Being a Green Mother (30 page)

Perspective? No, it was literal; the size of the ridge really did change with its location; only the convention of her prior experience had made it seem to be even.

Then she saw something moving. It seemed to be a spindle or double cone, rolling along the ridge. But as it moved toward her, it expanded in diameter and evidently in mass, for the ridge was vibrating increasingly. It came toward her, gathering velocity.

She remembered her geometry classes, where much effort had been expended in the analysis of conic sections. One formula defined a slice of the cone, with the size and shape of the slice determined by the parameters of the equation. Some sections were perfect circles, others were ovals, and others looped through on the inside but never closed on the outside. If a knife were taken to a physical cone, so that it sliced through the cone at different angles, these were the shapes it could make.

Now, it seemed, she had encountered the original cone. Size was one of its variables; as it changed its location, it expanded to fill the universe as it existed at that site. That meant that there was no room left for Orb; she was an intruder on its space. What would happen when it reached the spot where she stood?

The thing was coming at her with logarithmic acceleration. She was about to find out! Growing rapidly enormous, it rolled upon her. She would be crushed!

She sang again, the start of the Song of the Morning. The fabric of the ridge and double cone tore and curled, exposing the reality beyond.

It was green. A thought gave her momentary hope: the Green Mother, Nature—could she be here? But it faded.

This was a forest, with huge, quiet trees. Moss and ferns
grew up their dusky trunks. Vines descended from their branches. Thick foliage grew at their bases.

But it was poison foliage. The surfaces of the leaves glistened with exudation. Orb knew it would be disaster for her to allow that to touch any part of her.

Yet the foliage grew all around. She could not take a step without encountering it. As she watched, it extended visibly, the branches closing in.

This was not the reality she desired! She sang again, and it tore across as the others had, peeling back to reveal what lay beyond.

It was a city, with many tall buildings. Highways cut through it, separating the sections, and walks crisscrossed, reuniting the sections. She was standing in the center of a broad street.

A truck came down that street, its tires squealing. It bore down on her. She ran to the side, but the truck corrected its course to intercept her. Now she knew that she was no detached spectator; these settings were trying to eradicate her!

She sang again, and the street curled up, more paper, taking the truck with it. The new reality was revealed below.

This was a plush chamber, evidently an ornate boudoir, with a huge round bed piled with pillows.

In fact, she was in the bed, clad in a sheer nightrobe, the type calculated to drive any man who saw any women in it to a madness of lust.

A door burst open, and a man entered. No, not a man—he had goat’s horns and goat’s feet and a caprine beard. His body was furry, his ears were pointed, and his nose projected into a snout. He had one other attribute that was both obvious and shocking. He was a satyr—the original creature of lust.

The satyr’s blazing eye fell on her. He gave a bleat of anticipation and leaped toward her, his salient characteristic leading. There could be absolutely no question of his intent; it was manifest in his nature and his action.

Orb whammed him in the snoot with a pillow. She rolled off the bed and fled across the floor toward the door. But as she reached it, it closed, merging seamlessly with the wall. She scraped her fingernails across it, trying to gain purchase, but there was nothing.

The satyr made a grunt of urgency and leaped again. He
was incredibly agile. Orb dodged to the side, but one hooflike hand caught her robe. The material stretched like hot cheese but did not tear; in a moment he was hauling her in, hand over hand, the material molding itself to her backside while it stretched out in a tent before her, bringing her forward in a state worse than nakedness.

She raised a foot to push him away, but he caught her leg and hauled on it, his hoof-fingers hot on her flesh. Drool spilled from his mouth as he brought that salient characteristic into position.

Orb finally remembered her only weapon here, her voice. She sang, and the fabric of the setting tore and curled, the satyr’s expression of lust converting to rage as he saw her escaping him.

How had she gotten into this? Could she really have found herself raped by a vision conjured by a modification in the Llano?

Now she stood near the peak of a snowy mountain, the wind cutting cruelly. She still wore the sheer material of the robe; it bagged in front, clung behind, and offered no protection at all from the wind. Already her bare feet were slipping on the icy slope, causing her to lurch toward a clifflike descent.

She sang, and the scene tore away. Now she was in deep night, with stars in their myriads surrounding her. In fact she seemed to be in space, for the stars were in every direction. One was larger than the others, closer, hotter; it drew on her body, hauling her in to itself. Its sphere seemed to expand enormously, its fires reaching out like tentacles. Her gown burst into flame.

She sang—and the scene tore. She stood naked at a shell-covered beach, the waves of a restless ocean surging against it. One wave developed far out, hunching itself into greater mass, looming high and savage as it crashed toward her. She turned and ran from it—but the beach was a narrow island, with no high ground at all, no protection. The wave loomed over her, a white crest broadening at its fringe as its devastating descent commenced.

She sang, and the white crest became a tear. The wave was paper, disintegrating as the tear spread.

She was in a great, dimly illuminated cave, with stalactites extending from the ceiling in toothlike points. All the hues
of precious onyx shone from them; lovely swirls and patterns manifested in the dripping stone.

This setting, at least, seemed to offer no immediate threat. Orb cast about for some natural exit, knowing that if she sang again, the scene would tear and thrust her into a new one that might be worse. She had to find some better way out!

She remained naked. It seemed that whatever she lost on one setting remained in that setting; she could not recover it in the next. But perhaps she could find new clothing here and keep it with her.

She walked between the stalactites, finding a path through the cave. The light was brighter downslope; maybe that was the exit to the surface.

It turned out to be the light of a fire. Creatures squatted beside it. She walked toward them, glad for this sign of civilization. “Do you have—?” she began.

The creatures looked up, then leaped up. They were demons, huge and shaggy!

Orb opened her mouth to sing, but paused. The demons seemed afraid rather than aggressive. One of their number remained down, evidently wounded or ill.

“I will—trade you,” Orb said, poised to sing herself into another setting if attacked. “Some clothing—for some healing. Do you understand?”

The demons watched noncommittally.

“I—I know a demon,” Orb continued. “A succubus. Once I helped her overcome her curse. I think if I sang a regular song—it might help your friend.”

Still they stood. They did not seem to comprehend her words. But as long as they did not attack …

She moved slowly toward the sick one. What could she sing that was not the Llano and that might help? Did the song matter, as long as her intent was to help? Why not use one of her old favorites, then?

She did not have her harp with her, but the magic came, and it touched the sick demon. The demon stirred, and a
light seemed to play about it. It lifted one arm, its paw hesitating in the air.

Orb reached out and caught the paw. With direct physical contact, the channel of magic intensified. She felt the illness in the creature, but already the malaise was retreating before the healing she was making. By the time the song was done, the creature was much improved.

She let go its paw. “I think the tide has turned,” she said. “It may take a few days yet.”

One of the standing demons moved. It tramped to a pile of furs in an alcove. It lifted one and held it out.

They had understood! Gratefully, Orb took the fur. She draped it about her shoulders. It was heavy but warm, reaching down to her knees. It would do.

“Thank you,” she said. “Do you know a way out? A way to reach my kind?”

They shrugged. Then there was a rumble. The floor shook, and a stalactite fell. It was a cave-in!

Orb started to sing the Llano, but paused again. She could escape—but what would happen to these demons if she did? Would they be crushed in the fall of rock? Some threat always manifested when she came into a scene; if she had brought this destruction with her, she was responsible.

She could not risk it. “Touch me!” she cried. “Make a chain!” She grabbed at the paw of the ill one and reached for one of the standing ones. “Everyone must touch!”

Confused, they linked paws, as the shaking of the cave increased. Orb sang the Song of the Morning again, and the setting tore apart. A new setting was revealed behind it—and she and the demons were in it, standing on a cloud.

Their cloud was floating above a tranquil landscape of crosshatched fields and trees. But the land was far below, and there seemed to be no safe way down. Meanwhile, their feet were sinking into the stuff of the cloud: it would not support them long.

“Must try again,” Orb said, linking hands. She sang, and once again the fabric tore.

They were in what seemed to be giant intestines. Fluids pulsed through the flexing walls, and substances oozed. Thick fluid coursed along the base. Some of it touched the foot of one demon, and the creature jerked its foot away. Digestive acid, evidently!

Orb linked and sang again. The intestines tore. They emerged into a landscape of garbage.

Cans, banana peels, coffee grounds, automobile bumpers, and soiled sheets formed a mountain of refuse. The smell was terrible. Even the demons shied away from it.

Orb grabbed their paws and sang again. The garbage tore, and a new scene started to form—but this time she did not stop singing. She knew she had to break the endless cycle of settings somehow; perhaps this would do it.

The new setting tore even as it formed, and the one after that. Now they were in a mixture of settings, as parts of partly formed scenes overlapped other parts. It was like the pages of a picture book being flipped; by the time one scene could be glimpsed, it was gone.

Then Orb saw a castle. She stopped singing, trying to catch that scene, and succeeded. They stood in a lush garden replete with statuary, and ahead was a large stone castle. “Maybe we can get help here,” she said. The demons, bemused, shrugged and shuffled after her as she marched toward the castle.

They came across three people near the back entrance. Two women and a man had evidently been relaxing on a stone patio. Both women were supremely beautiful, and the man—

Orb made a little scream of astonishment. “Mym!” she cried.

“Orb!” he replied. He rose gracefully to his feet and, in a moment, was embracing her. “How did you come here?”

“That’s a complicated story,” she said. “Just where are we?”

“In Purgatory. Didn’t you know?” Then he stiffened. “Don’t tell me you’re dead!”

“Dead? Why should I be dead?”

“Very few living folk come here.”

Then she absorbed what he had said. “This is Purgatory? Where the dead get sorted? What are
you
doing here?”

He gestured to the demons to make themselves comfortable, then led her to a chair. “I live here, now. I am Mars.”

“Mars?” she repeated blankly.

“The Incarnation of War. I assumed the office, after—oh, we have much to catch up on!”

“I should think so.” she agreed. “Perhaps you should introduce me to your friends.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” he said. “But first I must explain that—” He spread his hands, looking embarrassed.

“That our romance is over,’ Orb said. “Of course.” Then she did a double-take. “You aren’t stuttering or singing!”

“The Green Mother took my stutter,” he said. “We—Incarnations do things for each other.” He turned to the beautiful fair young woman. “This is Ligeia, my beloved. She is a dead princess; I met her in Hell.” He smiled, realizing how that sounded. “Li, this is Orb, my first love.”

Ligeia extended her hand. “He has told me much about you,” she said graciously.

“And this is Lila, my mistress,” Mym said, turning to the dusky woman. “She is a demoness, who can assume any form.”

Lila extended her hand. “I can see why he loved you,” she said huskily.

Orb’s mouth worked twice before she connected it to her voice. “A demon mistress? Do I misunderstand?”

Ligeia laughed. “A prince can not be satisfied by a single woman,” she explained. “He is best off with a harem. Since Lila can assume any form, she serves in lieu of a harem. But only when I am indisposed.”

“You have been indisposed rather often, Li,” the demoness remarked. “Do you think I don’t realize that you are releasing him to me when you don’t have to?”

“It becomes a princess to be generous, Li,” the dead woman replied. “It is also known that no decent woman can match the performance of a damned creature.” Both smiled; evidently no insult was intended.

“In my day, it seemed that one was enough,” Orb said, deciding to take this lightly.

“After you, no single woman sufficed,” Ligeia said.

“You know I didn’t leave you voluntarily,” Mym said. “I was kept under palace arrest until I agreed to spend a month with the princess selected for a political marriage. She was Rapture of Malachite, and she was no better pleased with the notion than I was.”

“I saw a picture,” Orb said. “Evidently you worked it out.”

“I did not want to love her, but I did,” Mym admitted.
“Then I became Mars and brought her with me, but this existence wasn’t right for her, and she left me. Now I love Ligeia. It is no affront to you, Orb. Had things been otherwise—”