The Dastard (29 page)

“That was fun,” Melody said.

“Fun! It was awful! And you didn't like it before.”

“I changed my feminine mind. Anyway, next time will be something else. Let's do it again.” She headed for the dreaded door.

“No!” he cried, chasing after her. But she got there first, and pushed it open.

The Random Factor was there. It raised its arm to them. Things changed.

They were standing on a grassy slope. The sky was blue with a few pleasant white puffy clouds. In the distance were green trees, and beyond them gray mountains. It was a lovely scene, but completely unfamiliar.

“Where are we?” the Dastard asked.

“How the bleep should I know?”

The air near her shimmered, recoiling from the bad word. “Please don't use such language,” he asked her politely.

She sneered. “Why the >>>> not?” Now the grass around her wilted.

The Dastard breathed deeply, feeling his ears wilt too. But he did his best to remain calm, knowing that she was baiting him. “It's unprincessly, and it's bad for the environment.”

“Since when do you care about such things?” she demanded.

He realized with surprise that his attitude in this respect had suffered a profound change. “Since I got your sweet soul,” he replied.

She stared at him for half a moment. “And it makes you decent, you poor slob,” she said indecently. “What a laugh.”

“It does make me decent,” he agreed, realizing the truth of it. “Now I care about right and wrong, and about propriety. Please do not distress me and this nice region by speaking intemperately.”

“Oh, stuff it up your bottom!” she snapped. “I'll speak any way I ???? want.”

This time the grass around her not only wilted, it withered, browned, and burned. The earth below shrank and caved in, leaving a smoking crater. She shrieked as she lost her footing, flapping her arms as if about to fly.

And she did fly. She rose above the crater, her delicate feet just clearing it. She moved away from it to firm, cool ground, and landed.

Then she turned and looked back. “What just happened?”

“You flew,” he said, amazed. “I thought you had lost your singing magic.”

“I did, lout. You have it now--or does your tiny dim mind not remember three moments back?”

She certainly was not very endearing without her soul. Had he really been like that, for four years? He was coming to appreciate how he had annoyed her. “I really don't know how to use your talent well,” he said apologetically.

“So how the bleep did I fly?” she demanded. “I couldn't have just raised my arms and done it, you know, without my magic.”

She had a point. “Maybe the rules of this region are different,” he said. “Let me see if I can do it too.” He spread his arms and flapped them up and down, birdlike.

And rose into the air. A little. His flight was awkward and unsteady, and in a moment he had to touch down lest he crash, but he definitely flew.

“Oh, sure,” she said witheringly. “You used my magic, clumsily.”

“No I didn't. I just flapped my arms, and I flew. Just as you did.”

“Oh, sure.” But she didn't argue the case further. Instead she spread her arms again, and flapped, and rose a little. “Say, this is fun, in its fashion. Well, I'll be going now. You stay here, ilk.” She made her way slowly across the meadow, her dainty feet just clearing the tall grass.

“No, I'm staying with you. Melody, we have to trade souls back. It's not right that I have yours.” He ran after her.

“Oh, fuddy-duddy! I'm doing great without it. I want to go make something unhappen.”

“No! That's a bad talent. You must not use it.”

She peered down at him. “Why the **** not, 'Tard?”

Somehow that version of his name was not as sweet as “Das.” In fact the very air had a singed odor from her repeated invective. “It's dangerous! You could do someone harm.”

“Soo?” she inquired derisively.

She had no conscience: She didn't care about harm to others. So he tried another angle. “That talent is tricky, and it can't be undone. I mean, when something is unhappened, it can't be happened again. So you have to be careful. I always took time to study a situation, to be sure the details were straight. It took me years to get proficient at it. You're bound to get in trouble if you go at it without experience.”

“Oh, pooh! You just don't want me to have any fun.” She flapped her arms harder, and rose a little higher. “Now go somewhere else; I'm tired of you.”

“No, I'm staying with you until we get this straight. For one thing, we have no idea where we are. There might be danger.”

“Double pooh! I'll fly away from it.” She flapped harder yet, achieving a bit more elevation.

“I'll stop you!” he cried, running after her.

But she was the one who stopped him. She did a little somersault in the air, so that her skirt flared up, and flashed him with her green panties. Stunned, he fell on his back, little moons, planets, and stars swarming around his head. Now that he had a nice soul, he was far more vulnerable to such naughtiness.

He fought for control. He blinked until the mind-boggling green image faded. He reached up and carefully cleared away the planets with his hand. Then he climbed unsteadily to his feet and looked around. Melody was flying toward the nearby forest. He would have to hurry to catch her; once she got into the trees, she could hopelessly lose herself.

Then he heard something chilling. It was a distant baying, as of a werewolf scenting prey. Werewolves could be all right, when encountered socially, but it was another matter when a person was at the wrong end of a hunt.

“Melody!” he called. “There may be trouble!”

“Sure there will be, if you don't stop bugging me,” she called back.

The baying was rapidly coming closer. He did not like the sound of this at all. He ran to catch up with her, as he could move faster on the ground than in the air. He heard the baying closing in behind him, getting louder and uglier. He definitely did not like this.

He caught up to Melody. “Get higher!” he cried.

“Oh, po--” she started. Then she heard the baying. “What's that?”

“I fear it's a werewolf pack on the hunt.”

That she understood. “Oopsy!” She flapped her arms harder, and rose a little, but probably not enough.

The Dastard looked back. Now they burst into sight: several toothy wolves, gaining rapidly. They were big ones, capable of doing a man--or a woman--real harm.

There was no ready escape. The slope was smooth, without trees. The wolves would be able to run them down, anywhere they went. Except the air. “Get higher!” he repeated desperately, and flapped his own arms.

They rose, but the wolf pack closed in on them. The first wolf snapped at the Dastard's foot; he yanked it up out of the way just barely in time, so that the teeth snapped on air with a nasty clash of sparks. Others went for Melody.

She screamed. She might have no conscience, but she was well aware of her selfinterest, and it did not include getting chomped by wolves. She flapped as hard as she could, but remained barely above the questing noses. Then a wolf leaped, barely missing her. The two of them were not high enough.

“The slope!” the Dastard cried. “Go down the slope, but keep your elevation!”

They did that. The ground descended, but they did not, so they gained a bit of relative elevation. But the wolves were leaping higher, and snapping at bodies when at the tops of their leaps; only the unsteadiness of their efforts caused them to miss, and that would not last long. It was a wonder that teeth had not yet closed on flesh.

The slope angled farther. Now at last they were able to gain enough height to be out of reach of the wolves. The Dastard breathed a sigh of relief as the wolves fell back, unable to pursue farther.

Melody screamed. The Dastard looked ahead. There were large winged figures on the horizon, coming in fast. Big birds--or worse.

In under two moments the nature of the new threat was evident. “Harpies!” the Dastard said with a shudder.

“Harpies,” the princess echoed, with a similar shudder. They could not escape these through the air, but they didn't dare drop to the ground, because the wolves were still there.

“Make for the forest,” he said. “Maybe we can hide there.”

There was an arm of the forest within range farther down the slope. They angled for it, gaining speed by diving. But the harpies saw what they were doing, and angled to intercept them. A line of the dirty creatures formed between them and the trees.

“What have we here?” a harpy screeched. All harpies screeched; it was their natural voice.

“A lovely princess!” another harpy screeched. “With long green hair and green dress.”

“A nondescript young man,” another screeched. “Oh, we can have fun with him, once we get his pants off.” The Dastard's princely robe seemed to have degenerated into garden variety trousers; he wasn't sure when that had happened.

“Stay away from me, you bleeping dirty birds!” Melody cried.

“She swears!” a harpy cried.

“We can do that!” another screeched.

Then there followed a barrage of bad words, such that Melody's hair was blown back from her head, and the Dastard's skin felt the heat as from a burning garbage dump. He and the princess tumbled out of control.

But the harpies dived after them, and caught them. Dirty talons pierced their clothing. “Rip! Tear! Strip! Wear!” they chanted, catching and pulling at clothing. Indeed, the material did rip and tear in strips. But what did “wear” mean?

Soon their outer clothing was gone. The Dastard caught a glimpse of Melody's underwear and freaked out again. But then that too was stripped, and the freak-out effect diminished. Now she looked more like a nymph.

“Touch her B, touch her A!” the harpies screeched. “Oh what a feel we'll have today!”

The princess screamed, but that only whetted their foul fowl appetites. “Hold her head, spread her legs; we're going to make her lay some eggs!”

“Help me!” Melody screamed hysterically.

“Leave her alone,” the Dastard cried, appalled.

But they were about to do the same to him. Dirty claws held his arms and legs, spread-eagling him in mid air. A harpy flew toward him, her dirty breasts leading. “Hold him hard, hard as you can; tonight we're going to do a man!” the others screeched as their talons scraped across his mid-section. He began to comprehend what these dirty females wanted of a male.

There was no way out of this awfulness--except maybe magic. The Dastard had Melody's magic; could he make use of it here? He struggled internally as well as externally, trying to marshal his thoughts. If only they could slip away from this disgusting horde and seek shelter elsewhere.

Slip away. He hummed, and focused. Slip! Slip!

Then he slipped out of their clutches, and so did Melody. They dropped below the milling disreputable flock.

“What did you do?” she asked as they fell through the air. They seemed to be over an abyss; the harpies must have carried them here during their distraction.

“I sang us slippery.” He couldn't help admiring her nymph-like bare body.

“You should have blasted them into dirty feathers!”

“No, that would not be ethical. It's not their fault they lack our values.”

“You bleeping idiot!” she flared. “They're harpies!”

He realized that she would see no point in treating harpies decently; that was a soul-spawned notion. “We had better resume flying,” he said, and flapped his arms.

She flapped hers too. But nothing happened; they continued to fall. “You made us too slippery to fly!” she cried. “You stupid doltish idiot!”

Evidently gratitude for being saved from a fate worse than death was another soul spawned concept. He tried to sing again, to counter the spell, but before he succeeded they plunged into the cold wet water of a dark lake.

Could the princess swim? He wasn't sure, so he grabbed for her hair as it streamed past him, and clamped his teeth on a hank of it. Then he launched himself for the surface, hauling her along.

They broke the surface. “Imbecile!” she cried with her first breath. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to rescue you, in case you can't swim.”

“I couldn't swim because you were hauling on my hair, you bleeping lout!”

So he had messed up again. It was difficult to help a soulless person. “We'd better swim for land,” he said.

“What land, jerkface? Where?”

He had no idea. “Maybe if we make some light, we'll see where to go.” He hummed, focusing on light, and in a moment the region around them glowed. He was starting to get the hang of her magic.

Melody screamed. Startled, he looked around--and saw the towering head of a sea monster.

“Moron!” the princess screamed. “You lit us up for the monster to find!”

He just couldn't stop making mistakes! He tried to think of some kind of magic to counter this new threat, but before he succeeded, the monster's head struck down and engulfed Melody. She got out half a scream before she disappeared into its gullet.

The Dastard pounded at the monster's neck with his bare fists, trying to make the serpent spit her back up. But the head struck down and around, and snapped him up too. It lifted him high, then slurped him down.

He slid helplessly down the long slick throat. Then he landed with a thunk on a pile of rotting garbage. He bounced, sliding off the mound. What was this--the last meal of the sea monster?

“Now look what you've gotten us into!” Melody cried irritably in his ear.

He looked. The light was dim, but he was able to make out a rickety building ahead of them. Bats swirled around it, and dim moonlight bathed it in an eerie glow. “What is it?” he asked, bewildered by this change of scene.

“It's a horror house, simpleton,” she said. “And that's the least of it.”

“What's the rest of it!” he asked, feeling like exactly the simpleton she called him.

“We're in the gourd, nincompoop!”

“The hypno-gourd? The realm of bad dreams?”

“What else, dunce?”

“But how could we have gotten there?”

“The Random Factor sent us here, blockhead.”

“But you were the one who opened the door!”