The Source of Magic (18 page)

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 funneled 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 his 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 toothlike 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.