Out of Phaze (13 page)

‘Then won’t the demons grab you?” she asked, alarmed.

“Me? Hardly! I would float them into the river. But Mach won’t know magic; it takes years to learn to do it properly, and only a few even have the talent. He may not.”

“Then I suppose we had better walk,” she said.

“Will help come for thee, if thou dost ask for it in the vehicle? Thou couldst wait there, out of danger, while I go on.”

“The cracking of the canopy would have caused an automatic distress signal to be launched,” she said. ‘They will be on the way already.”

‘Then I’ll get caught!” he said. “I must get going!”

“I will come with you,” she said. “There may still be some assistance I can lend.”

Bane doubted this, but liked her company, so he agreed. At the same time he felt guilty, because he had made her a promise he was unable to keep. She was likely to pay heavily for her involvement with him. He wished again that he didn’t have to leave her.

They walked, skirting the network of cracks, still homing in on the other self. Bane now judged it to be in the region of the crater; evidently Mach had taken the wrong path, but somehow made it through the swamp to relative safety. But there was no way out of the crater except back through the swamp, and if he tried that path again, the monsters would be twice as ferocious as before. Bane had to intercept him and make the exchange before Mach started moving again.

Something glittered in the air. “Oh, no,” Bane said. “A night dragon!”

“Or a flying machine,” Agape said. “I fear they have discovered us.”

“We must hide!”

“We cannot; it is my suit and the metal in your body they orient on. Oh, Bane, I am sorry you were not able to complete your quest.”

Bane took her suited form in his arms, unspeaking He discovered that he was not as sorry as he thought he should have been. They waited for the flying machine to capture them.

Evidently the news had spread among monsters that Mach was a creature to be reckoned with, for no others threatened them on the path through the swamp. They returned to the glade where he had left the clothes, but the clothes were gone. ‘The pigheads,” Fleta muttered. “They root for aught not held by spell.”

So he would have to continue with his makeshift outfit. Mach shrugged. After the amount of effort he had put into it, he might as well use it!

“Now this path bears south,” Fleta said, indicating the one he had left before. “But it leads to the Herd Demesnes, and once in that open country, we can trek north as far as the Lattice.” She glanced sidelong at him. “Mayhap we can get a unicorn to carry thee.”

“I’ve already been carried by a unicorn!” Mach exclaimed. “Look where it got me!”

“Aye, then shall we walk,” she said, somewhat wearily. “Never fear, we shall see thee safely to the Blue Demesnes.”

They walked the path. It was pleasant enough, now that they were clear of the swamp. The great trees leaned over to spread their shade graciously, and the ferns seemed to keep the ground clean.

Fleta paused to sniff the air in the fashion of an animal. “Methinks I smell aught foul,” she remarked. “Best we not pause.”

The path followed a ridge, then curved to the east and dropped down to a stream. Mach was ready to wade through, but Fleta held him back. “Not this one; there be poison in it. We must touch not the water.”

“But it is too broad to jump over,” he said.

“There be a ladder of rope. We merely pull it across and tie it in place.” She pointed, and there across the stream was a thick coil of ropes.

“How do we pull it, without first crossing?”

“There be a string.” She reached up near a branch, her fingers questing for it. Then she stamped her foot with sudden anger. “It be not here!”

There was a raucous cackle from the bushes at the far side. “Thou dost bet it be not there, nymph!” a voice cried.

“Methought I winded garbage!” Fleta snapped.

“Smile when you say that, cutie-pie!” the other responded. “Thou’rt in Harpy Demesnes!” And the speakerl came into view: a gross, filthy creature, with a woman’s head and bosom, and a vulture’s wings and tail and legs. The odor became stronger.

“And thou’rt in ‘corn Demesnes!” Fleta retorted. “Didst mess with the ladder? Thou knowest that is not to be, by the pact ‘tween species!”

“What dost the like of thee know of any pact?” the harpy demanded. “Dost think canst trot thy stud past Harpy Demesnes w’ impunity? Stay, filly, an we’ll goose thee across in our own fashion, after our sport with the other.”

“What sport?” Mach asked, not liking the harpy’s attitude.

“Their kind be e’er shy of males,” Fleta muttered. “I’ll say no more.”

“Well, I’ll say more!” the harpy screeched. “First we’ll strip the leaves off thee, my fine morsel, then we’ll hold thee down while our choicest hen has at thy—“

But Mach had grasped enough of the picture by this time. He hurled his axe at the obnoxious body. The harpy spread her wings and sailed upward with a desperate screech, barely in time; the axe knocked loose several greasy tailfeathers.

“Wait and see, stupid man!” she screamed, gaining altitude. “Dost not know thou’rt already the plaything o’ an animal? We’ll show thee some real piny, an I bring my siblings back in a moment!”

Furious, Mach hurled a stone at her, but the creature was already flapping her way between the trees to the west.

He turned to speak to Fleta, and paused with dismay. She was gone.

Astounded, he cast about. She couldn’t have returned along the path, for he had been on it and she hadn’t passed him. She couldn’t have hurdled the stream; she was too small. She must have gone into the bushes along the bank of the stream, searching for some other way across. But so quickly and silently; he had never seen her go!

What had that harpy said about Harpy Demesnes? Mach suddenly made a connection. He had lived in Hardom, a city named, it was claimed, after the mythical harpies of Phaze. All the cities of Proton had similar designations: the first three letters of some creature, and the appendage “dom” for dome. He had taken it to be an innocent affectation. Now, abruptly, he realized that it could be more than that. There really were harpies, every bit as ugly as described in the myth, and apparently this was their region. Thus, perhaps, the geography of Proton did correspond with that of Phaze, to this extent. There could be a great number of the filthy birds in the vicinity!

Then he heard a humming. He looked, and there was a bright little hummingbird, hovering over the path.

Then it darted across the stream, touched the coil rope ladder, and took hold of a thread there. It carried this thread back across the stream, right to Mach himself.

Amazed, he lifted his hand and took hold of the thread. The tiny bird let go and darted away, its errand done.

Mach pulled on the thread, and it became a string, and then a stout cord that finally enabled him to haul the uncoiling ladder across. He tied its two loose ends to the broad branch, making sure it was firm.

Now he needed to find Fleta, because he certainly was not going to leave her to the mercy of the harpies. Where had she gone?

He peered into the bushes. “Fleta?”

“Yes, Mach?” she said right behind him.

He jumped. “Where were you? I was afraid—“

She shrugged. “A girl needs some privacy sometimes.”

“She does?”

She laughed. “Wait till thou dost have to do it! I’ll stand and watch.”

“Do what?”

‘They don’t have to do it in thy frame?”

“Don’t have to do what?”

“Defecate.”

“Of course they defecate! Why do you ask?”

Her mirth became genuine curiosity. “But thou dos not?”

“I’m a robot.”

“Thou seemst much like a man to me. What be a rovot?”

“Robot, not rovot. A—“ He paused with belated realization. “Defecation! You mean you had to—“

Her amusement returned. “I had not dreamed it such a well-kept secret! All those who eat must cast their leavings, e’en young females.”

Now he found his face burning again. “I did not—“

‘Truly, thou’rt not the one I knew!” she said merrily. “He ne’er had such confusion!”

“Well, he had functions I don’t.” But as he spoke, Mach realized it wasn’t true. He was in the living body now. In the night he had had to urinate, and now he felt an increasing abdominal discomfort. He realized that it had been building up for some time, but because he had no prior experience with digestion, he had dismissed it. He had been lucky that he had understood the process of urination; he could have become quite uncomfortable otherwise.

Fleta shook her head with a certain understandable perplexity, then brushed it aside. “Come, we must cross before the dirty birds return.”

“Yes, indeed!” he agreed.

She showed him how to navigate the ladder. She climbed nimbly on it, then crossed over the river by using her hands and feet in the rope rungs. He followed, quickly adjusting to its give and sway, and scampered to the other end. He found his fallen axe and picked it up.

“Now must roll it again,” she said.

“But I tied it on the other side!” he said.

She smiled, and untied it on the near side. As the second rope was freed, the ladder rolled itself up, as though guided by invisible hands along an invisible floor, and finished in one tight coil against the far tree. Only a thin thread remained behind, anchored to the rear tree. It was ready for the next user.

“Close thy mouth, Mach,” Fleta said. “Else folk might think thou hast ne’er seen magic before.”

Mach closed his mouth. They faced down the path. “Uh, if we can wait a moment,” he said.

“Wait? Whatever for?” she asked brightly.

His intestine was becoming quite urgent now. ‘The— privacy—“

“Rovots need no privacy,” she reminded him.

‘That’s changed. Why don’t you go on ahead, and I will rejoin you in a moment.”

“Oh, no, I must keep thee company, else thou dost get edgy.”

He thought he was about to burst, and not from emotion. “I can spare your company for this moment.”
      
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“Well. . .” She took a step down the path, and he started to take one toward the bushes.

Then she turned back. “No, I really must not leave thee unattended, Mach. This wood be not familiar to thee. Who knows what mess thou mightst get into, if—“
       

“Go!” he cried.
  

Suppressing a smirk, she resumed her progress down the path. The minx had known all along!

He plunged into the bushes, heedless of scratches. He found a halfway suitable place and set about n moving the necessary portion of his clothing. But he had harnessed it about him so effectively that this was difficult; it didn’t want to come off. He had to wrench out his waist-vine, and then the leaves of his costume fluttered down, loose.

He squatted and let living nature take its course. Then he remembered that the living people of Proton clean themselves after this act, so that no soiling or odor would occur. They used special paper for this purpose, or sonic mechanism. He had neither here.

He cast about, seeking some substitute. Nothing seemed to offer. He didn’t want to use any of the cloth of his costume.

He heard a heavy flapping. The harpy loomed. H tried to duck down out of sight, but she spied him. “Ho what have we here? The bare essence!” she screeched

“Get out!” he exclaimed, embarrassed.

“Hey, girls, we’ve found him!” she screamed. “I spotted him by the stench!” She laughed with a cackling sound.

Now there was a whole flock of them, flapping in to see. Mach realized that he had indeed gotten into a mess. Those dirty birds were after more than laughter; their narrow eyes gleamed and their talons convulsed and drool dripped from their open mouths.

He realized that he couldn’t escape them by running.

His clothing was falling apart, and the bushes hampered him, and they were airborne and numerous. They would have him in a moment.

He lifted his axe, but they hovered just beyond its range, screaming imprecations. He could throw it, but then he would be without a weapon.

“Fresh meat!” a harpy screeched, diving down from behind. He whirled and swung the axe, but she sheered off.

Another dived from behind, and a third. Whichever way he faced, there were several behind him, ready to attack.

Mach lunged to a tree, setting his back against it. Now he could defend himself better. But he couldn’t get away, and when his arm tired—

In the distance was the sound of hoofbeats. There was music, too: the melody of panpipes.

“Oh, damn!” a harpy cried.

The beat and music got louder as the source approached rapidly. The ground shook with the hoof-strikes. The pipes played a militaristic air. The harpies scrambled up through the air, shedding feathers in their rush.

The unicorn appeared, charging through the brush. Her horn speared at the last harpy, but the bird was already out of reach. “There’ll be another time, ‘corn!” she screeched.