paralyzed. It would take time to kill it, but the victory now seemed certain. Thanks to Crombie, and the brave, self-sacrificing villagers.
“You know, I could get to respect women like these,” Crombie murmured as he paused from his exertions to watch the wrap-up proceed. Actually it was squawk-and-translation, but Bink was so used to it now that it made little difference. “They obey orders well, and fight damn near as well as a man, allowing for—“ He paused in mid-squawk, listening.
Then Bink heard the siren’s call again, no longer drowned out by the battle. Oh, no! He tried to resist it —and could not. The siren had recovered her thrall.
Bink started walking toward that sound. His companions joined him, silently. The villagers, intent on their successful campaign, did not see them depart.