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  Then Cathryn stopped. “Are we ready for the next adventure?” she inquired. When there was no objection, she lifted the dear horn and blew on it.

  There was no sound. Yet the centaur stood as if enraptured.

  “Marvelous!” she breathed.

  “But it didn't work,” Forrest protested.

  She didn't even waste a glance on him. “You forget that only the one who blows it can hear it. The echo is from that direction.” She pointed due east.

  They set off east. That was a relief, because it was open range and ordinary trees as far as the eye could see; no pun strip to struggle through.

  But Cathryn was getting young again. That was mischief of another nature. Suppose her True Love were beyond her range? That would make him truly inaccessible.

  And that was what happened. The centaur grew smaller than either of them, and had to pause. “This is near the limit of my range,” she said.

  “I can go farther, but I won't be able to talk, because I didn't learn until I was two. You will have to go on without me.”

  “But we can't hear the echo,” Forrest protested.

  “You won't have to. Just continue in a straight line, and you will encounter him. He hasn't moved in some time, so he may be sleeping.

  Bring him here, and your service will be complete. I'll wait.”

  Forrest exchanged a look with Imbri, but since it was the same look, neither gained anything from it. So they walked forward, following the direction.

  “ Suppose the limit of his range is beyond hers?” Forrest asked Imbri when they were beyond the hearing of the centaur. “So that they can never meet?”

  “I don't think the dear horn works that way,” she said. “The ideal 'True Love has to be one you can be with. I hope.”

  He hoped that was true. But things were so odd here on Ptero that he lacked confidence.

  They saw an odd region to the south. It was somewhat foggy, but they could see a number of figures standing there, like statues. “Do you suppose her True Love could be there?” Imbri asked.

  “It's not the right direction. But we could ask.” He used a hoof to mark a line pointing the right direction, so they could resume travel without going astray, then walked south. They entered the fog somewhat warily, but it seemed to be harmless.

  Forrest approached a glowing young woman. “May we talk to you?” he asked her.

  “Sure,” she replied. “That's what we're here for.”

  “All the people are here to be talked to?” Imbri asked.

  “Yes. This is a section of limbo. We are the characters who aren't even might-he's. I'm Astride”

  “But what kind of existence do you have, then?”

  “A very feeble kind,” the woman said sadly. “We all long to achieve regular might-be status, but we can't until someone takes an interest in us and recognizes our talents.”

  Imbri exchanged half a look with Forrest. Characters who weren't even might-he's?

  “If we talk to you and identify your talent, will you become a might-be?” Forrest asked.

  “Yes! Please do that. I would do anything to become might-be real. Do you need a girlfriend? I'm rather metallic, but I can be very soft when I want to be, in the manner of my mother's side of the family.”

  “I don't need a girlfriend. I'm a faun. I just chase nymphs. No relationships last longer than a day, and most are merely minutes. But I'll be glad to help you. How do I recognize your talent?”

  “You just talk with me and ask me questions until you are able to figure it out. I can't tell you, because I don't know it, but I can tell you anything else about me.”

  “How can you know about yourself, if you aren't yet real, or even theoretical?”

  “Well, I haven't done anything, of course, because limbo is the place of nothing doing. But every person has an origin, so I have a family history. I can't tell you that on my own, but will do so if you ask.”

  That seemed straightforward, or at least not too far angled. “Who is your father?”

  “Esk Ogre. His father is Smash Ogre, and his mother is Tandy Nymph.”

  “Oh, you have some nymphly ancestry,” Forrest said, becoming more interested.

  “Yes. About a quarter. So I'm sure I could run and scream in the nymphly way, and do what nymphs do, if you are interested.”

  Forrest was interested. “Can you kick your feet cutely, and fling your hair about?” For these were specialties of nymphs, and such actions really delighted fauns.

  “I'm sure I can. How's this?” She flung her hair so violently that her feet left the ground, and she kicked her bare legs in a fetching manner.

  “Well, perhaps-” But then he saw Imbri frowning, and realized that he was drifting from business. He was just trying to find out about this region, in case it held a clue to the whereabouts of Cathryn's True Love. “Who is your mother?”

  “Bria Brassie. That's where I inherit my metallic nature from. She's made wholly of brass, but I'm only half brass. So I can become halfway hard, but that's not my talent. I'm also fairly strong, from my ogre heritage, and not too bright.”

  Something connected. A bulb flashed over Forrest's head, exactly as in Xanth proper. “I think you're mistaken, Astrid. You are bright. Your talent must be shining.”

  “Oh!” she cried, suddenly glowing more brightly. “Yes that's it!

  I know it now. Oh, thank you, faun.” She grabbed him and kissed him, and she was right: she was surprisingly soft beneath her coppery sheen.

  “I'm halfway real now!”

  “You're welcome,” Forrest said.

  “Oh, I think I'll kiss you again, and maybe even-”

  “There is no need,” Imbri said quickly.

  Actually Forrest wouldn't have minded, as he hadn't celebrated with a nymph since his arrival on Ptero. But of course Imbri was right: they had to get on with their business.

  So Astrid ran off to find her proper territory. Forrest and Imbri returned to the line he had drawn in the dirt, to resume their quest, as there didn't seem to be much help in limbo. How could the folk there know about Cathryn's True Love, when they had no experience as might-he's?

  Before long they came to a small forest of normal pines. It would have been better to avoid them, but then they would have lost their direction, so they went straight. Tears ran down their cheeks as they brushed by the trunks of the sad trees. Then they entered a glade and there was a juvenile centaur.

  “Young,” Imbri whispered. “Maybe eight years old. So he can go forward and overlap Cathryn's range. Eight years isn't too much of an age difference.”

  “Yes. The dear horn knew what it was doing.” But then he had a bad thought. “If this is the one.”

  “It has to be. We wouldn't have encountered him otherwise. There's always reason for folk to meet, in Ptero.”

  That did seem to be the case. So they approached the centaur. He was standing within a circle of fourteen crosses set upright on the ground.

  He looked out at them. “Hey, want to play crosses?” he asked.

  “Actually, we have come on a more serious matter,” Forrest said. “We would prefer to talk.”

  “Well, I want to play crosses.”

  Forrest saw that this was in the nature of an exchange of services.

  “Suppose we talk while we play crosses?”

  “Well, okay, I guess.” He sounded just like a human boy of that age, which was surprising, because centaurs were generally far more intelligent and adult than humans. How could this be the ideal love for Cathryn, who was a true centaur in attitude?

  “Very good,” Forrest said, though he was afraid it wasn't. “I am Forrest Faun, and my companion is Mare Imbrium.”

  “ so? “

  “So what's your name?”

  “Oh. Contrary.”

  That figured. “Well, Contrary Centaur, let's play the game and talk.

  You will have to explain the rules to me.”

  So they played the game while Imbri quietly watched.
“It's like this,” Contrary said. “We take turns standing inside the circle of crosses.

  The one outside takes a cross and throws it at the one inside, and he can't dodge or anything.”

  Forrest was not especially pleased with this. The crosses were small, but what if one hit an eye? It could hurt. “And what then?”

  “That's it. Ends when we run out of crosses.”

  Forrest remained uneasy, but there was nothing for it but to play the game so he could talk. He hoped that he could ascertain whether this was the correct centaur, and he hoped the answer was no. “Who starts in the circle?”

  “You do. You're the challenger.”

  Forrest stepped into the center and stood still. Contrary walked around outside, eyeing Forrest from every angle. Then he pulled a cross out of the ground and threw it at Forrest's face.

  If the centaur expected his target to flinch, maybe forfeiting the game, he was disappointed. The cross struck Forrest between the eyes. It didn't hurt; in fact it disappeared. But his eyes felt funny.

  He looked around. He saw two images of the surroundings, and a lot of fuzziness. What had happened?

  Two young centaurs trotted up. “Okay, your turn.”

  Forrest knew there was only one centaur. Why did he see two? He made his way out of the circle as much by feel as by sight. He saw two Imbri's sitting just far enough from the pine trees so she wouldn't cry.

  “What-?”

  “You're cross-eyed,” she murmured.

  Then he caught on. The cross had made him cross-eyed! So he couldn't properly focus on things.

  He turned to face the centaurs. He closed one eye, and one image disappeared. It would be harder to aim, but he could do it; tree fauns were good with wood. So now he could throw a cross at Contrary and make him cross-eyed too. Or were there other choices?

  He decided to experiment. He pulled up a cross, aimed very carefully, and threw. Contrary did not flinch, and the cross struck him on the back of the head.

  Nothing visible happened. Then the centaur spoke, frowning.

  “What you do that for?” he demanded crossly.

  It had worked: now Contrary was really cross. “I want to know something about you,” Forrest said, as he came in to exchange places. “Do you ever go west?”

  “What's it to you, goat hoof?” the centaur demanded angrily.

  “I am merely curious. You must know that you will age as you go, achieving maturity. Why do you remain here in your youth?”

  “ 'Cause I don't want to grow up!” Contrary snapped. Then he hurled a cross at Forrest's legs. It struck one knee, and suddenly he was crossing his knees, though he was standing. It was awkward, but in a moment he found he was still able to move about, if he did so carefully.

  He wobbled his way to the outside, while Contrary stomped crossly inside. He was catching on to the game, but he still didn't have all the information he wanted. “Why don't you want to grow up?” he asked.

  “ 'Cause there's a stupid filly out there I don't want to meet. Now throw your stupid cross.”

  That sounded like Cathryn. Forrest threw his cross at the centaur's arms. It struck and disappeared, and Contrary uttered an illegible syllable and crossed his arms. With luck, he wouldn't be able to throw well.

  “Why don't you want to meet her?” Forrest asked as they exchanged places again.

  “ 'Cause I played a game of crosses for stakes with someone from the far west, and he had seen my future, and he told me that this stupid filly would completely change my attitude on everything, and get me to liking mushy stuff, and make me a responsible adult. Yuck!

  So I'm staying right here, sensibly young. What's it to you?” And he kicked his cross with a foreleg, sending it hurtling into Forrest's torso.

  Forrest twisted around so that his head faced the opposite way from his hoofs. His body was crossed. This made it even more awkward to stand.

  But he was still able to walk, moving his knee-crossed legs backward. He was coming to the conclusion that he didn't really like this game.

  At least now he knew the problem. The juvenile centaur didn't want to grow up. So he was able, in the unique environment of Ptero, to avoid adulthood. Because time was geography, and the creatures had freedom of geography. As an adult, in love with a responsible centaur filly, he would become a responsible citizen. Children of any species lacked the experience to appreciate the qualities and satisfactions of maturity. So how could he persuade the errant juvenile to approach his later life?

  Meanwhile he was reaching the outside, and Contrary was inside. Where should he throw his next cross? Would the centaur quit playing if struck on the ear? Would that prevent him from hearing? Forrest wasn't sure, but decided to try it. He just wanted to finish this game, so he could recover his faculties and consult with Imbri. Maybe she would have a notion how to get Contrary into his adult territory.

  He oriented carefully, and threw his next cross at the centaur's ear. He scored. But nothing seemed to happen. “How are you doing?” he asked.

  Contrary looked the opposite way. “Where are you?”

  So that was the effect: the centaur was cross-eared, and heard things crossed, so that sounds seemed to come from the opposite direction.

  “Look away from my voice,” he said.

  Contrary turned around. “Oh, yeah,” he said crossly. “Crossed hearing.

  I should have remembered. Well, get ready, because I'll really get you with the next one.”

  Forrest didn't like the sound of that, but had to go back into the circle. They had used up only six of the crosses; this game had a long way to go, unfortunately.

  Contrary hurled his cross. It struck Forrest on the chest, right over the heart. The feeling was strange, but not bad; it wasn't making his heart malfunction. So what was the point?

  “I crossed your heart,” the centaur said with satisfaction. “Now you have to tell the truth.”

  “I always tell the truth,” Forrest said, annoyed.

  “Not this way. Tell me your most embarrassing experience.”

  “I don't have to do that!”

  “Yes you do. Now talk.”

  And he found that he did have to do it; his crossed heart compelled him.

  The thing he hated most to confess. This game had abruptly gotten worse.

  “I was in my tree when a flock of harpies passed,” he said. “They were noxious creatures with the heads and breasts of women and the bodies of birds, and foul of aspect and language. They liked to soil the leaves and branches of my tree with their droppings, and snatch away sandals, for which they had no use; they just dropped them in the nearest bog. So I did my best to drive them off, throwing sticks and stones at them. I didn't try to curse them, because no one has a mouth as fowl as a harpy.

  They love to indulge in swearing contests, and can make an ogre blush with a bad series of expletives. They were just out for mischief, and I just wanted to be rid of them.

  “Then I heard a maidenly scream. The dirty birds had gotten hold of a nymph, and were dragging her away. I leaped from my tree and ran to her rescue, beating off the clustered harpies. They cursed me so villainously that the nearby foliage wilted and my poor ears turned bright red. But I rescued her, and the harpies flew away, screeching imprecations. “You'll be sorry!” the last one cried as she flapped skyward.

  Meanwhile the nymph was excruciatingly grateful. ‘My hero!' she cried, throwing her fair arms about me and kissing me ardently. Naturally I returned the favors, and proceeded to that celebration for which fauns and nymphs are justly known. She was unusually eager to complete the celebration, and I assumed it was because of her joy at her deliverance from the horrors of capture by the harpies. So it was an even more delightful experience than usual. She kissed me repeatedly, seeming unable to get enough, even after the culmination. But at last she relaxed, and I made ready to return to my tree.

  “But then I saw that the harpies had returned and utterly befouled it.

  Their stinking
manure drenched every branch, and the leaves were wilting, and the sandals were rotting. My brief distraction had allowed them free access, and they had taken full advantage of it. I looked back at the nymph, and saw that she was changing form. She was not a true nymph; she had been changed by a spell of illusion, and now was revealing her real nature. She was a harpy herself, one of the filthy flock. 'Hee, heee, heeee!” she screeched as she spread her dirty wings, which had only seemed like arms, and flapped away.

  “I was sick. Not only had I failed to protect my tree from befowlment, I had celebrated with a noxious harpy hen. They had tricked me doubly, and made me as squalid as my tree. Of course I went to work cleaning the tree with buckets of water I hauled from a nearby spring; the job took days, and it was weeks before the smell faded. But I couldn't similarly clean myself. And thereafter that harpy hen would flap by and chortle at me, reminding me of my folly. It took me half a century to live down that humiliation, and I hoped no one would ever again hear of it.”

  Forrest stopped talking. He had done what he had to do, telling his deepest shame. Because of the compulsion of the cross, which would not be denied.

  “It wasn't your fault,” Imbri said. “They tricked you.”

  “I'll tell everyone!” Contrary exclaimed. “What a great story!”

  There was definitely something about this juvenile centaur that Forrest didn't like. So this time he threw his cross at Contrary's mouth.

  It worked. The centaur brat got so tongue twisted that he couldn't speak at all intelligibly. “I think I'm ready to quit this game,” Forrest said, getting a reasonably smart notion. “Don't you agree, Contrary?”

  “Fftbbabble#ughh.”

  “That's what I thought. Then we are agreed: this game is done.”

  At that point his body untwisted, and the missing crosses returned to their places in the circle.

  “That's not what I said!” Contrary protested.