Chapter 9: NYMPHO

They walked on along the invisible line Crombie had pointed out, southeast of Lake Ogre-Chobee. There were routine problems like rivers, dragons, cliffs, and unfriendly B's, but they were able to handle these with the giant's big hand and a little imagination.

Then as they were looking for a suitable place to camp for the night, where there was room for the giant to sleep, Gloha spied a creature flying in. For half an instant she was afraid it was a dragon or griffon, but then she saw that it was a crossbreed. It wasn't exactly a harpy, because the body was wrong, but it wasn't a griffon either. "Hey!" she called.

Startled, the creature hesitated. Then it flew away.

"Wait!" Gloha cried, flying after it. "I'm not an enemy! I'm a crossbreed. A winged monster. Like you."

The other creature paused, allowing Gloha to catch up. It turned out to be female. "Oh, so you are," she said. "I was afraid you were a man with a bow and arrow or something."

Gloha hovered near her. "No, I'm a unique creature. I think maybe you are too. What are you?"

"I'm half girl, half griffon. My name's Amanda." She blushed faintly. She seemed to be somewhat younger than Gloha. Her shoulder-length yellow hair was tied back with a blue ribbon that matched the hue of her wings. "My parents met at a love spring. They don't speak of it often."

Gloha appreciated that. "I'm Gloha Goblin-Harpy."

They shook hands, hovering.

"I'm looking for my species," Amanda said. "But I haven't found any others quite like me. I don't know what I should call myself."

"You look like a girlfon to me," Gloha said.

"A girlfon! That's perfect. Well, I had better get on home before Mom misses me."

"Bye," Gloha called as the girlfon flew away. She was somewhat sorry that it hadn't turned out to be a male winged goblin. Still, if there were a love spring nearby, there might be such a goblin. That could be why Crombie's finger had pointed this way. So maybe this was an encouraging sign.

She returned to their campsite. "It wasn't the one I was looking for," she said regretfully.

"Perhaps next time," Graeboe said. He was now sitting carefully beside their campsite. "You're such a nice girl, there must be a boy for you somewhere."

"Thank you," she said, flattered.

Trent had meanwhile transformed a small plant into a big tent caterpillar. The tent had room for himself, Gloha, Marrow, Metria, and the giant's face. The rest of Graeboe was covered by several other tents. Cushions from a transformed pillow bush served for their beds and Graeboe's head.

They feasted on berry pies, because pie plants were the easiest way for transformations to provide food. There were also pods of milk from milkweeds, and chocolate from a chocolate plant. Metria and Marrow did not need to eat, so contented themselves with exploring the surrounding region. Graeboe, oddly, did not eat any more than Trent did.

"Are you sure it's enough?" Gloha asked him, concerned.

"My illness diminishes my hunger," the giant replied. "Have no concern."

"But I am concerned. You can't do giantly things if you don't eat like a giant."

"True. I am weak and worsening. I know I am not the best of company. I appreciate your willingness to have me with your party. This gives me some valued solace."

"Don't you know anything about your malady? Maybe you could find a cure, if you had a name for it."

"I know only that it is a disease of the blood. My body does not make blood quite the way it should. As a result, I have less and less of it, and that makes me weaker each day. I would have trouble keeping up, were you folk not so much smaller than I am."

"Maybe Magician Trent could transform you to some other form, that doesn't need as much blood," she suggested.

"That would not help," Trent said. "That form would have the same illness. I can change folk's forms, but can't heal them."

"Maybe if we found a bloodroot-"

"No," Graeboe said gently. "My body can use only the blood it makes itself. It comes from my bones. But please do not dismay yourself on my account; I have no wish to cause you any discomfort, lovely little creature."

Gloha was flattered again. She wasn't at all sure she deserved the good opinion the giant had of her. Probably he was merely thankful for someone to talk to. "The Good Magician must have had reason to send you to this region, just as he indirectly sent me here. Maybe there are answers for both of us, just a little farther along."

"It is nice to think so," he agreed wanly.

Then Marrow and Metria returned. "What's this?" the demoness exclaimed. "Making out in a tent?"

"What passes for your mind is in a rut," Trent informed her. "Graeboe and Gloha have merely been talking."

"Then we were doing better than you," Metria retorted.

Gloha knew that this was supposed to arouse her curiosity and force her to inquire. She stifled it as long as she could, but it was too much for her to contain. "What were you doing?" she asked.

The demoness looked at her triumphantly. "I thought you'd never ask! We were summoning the stork."

Gloha, Trent, and Graeboe choked, almost together. "But-" Gloha managed to speak.

"She kissed me," Marrow explained. "That is not quite the same."

"It's close enough," Metria said stoutly.

"Walking skeletons do not summon the stork," Marrow said. "We assemble our little ones from spare bones. But in any event, I would not choose to summon or construct with a demoness. I am a married skeleton."

"Oh, pooh!" Metria said. "What's so special about marriage? The stork listens regardless."

"You are a demoness," Trent reminded her. "You have no soul, and therefore no conscience. You can't love. You have no basis for understanding."

"But I'd like to understand," Metria said, frustrated.

"Why?" Gloha asked, curious.

"In the Madness Region I was Trent's wife, for a time," the demoness said. "There was something there. It seemed interesting. I don't like missing out on anything interesting. I want to know what love is."

Graeboe shook his head slightly; any greater motion would have knocked down the tent. "I would like to know what love is too. Possession of a soul does not guarantee love."

"That's right," Gloha agreed. "I have never known stork-variety love."

"Because you're the only one of your type," Metria said. "When you find a winged goblin man, you'll get into stork language quickly enough."

"To answer your question," Trent said, "marriage is, to those with souls, a sacred contract. The parties to it agree to love only each other, and to summon the stork with no other people. It is possible to summon the stork outside of marriage, but this is generally frowned on. You, as a demoness, can assume any form you wish. You can go through the motions, of summoning the stork, simply by showing some naive man your panties and encouraging him to proceed. But that isn't marriage or love."

"Maybe if I married someone, I'd find out about love," she said.

"I doubt it. You could go through the ceremony, but it wouldn't mean anything to you. The only demoness I know of who was able to love was Dara, who married Magician Humfrey a long time ago. But she had a soul. As soon as she lost her soul, she reverted to form and left him in the lurch."

"But she came back," Metria said.

"A hundred and thirty-six years later," he reminded her. "Because she was bored. She doesn't actually love him now. She merely emulates the mood. However, you might ask her what it was like when she did love him."

"I have. She said I would never understand."

"So there you are. Maybe you should give it up, Metria, and let us proceed on our various quests without your kibitzing."

"No, I want to know what love is. You're my closest approach. Maybe if I watch you close enough, I'll learn."

"Not by trying to seduce married skeletons," he said.

Metria pondered briefly. Then her clothing began to fuzz away.

"Or married Magicians," Trent added, closing his eyes.

"Curses! Foiled again," the demoness muttered, dissolving into smoke.

Gloha closed her own eyes. She had a certain sympathy with Metria's frustration. It was not too far from her own.

In the morning they moved on. Gloha wasn't sure whether it was her imagination, but she had the impression that Graeboe Giant was weaker. It took him some time to get to his feet, and then he seemed unsteady. But it might simply be that he was always a bit fuzzy in the morning. So she flew up to inquire.

"Graeboe, are you all right?" she asked as she landed on his shoulder near his face. "I mean, apart from your malady?"

"Please do not concern yourself, pretty thing," he replied.

"Now stop that!" she said with an annoyed little irritation. "You did it last night. You think that because I'm so small, I must be childlike, and you're patronizing me. I am concerned."

"Oh, no, Gloha," he protested. "I don't see you as a child at all. You're a lovely person, in body and mind. I merely do not wish to burden you with any problem of mine."

"Well, tell me anyway," she said, mollified.

He sighed. "I am weaker each day. I think I shall be able to keep on my feet only a few more days. When I fear I will not be able to get up again, I shall make my way to some desolate wilderness and there expire, as I have said."

"But you're supposed to find help here, and it must be us who can help you, somehow. You can't just give up."

"Perhaps so," he agreed, not debating the matter.

"It must be so," she said firmly. She walked along his shoulder, came to his giant ear, spread her wings, and flew up to kiss his earlobe. Then she flew back down to ground level.

They proceeded southeast in their assorted fashions. Graeboe took huge slow steps, setting his feet down carefully so as not to crush any houses or trees. Metria smoked out at one place and smoked in again at another. Gloha made short flights. Trent and Marrow simply walked. No more monsters bothered them, perhaps having caught on that a party including a giant and a Magician made poor prospects for prey.

Then they came to the Faun & Nymph Retreat. They could tell, because there was a sign by the path saying that. It turned out to be a small mountain by a lake, where the fauns and nymphs cavorted happily all day long. The fauns were human in form except for their cute little horns and goat's feet, while the nymphs were completely human except for their attitude: when chased, they screamed fetchingly, kicked their feet, and flung their hair about. When caught, they-

Gloha looked around, nervous that children might be in the vicinity. Fortunately there were none, so no violation of the Adult Conspiracy to Keep Children Ignorant of Interesting Things was occurring. She understood that Princess Ida had grown up in this general vicinity, but she had been too innocent to know that she wasn't supposed to see such activity. Because what they were doing was stork summoning, constantly. The odd thing was that the storks seldom if ever responded to these constant signals. Maybe they knew that fauns and nymphs could not raise children, because they didn't have families. They were unable to remember anything overnight, so no enduring relationships existed.

"I wonder where new fauns and nymphs come from?" Gloha said musingly as they watched the activity of the Retreat. "I mean, if the storks don't come here-"

"They are immortal, I believe," Trent replied. "At least until some few of them become mortal. Remember, Jewel the Nymph didn't begin to age until she fell in love and married."

"Jewel was always a special nymph," Gloha said. "She put the gemstones in the ground for prospectors to find. She had a soul. I think she was able to remember things even before she married."

"Yes, she was special. She may have been on the way to womanhood, which was why she was capable of love. Now that she's retiring, a new nymph from this region is being trained to do the job, and no doubt she is starting to remember things too. But here they have no need for memory. It may be that any who leave the Retreat start to assume normal human qualities."

Marrow was tilting his skull, looking here and there. Metria noticed this. "You are interested in peeking at stork summoning?" she inquired snidely.

"No, I think for them that is mere entertainment," the skeleton replied. "What concerns me is the apparent imbalance in the numbers."

Now the others were curious. "Imbalance?" Gloha asked. "It looks to me as if they are doing it in the usual ratio: one faun to one nymph at a time."

"But see how many fauns are left over," Marrow said. "In fact lines of fauns are forming near each nymph. I had understood that the numbers were supposed to be approximately equal. That seems not to be the case."

He. was right. There were about three times as many fauns as nymphs. As a result, the nymphs were considerably busier than the fauns. That did not seem to bother the nymphs, but the fauns seemed to be somewhat unfaunly out of sorts. It was evident that each would really have preferred to have one or more nymphs to himself.

"Perhaps we should inquire," Trent said with a third of a smile.

So Gloha stepped up to the nearest faun. "Why aren't there as many nymphs as fauns here?"

He looked at her. "A tiny winged clothed nymph!" he exclaimed. "I didn't know you existed. Come play with me!" He reached for her.

Marrow extended a bone-arm to block the faun. "This is not a nymph," he said. "Merely a foreign visitor. Answer her question."

"Oh." The faun stifled his disappointment. "I don't know why there aren't enough nymphs. There just aren't, is all." He ran off in pursuit of a nymph who was momentarily free.

"That of course is the problem," Trent remarked. "They don't remember. Something must have happened to a number of the nymphs."

"A dragon ate them?" Gloha asked, horrified.

"Dragons and other predators are impartial about the sex of their prey," Trent said thoughtfully. "They should take out about as many fauns as nymphs. There must be some other explanation."

"Men, maybe," Metria said. "Human men really like nymphs, I understand, while human women don't care as much for fauns."

"True," Trent agreed. "But human men are discouraged from raiding this Retreat."

"Oh?" Gloha asked. "How? I don't see any discouragement."

"Do you see that bed in the center of the Retreat?" Trent asked her.

"Yes, but no one's on it."

"It's what's under it that counts. Snortimer is there, I believe."

"Who?"

"Snortimer. My granddaughter Ivy's monster under the bed. He took the place of Stanley Steamer Dragon, protecting the fauns and nymphs. He can't leave the bed by day, of course, but any intruding men soon try to lie on it with a nymph or two, and that's when Snortimer grabs their ankles and scares them away."

"But adults don't believe in monsters under the bed," Gloha protested.

"They do when Snortimer grabs them," he replied. "This region is special, as the presence of the fauns and nymphs suggests. They have no trouble believing in him, being childlike. With so many believing in him, he has much more power than his kind usually does. Also, Ivy Enhanced him before she left, so he's unusual. I understand he does an excellent job."

"I find this hard to believe," Gloha said, shaking her head.

"Naturally, because you're an adult. Only children and old folk about to fade out recognize the validity of monsters under beds."

"I recognize it," Marrow said.

"So do I," Metria said.

"You folk are from the dream and demon realms; you don't count."

"I recognize it," Graeboe said, squatting down to join the conversation.

"Giants don't count either," Trent said with a good two-thirds of a smile. "Only normal run-of-the-mill close-to-human folk count in this respect. And I think you, Gloha, will be able to believe, if you make the effort, because you aren't exactly of that description."

Gloha made the effort. "Maybe, around the edges, I can believe," she said.

"But we must proceed to more serious concerns," Trent continued. "This Retreat is on the line we are following, which suggests that this could be where we shall find the solutions to one or more of our problems. We should explore it carefully before going beyond. I believe there are mainly the Ever Glades farther in the direction we are going, which we would prefer not to face if we don't have to."

Gloha had heard of the Ever Glades, which went on forever and ever. She hoped they would not have to go there. "I don't think I'm likely to find a suitable man here, and I don't think the fauns and nymphs have souls to share with anyone. I don't see anything to help Graeboe either." In fact she was feeling a tiny little tad discouraged.

"The ways of magic can be strange," Trent said. "We shall just have to explore this until we are certain that our answers aren't here."

He was making sense, which was the problem. Gloha wasn't eager to remain in this region of constant dubious activity. The male members of the party seemed to find it interesting, which also bothered her on some hidden level.

"Let's camp out of sight of the Retreat," Metria suggested.

At times Gloha could almost think of beginning to start to like the demoness. "Yes, let's," she agreed.

"As you wish," Trent said with the suggestion of a significant fraction of a smile.

So they camped by a stream that was hurrying to find the lake, and set up with tents and pies and such. There was still time in the day, so they explored the vicinity, especially along the invisible line that Crombie had pointed out. Graeboe stood and looked far in all directions, but spied nothing special. Metria puffed in and out to all intermediate directions, but also spied nothing special. Marrow walked fearlessly in all near directions, spooking stray plants and creatures, but he too spied nothing special. Trent lay back on a bedbug and pondered.

"What are you pondering?" Gloha inquired.

"I am trying to decide whether the mystery of the missing nymphs bears any relation to our several quests."

"How could it?" she asked listlessly.

"That is a mystery in itself. But suppose that whatever is causing the loss of nymphs also represents the solution to our problems? What do you suppose that might be?"

She focused her alert little attention on the question. "Something with half a soul to give Marrow, and a cure to give Graeboe, and an ideal man to give me."

"Something about that last bothers me," Trent said. "Suppose we do find a winged goblin male. How can you be sure that he will be your ideal partner?"

"Why," she said, flustered, "he would have to be, wouldn't he? The only other member of my crossbreed species."

"Yet I have encountered very few goblin males whom I would care to know."

A goblin male. Gloha felt a pang of apprehension. The average goblin male was ugly, brutish, bad-tempered, violent, and somewhat stupid. Much like the average harpy female. Why should a winged one be any better? And why should she ever want to marry such a man? "Oh," she said, distraught. "I've been seeking a fantasy!"

"Not necessarily," the Magician said. "It just may mean that the answer to your quest is not precisely what you have supposed. Perhaps it is not a winged goblin you seek, but self-discovery."

"I don't understand that at all!" she cried, and ran out of the tent. She knew that she couldn't actually run physically away from the truth, but she needed time to figure things out for herself.

She found herself walking toward the Retreat. But as she did she couldn't stop herself from mulling it over. What did she want? A nice, handsome, intelligent, thoughtful, considerate, loving, winged goblin man. And no goblin man was like that. Why should a winged one be any different? She was a fool to suppose that such an ideal man existed or could ever exist.

Yet Crombie had pointed out a direction. That suggested that there was such a man. How could that be reconciled? She shook her perplexed little perception, wishing she could find an answer where she feared there was none. So Magician Trent thought she needed self-discovery. But she was satisfied with herself; it was her prospects that needed fixing. Didn't Trent know that? What good was self-discovery if she had to spend the rest of her lamentable little life alone? She'd much rather spend it with someone like Trent himself. He answered all of the description except for his size and lack of wings.

She spied something ahead, lying on the ground near the edge of the open region that was the Retreat. It looked like a piece of popcorn, but it was the wrong color. Popcorn was supposed to be buttery yellow, or caramel tan. This was bright red.

She came up to it and picked it up. It certainly looked like popped corn. She put it to her nose. It smelled like popcorn. She tasted it. It was popcorn.

She looked around. She spied another piece, right at the edge of the faun/nymph glade. This one was blue. She picked it up and ate it too. It was definitely popcorn, and very good. If she closed her eyes, she would not be able to tell what color it was; it tasted exactly like regular-colored popcorn, freshly made.

Now she stood at the edge of the Retreat. The fauns and nymphs were still at it, chasing each other down and striving enthusiastically to summon every stork in Xanth. Odd that they hadn't caught on that it wasn't working. But of course it took time for the stork to make a delivery, and these creatures remembered only the day they were in, so never learned better. That explained that, but didn't explain why so many nymphs were missing. Trent thought that mystery might be related to Gloha's quest for the ideal man. How could it? Maybe Trent's real age was making him senile, despite his greatly youthened body.

There were no more colored popcorns. Too bad; they had been delicious, as well as diverting her briefly from her private concerns.

She turned, about to go back to the camp. Then she saw another popcorn, this time a green one. And beyond it, a purple one. There was actually a trail of them; she had intersected it at an angle, so had seen only the last two.

She went to pick up and eat the green and purple pops, finding them as delicious as the first two. Then she followed the trail along the divergent path through the forest. How had these brightly colored morsels come here? Had someone been carrying a bag of them, and some had spilled out, leaving a trail? If so, she should catch up and tell that person to close up the hole before he lost the whole bagful.

She passed under a hugely spreading acorn tree, intent on the continuing trail. Suddenly a net dropped over her. She was so surprised she forgot even to scream. She just stood there stupidly wondering what had happened. Then she tried to spread her wings to fly away, but of course they were fouled in the net.

An ugly man dropped down beside her. He reached for her. His hands were huge and gnarled.

Now she remembered to scream. She inhaled, opening her mouth. "Ee-"

He clapped a hand over her mouth, stifling her scream before more than two e's were out. Then he wrapped a bandanna around her face, covering her mouth so she couldn't get out any more of her scream. He picked her up, still swathed in the net, and carried her away.

Belatedly, Gloha realized how stupid she had been. She had wandered away from her companions, and foolishly followed a trail of popcorns, until she was well away from camp. Now she was the captive of some brutish man, and whatever was to become of her?

Meanwhile the man was tramping along a path of his own. It led to a dirty pond, and in the pond was a dusky island, and on the island was a battered old castle. The man got into a sodden boat, dumped her down, and paddled across to the castle. When he reached the island he hefted her up again, and carried her to the great dark wooden door. He hauled out a big metal key, put it in the keyhole, turned it, and then pulled the door open. He entered, then paused to close and lock the door behind him.

He carried her down a dark passage to a central chamber. She heard a faint whimpering. Then she saw where it came from: a small barred cell they were passing. There was a nymph in it, looking unnymphly unhappy. No wonder; nymphs lived to cavort in the open with the others of their kind. They couldn't stand being alone in a closed cell.

Now she realized that there were other cells along the way, containing other nymphs. She was beginning to understand where the nymphs had gone. They had followed trails of colored popcorn, and been netted and nymphnapped and brought here. Just as Gloha herself had been.

He set her down before an altar and drew off the net. Gloha immediately spread her wings and flew up out of his reach.

"Hey, you aren't supposed to do that," the man protested.

"You abducted me against my will and hauled me in here and you say I can't fly away from you?" she demanded, a taut little tinge of outrage coloring her fear.

"That doesn't matter. You're supposed to marry me."

Gloha had been opening her maidenly little mouth for a paragraph of protests, but his last two words sidetracked that. "Marry you?" she squeaked.

"Yes. Let's get on with it. Stand before the altar and say, ‘I, so and so, hereby take you, Veleno, to be my husband, by the law of the Notar Republic.' I will say much the same, taking you as my wife. Then we'll go to the bedroom for the consummation." He glanced at her. "You're somewhat small, but I can live with that."

Gloha's mouthful got sidetracked again. "Just like that?" was all she could get out.

"It's very efficient," he agreed.

"I'm getting out of here," she said. She flew to the hall, and down it to the front door. But the door was still locked, and it was far too massive for her to open even if it had been unlocked. There seemed to be no windows on this level, and the stairs were closed off by other locked doors. She was trapped in the castle.

She looked at the cells along the hall. Most contained dejected nymphs. She knew better than to ask any of them about anything; they would have no memory of their abductions or of the layout of the castle. But she was getting the picture on her own, and it was so unpretty that her pretty little perspective could hardly compass it.

She flew back to the main chamber, because there was more room there. "You're a nymphomaniac!" she cried accusingly at Veleno. "You're obsessed with nymphs!"

"Well sure," he agreed. "That's all I can find here. But I never saw a winged nymph before. And you're smaller than the others, and you have clothing. Why is that?"

"Because I'm not a nymph," she said. "I'm a winged goblin-harpy crossbreed. I have better things to do than run around naked all day screaming, kicking my feet, and flinging my hair around."

"Oh? What things?"

"Like searching for my ideal man to marry."

"No problem. You'll marry me."

"Marry you! You insufferable-" Gloha discovered that she lacked the appropriate vocabulary. She really should have heeded her aunt's advice and learned to speak the burning word. So she settled for a succinct substitute. "No."

"No?" he asked, surprised. "Why not?"

"Because I don't know you, don't love you, and don't think you're anyone's ideal man, certainly not mine." Even without proper harpy vocabulary, that seemed to cover the situation.

Meanwhile he was picking up on her prior statement. "You're not a nymph!" he said, excited. "You can remember from day to day."

"I certainly can," she agreed angrily. "And I don't think I'll ever forget how you kidnapped me."

"So you're definitely the one I must marry."

This was getting to be a bit much for her. "Huh?" she inquired intelligently.

"I need to marry a girl who can remember she's married."

"Well, I'm not the one," she said with a certain firm little firmness. "Now let me go before my friends come to rescue me, or you'll be in trouble."

"You have friends?" he asked, surprised again.

"Of course I do!" she said indignantly. "Don't you?"

"No."

This put her offtrack yet again. "What, none?"

"No, none."

She couldn't believe it. "What, none?" she repeated.

"Well, once I had a pet poison toad, but I don't think he counts, because he hopped away once he got to know me."

She was beginning to realize that this was not an ordinary evil abductor. There were complications. "How did you come here to this castle?" she inquired. Maybe some background would help.

"That's a brief and dull story," he said. "Now why don't you come down here and marry me, so we can get on with the consummation."

"I'm not going to marry you, let alone consum-" But her nervous little nature would not allow her to say such a suggestive word. "Anyway, what makes you think you can just grab a girl and marry her?"

"That's what I've been doing. Each day I net a new nymph, and marry her, and consummate it, and next morning she doesn't remember. Then I have to start all over with another nymph. It's very frustrating."

"Well, let's hear your brief dull story," she said. If he was willing to be distracted from his disastrous ambition, she was willing to encourage him in that. "And-be sure to include how you got this castle and why you call it a republic and why you're marrying anyone. Meanwhile I'll just stay well out of your reach, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind," he said. "It's nice to have some halfway intelligent dialogue for a change."

If all he had had to converse with was nymphs, whose minds were pretty much mindless, on the theory that no creature with a nymphly body needed a mind, then he might indeed miss the dialogue of a real person. Gloha settled down to the floor behind a chair, ready to fly instantly away if he tried to get near enough to grab her again. Meanwhile she listened to his history.

Once upon a thyme in the mists of antiquity-maybe thirty years ago-there lived an old crone. She was a weaver, and worked hard at her trade from morning till night to earn a living for herself and her innocent young daughter. She scarcely gave herself and her child a chance to rest. However, as busy and industrious as this crone was, she loved her daughter, and took time one day to give her good advice.

"Heather, my dear daughter, when the time of Rut comes over a young man, there is a failure on his part to act in a Timely and Responsive manner. Do you understand?"

"No, Mother dear," innocent Heather replied, exactly as a good girl should.

"No? Look, such a young man is so Hot to Trot that even the village sheep aren't safe. Do you understand now?"

"No, Mother dear," Heather said, embarrassed because she didn't like perplexing her mother.

"No? Well, do you have any notion of how to summon the stork?"

"No, Mother Dear," Heather said. "That's in the Adult Conspiracy, so naturally I never heard of the stork. Why are you telling me this?"

"Because once I was as ignorant as you, and that's how I came to summon the stork that brought you, Daughter dear. I don't want you to make the same mistakes."

"But how could you summon the stork, if you didn't know how, Mother dear?" Heather asked, doubly perplexed. "I can't do anything I don't know how to do."

"By the ogres and night mares of Xanth, Heather-just say No!!"

Heather was really impressed, because she had never heard a double exclamation point before. She took the lesson to heart, and saved up her very most positive No for the occasion when she should encounter a young man being Untimely and Unresponsive, or mistreating sheep.

However, as she became a teenager she became aware of certain social proprieties. She saw that her mother wore work clothes all the time, and labored with her hands, which were callused and gnarled, and she became ashamed of the old crone. So she did what any teen in such an insufferable situation did. She screamed at her mother, called her vile names like "Hag," "Witch," and "Harridan," in fact everything except the accurate term of "Crone," and to really make her point she ran away with Shadows, the village idiot. This man did not know the meaning of Timely or Responsive, and he was unconscionably mean to sheep, shearing them every spring, so this really broke the old crone's heart.

Naturally the idiot knew nothing of stork summoning either. So the two of them just had a good time. But by some curious coincidence a stork got the notion that this couple deserved a baby. This was obviously a confusion, because Heather, who had once had a figure reminiscent of a minute glass, seemed to be adding sand. She got fatter daily, and hardly seemed to be in shape to handle a baby. In any event she didn't know about the stork's notion. For a long while she pretended that she had no appetite, and she ate no food other than a few black and blue berries stolen from neighboring gardens, and some cookies. She said that these were nicer and tasted better than her mother's good soups and stews and homemade peasant bread. Shadows made her several gunky yellow banana slug stews, but they just caused her to toss her cookies. He resented this, because he didn't like seeing the cookies get wasted. That showed what an idiot he was, she reminded him frequently.

Finally there came a day when Heather was as displeased with Shadows as she had been with her cronish mother. As she lay in the dark one night, cold and hungry, her impatience with her situation boiled over in a chilly way. "Well, I've done more than enough suffering for humanity in the last nine months. I want my mother, even if she is a crone. If that idiot Shadows doesn't like it, he can go jump in the Kiss-Mee Lake with some other damsel." Because she realized now that her health had started its reversal soon after the two of them had swum in Lake Kiss-Mee and in consequence done a whole lot of kissing. Maybe the water was also fattening.

So one fine morning a not-so-fine Heather left the idiot's sandy driftwood hut and walked home, leaving her accumulation of self-pity behind. She found her mother, the village midwife, and the stork standing at the front door, wringing their hands or whatever. They wept when they saw her.

"Why are you so sad to see me?" Heather asked as she pushed impatiently over to her dear little clean lavender-smelling bed. "Didn't you say I'd be back?"

It turned out that they weren't sad, they were glad, though their emotions seemed to be stuck in reverse. The stork was especially relieved, having feared it had come to the wrong address. It dumped a baby boy in the cradle and took off. In its haste it dropped a thyme seed that had been intended for another delivery. The seed landed in the garden, and from it grew a first plant which didn't do well, and a second plant, which in the course of sixty seconds became a minute plant, and in sixty minutes became an hour plant, and in a year it was an annual, and it continued to age with the obvious intention of finally maturing into a century plant. Since that would take some time, it had a brilliant crystal on top to mark its place in space-time. The crone ignored it, being too busy, thinking it didn't matter. She probably shouldn't have done that.

After seven days the village elders came to participate in the baby's naming ceremony. Heather named him Veleno, which she understood meant Poisoned Gift. The elders sprinkled Heather with rainbow rose water and declared that, in the light of recent events, she was no longer a child but an adult.

Immediately the weight of adult responsibility descended on her. She realized how she had summoned the stork during that time when she had done just a smidgen more than kissing. She was properly appalled, and resolved never to do that again. Heather joined her mother at the loom, never to leave it for the rest of her life, and concentrated on becoming a crone herself. From then on the little stone dwelling was known as 'The House of Two Weavers.’"

Seven or eight years crawled by, and the baby boy managed to become a boy child. He was quiet, a loner, and he displayed his magic talent early. He changed plain white popcorn into rainbow-colored popcorn. This followed naturally from his mother's talent of changing plain white roses into rainbow-colored roses. She didn't use her talent much, because she seldom encountered a white rose, but at least she had the magic. No one ever found out what talent Veleno's father had, other than idiocy; Veleno never met the man.

Veleno's small world embraced his mother, grandmother, and the nearer region of his village. One day he woke from his midday summer nap under his favorite fringed umbrella tree, took a dip in the conservative gold-water pool to the right of the village, dressed himself in his cool white well-worn cotton clothes, and headed for home. But he found everybody in great disarray standing around the village fountain. They were screaming, tearing their hair, wringing their hands, and weeping bitterly.

"What's the matter?" he asked in a faltering whisper, fearing that something was amiss. After all, it wasn't comfortable to have one's hair torn, and was painful to put one's hands through the wringer, which tended to flatten them.

"A dreadful fiery dragon is approaching the village," a man with golden orange hair replied. His name was Menthol, but that had no significance and probably shouldn't have been mentioned. "It seems that nothing can stop it from massacring everyone here."

"But why are they so upset?" the boy asked, perplexed.

The man studied the boy for a moment. Then he nodded, as if coming to a private decision. "What is your name, little boy?"

"Veleno."

"What a nice name. What does it mean?"

"Poisoned Gift."

Menthol nodded again, as if he had just confirmed a suspicion. "Ah. Does an eight-year-young century plant grow in your yard, by any chance, helping your family keep thyme?"

"Yes."

"Well, Veleno, your mother doesn't want you right now. In fact she wants you to take a walk with me. Do everything I tell you to do, and I will give you a whole bowl full of boiled sweets."

"Great!" Veleno agreed.

So Menthol took Veleno by the hand and led him away. As it just coincidentally happened, Menthol was a child stealer. He recognized Veleno as a child marked by the demons for their eventual entertainment, so he brought him to the demons for a reward.

"And so the demons put me in this isolated castle," Veleno concluded. "And told me that I would have my every desire in life supplied except one: love. I can achieve that only by marrying a woman who will marry me and share her love with me. What they didn't tell me was that the only human-seeming females in reach would be nymphs. They are incapable of love, and can't remember anything from one day to the next. But the demons did mention that hidden among them might be one who could remember and love. So from the time I grew old enough to join the Adult Conspiracy I have used my colored popcorn to lure one nymph at a time away from the mountain. I have married her and tried to summon the stork with her, hoping that she will remember in the morning. But so far every nymph has forgotten, though she has been enthusiastically cooperative in making the effort to signal the stork. Thus our marriage has been dissolved, and I have had to try again."

"But why do you keep them prisoner in the castle?*' Gloha asked. "They are naturally careless creatures, but they can not be happy in confinement."

"Because I can't tell one nymph from another. If I let them go after marrying them, I might catch the same one again, wasting my time. The only way I can be sure each one is new is by holding the old ones out from the group."

It was starting to make sense. But Gloha still didn't like it. "Well, I'm not going to marry you, and I shall be neither enthusiastic nor cooperative about-about whatever. And I will never love you. No, not in the time it takes that century plant to mature. So you might as well let me go."

"Oh, no, I have to marry you, because you can remember. You are the one who can love me, and with whom I can at last experience love. Then I will be free of the demons' enchantment, and can live like a normal man."

Veleno did not seem to be paying very close attention to her declaration. Was there some other way to discourage him? Gloha remembered something about demons. "Are they watching this?"

"Oh, yes, of course. It's how they entertain themselves. But if I find love, they'll know it immediately, and their amusement will be over. They'll dissolve this castle into smoke, and I will return with my bride to my village, where we can live ever after as peasants scrounging a mean living from the reluctant soil."

"That's certainly a modest ambition," Gloha said. "And I wish you well with it. But it isn't going to be with me. I am not going to marry you, and that's that."

"Then I shall have to lock you in a chamber until you change your mind," Veleno said. "Because you may be my only chance for love, and I would be a fool to let you escape."

Gloha realized that the man was not going to be reasonable about this. So she flew away, seeking some other exit from the castle. She found a stairway that wasn't closed off and flew upstairs, but all the windows were barred, and most of the chambers were locked, with whimpering nude nymphs inside. Escape seemed to be hopeless.

Then she spied one dark passage she had missed in her prior haste. It was low and narrow, so she had to come to the floor and walk along it. It led to a winding stairway leading up. A secret exit to the roof?

She came to a small door. She tugged at its handle, and because it was small she was able to move it. Beyond was a closed little chamber with several barred windows. This must be the castle's highest turret, from which there was no exterior way down. The kind used to imprison reluctant damsels. But if she could get one of those windows open, or pry out a bar, she could leap from the window. She wouldn't fall to her death; she would merely fly away. The builders of this castle hadn't reckoned with a winged goblin girl.

She entered the chamber, crossed to the far window, and peered out. She was right: this was way high up in the sky, with glorious naked air all around. She took hold of a bar. It rattled-and there was a curious little click behind her. She turned nervously, and saw that the door had swung itself closed.

Alarmed, she ran back to the door, to make sure it hadn't locked-and found that it had. It absolutely would not budge. She was trapped.

And she heard Veleno's footsteps climbing the stair. The nymphomaniac was coming for her, and he thought her to be a satisfactory substitute nymph.

What could she do? She did it. She put her frantic little face to the window and let out Xanth's most strident little scream.