Crewel Lye Read online

  But now the fire-breather caught up. “Go for the tail!” I told Pook. I meant the tail of the smoker, which might shield us from some of the blast of the fire-breather’s breath. But the ghost horse misunderstood and galloped for the wrong tail.

  Naturally the dragon’s head whipped about, a jet of fire chasing us in an apparent curve. We hurdled the tail just as the fire caught up—and the dragon toasted its own tail. Now, dragons have insulated pipes for the fire, but their flesh lacks that protection. You should have heard the roar it made!

  “South!” I cried.

  Pook oriented south and shot forward like an arrow. The two hurting dragons bumped into each other and got tangled in their own coils. By the time they realized we were gone, we were too far gone for them to catch us. I’d like to claim that this was my consummate skill in maneuvering, but it was simple garden-variety luck, and I wouldn’t care to try it again.

  But we weren’t home free yet. A flying dragon had been attracted by the commotion and was cruising overhead. It had not descended while it looked as if the big land-bound dragons would eat us, but now it looped about and zeroed in. I saw its body huffing up fire and knew we had to get out of the way in a hurry. We couldn’t outrun that!

  “River!” I cried. Pook angled for the river, trusting my judgment, and his hooves struck the water as the first jet of fire slanted down. The fire missed, generating a huge hiss of steam as it hit the water. Water never did much like fire, and the sentiment was mutual.

  The water dragon humped up. It elevated its head and roared at the flier, angry at this poaching in its preserve. When the flier didn’t sheer off fast enough, the water dragon pursed its lips and squirted a column of water up, scoring on one wing. Now the flier changed course, spinning out of control; the blast of water had dislocated one wing.

  “I know how that feels,” the stork remarked as the dragon tumbled into the water.

  We got back on land and galloped south again, having escaped all four dragons. No doubt I would boast to my grandchildren of this exploit—but I never wanted to run that particular gantlet again!

  Then a second flier appeared and drew a bead on us. This was the land of dragons, all right!

  “Trees!” I yelled.

  Pook headed for a copse of trees ahead. I hoped their trunks and foliage would help shield us from the flame. But then the horse braked to a halt.

  “What are you doing?” I cried. Then I saw why.

  The copse perched on the edge of a monstrous fissure in the ground. It was a sheer cliff leading down beyond vision; we couldn’t go there! “What’s that?” I asked incredulously.

  “Now I remember!” the stork said. “It’s the Gap Chasm! Can’t think why I forgot about it before. I’ve flown over it hundreds of times.”

  “It’s not on the map!” I muttered. What a thing to leave off!

  Then the flying dragon caught up. Its jet flame seared down. Pook leaped out of the way—but the fringe of the fire touched us.

  It fried my right arm and heated the hilt of my sword stove-hot. The stork’s feathers caught fire. The ogret growled as his bag smoldered.

  Pook leaped again, and the chains on his body slipped around his barrel, and we were dumped hard on the ground.

  My face smacked into a rock, and the whole Land of Xanth seemed to whirl about me. I saw my sword fling free—right over the brink of the chasm. Then I lost consciousness. I do that when I get knocked hard enough, embarrassing as it is.

  When I woke, I could tell by the slant of the shadow that only a little time had passed. My talent was already healing me; after all, it was only a burn and a fall. But I wasn’t able to move yet; maybe my neck had been broken, paralyzing me, and that hadn’t healed yet. So I lay there with my head on the ground, absolutely still, and saw what I could see.

  Nearby was the bundle of joy, with a short length of chain dangling from it. The little monster had chewed right through the link! Beyond was the bashed body of the stork. The fire had burned away the feathers and cooked the rest; the stork was dead. There was no sign of Pook; he had his freedom at last, if he had managed to escape the dragon. Well, I couldn’t blame him for that; I had not done too good a job of protecting us from evil.

  Then I saw a shadow. The dragon was returning! That was good for Pook, for it meant he had found cover and hidden from the monster. But it was bad for me. I willed my neck to heal, but nerves can’t be rushed, and bone is slower yet; I still couldn’t move anything below my head. And anyway, my sword was gone. How could I fight off a fire-breathing flying dragon bare-handed?

  The dragon spiraled down and glided to a landing. It was ready to feed. It hobbled along the ground, weak on its feet in the fashion of its subtype, and snapped up the body of the stork. Two chomps, and the bird was gone.

  The dragon hobbled another pace and reached for the bundle of joy. Suddenly the bag burst open, the ogret’s hairy arm came out, and it swung the length of chain in an arc that smacked the links smartly across the dragon’s nose. Little stars flew up, and a comet whirled away; it had been a hard strike.

  The dragon blinked. Then it hissed. It pumped its bellows, preparing for another blast of fire to cook this arrogant morsel.

  Just as the flame was ready, the ogret’s ugly head popped out of the bag. Few things in Xanth are as ugly as an ogre’s puss, and the sudden appearance of such a grotesquerie can be a shock. “Growr!” he growled in the dragon’s face. If there is one thing worse than an ogre’s puss, it’s his growl.

  The dragon was so startled he swallowed his fire. In fact, it backfired. There was a sort of internal rushing sound, and flame shot out of the dragon’s tail. The monster straightened, its system reamed out, then curled and thrashed about as the heat of the fire cooked its own flesh. It rolled across the ground—and tumbled over the cliff.

  Now at last my neck healed. The paralysis left me, and I sat up. My right arm remained inoperative, but was also improving. “You do have your points, ogre baby,” I said. For it was a fact that the ogret had just saved me from getting toasted and consumed.

  There was the sound of hooves. Pook was returning.

  “What’s this?” I asked as I stood. “Are you tame now?”

  Pook snorted indignantly and swished his tail. He glanced back over his mane.

  I looked. More dragons were coming. They had us surrounded!

  “I should have known,” I said, flexing my recovering arm. “You figure I can get you out of this?”

  Pook nodded. He had confidence in me. Maybe he had given me more credit for dealing with the flying dragon than I deserved.

  I considered, briefly. “Well, we can’t go back the way we came. And my sword’s down in the—what did the stork call it? The Gap Chasm.”

  The ogret growled. “Oh, yes,” I said. “You need to be delivered, and the stork can’t do it. I guess I do owe you a favor.” That reminded me of Bluebell Elf, and the favors I had exchanged with her. My map was gone, burned, but I no longer needed it; anyway, the Gap had not been on it. I thought again how odd it was that the map should be in error about so gross a feature of landscape, when the elves were generally so meticulous about accuracy. And the stork had been unable to remember it, until actually seeing it. Maybe there was magic involved.

  I peered down the cliff. It was impassable. I looked east, along it—and saw the river. It flowed up the cliff face, over the lip, and on to the north, where I knew it broadened out into a refuge for water dragons. It hadn’t occurred to me that a river could flow up a wall, but, of course, there was a lot of Xanth I hadn’t seen before. I have heard it said that travel broadens the mind; it certainly was doing so for me! “Maybe there,” I murmured.

  I loaded the bundle of joy on the ghost horse, and the hairy hand latched onto another length of chain. I knew the strength of that hand; he would be secure.

  I mounted and guided Pook east to the river. Again I flexed my right arm; it was just about better now. I don’t know how I’d survive without my h
ealing talent!

  We reached the river before the dragons did. The water at the lip was too shallow for the water dragon, fortunately. We could cross it—but so could the land dragons.

  No real escape there.

  How about down into the chasm?

  “We’ll wade upstream,” I told Pook, putting more confidence into my voice than I felt. I headed him for the water at the brink. His ears went flat back and he balked. So I dismounted and led him. I stood at the lip, then stepped over. My body tilted around at a ninety-degree angle, and I found myself standing on the face of the cliff, knee-deep in water. It was working!

  After a moment, with the dragons closing in, Pook followed. His forehooves passed the corner, and he straddled the lip as if it were the top of a pyramid, his belly almost scraping. Then he got his hind legs across and stood with me, his head pointing down into the Gap. “See,” I said. “It has to be level for the water to flow without falling. Rivers have ways of navigating that we can only emulate. As long as we wade, we won’t fall.” I certainly hoped that was true!

  But Pook remained uncertain, so I continued to lead him. We waded upstream, downcliff. A dragon poked its head over the corner, but lacked the courage to follow. After a moment, the dragon fired a jet of flame, but the perspective confused it and the jet missed. We proceeded out of range. Fortunately, no more flying dragons appeared; maybe this region was awkward for their flying.

  The water was cold. The chill of it soon soaked through my boots and into my feet. “We’d better get to the bottom of this,” I remarked, looking down into the Gap. But the bottom was still a long way ahead.

  I moved to the edge of the water channel, hoping the effect extended beyond the water. But I was cautious. I scooped up a handful of water and hurled it to the side, out of the channel.

  The moment the water left the region of the channel, it made a right-angle turn and took off forward, accelerating toward the base of the cliff. I couldn’t hear the splat as it struck, but I knew I did not want to go that route myself.

  Nevertheless, my toes were becoming numb, and I could see that Pook wasn’t comfortable, either. No one likes to get cold feet! At this rate, our toes would freeze before we could get out of the water. I had to do something!

  I bent to peer into the water. Now I saw small fish swimming in it. I scooped one up—and cold stabbed through my hand. That was one cold fish!

  “I wish I had a hotfoot,” I said. “Or a hot dog. That would drive away the cold fish.” But wishes wouldn’t do me much good. I needed something more tangible and immediate. My feet were freezing!

  I glanced back again at Pook. He was shivering. My eye fell on the bundle of joy. A notion bulbflashed in my skull so brightly that I suspect some light leaked out of my ears.

  I went to Pook’s side, selected a chain, and yanked it upward. Naturally it descended on the other side, as all the chains went around and around his barrel. The ogret went down with it, for he was chewing on it and refused to let go. I suppose teething is rough for babies. I continued to haul until the ogret hung upside down below Pook’s belly. He didn’t let go, for no one had knocked him on the head. But when his head dipped into the frigid water, he was annoyed, for no ogre likes to be coolheaded. He roared.

  The force of the roar sent froth shooting through the river. The cold fish scattered in terror, and the water warmed. I hauled down on the chain, and ogret came up on the other side, until he was upright again, still chewing on the link. We proceeded onward.

  After a while, the cold fish came back, so I repeated the performance and drove them away again. By the third time they collected, we had reached the foot of the cliff and were able to step out on upright land. That was a relief!

  Now we were in the Gap Chasm. The river crossed its base and went up the far wall. Came down it, that is. No doubt we could walk up that the same way we had walked down, but I thought I’d explore for an alternate route. I didn’t like having to dunk the ogret all the time, and didn’t want to be caught with cold feet halfway up if that trick didn’t work.

  So I got on Pook, and we traveled west along the floor of the chasm. I spied my trusty sword lying near the river, beside the body of the flying dragon the ogret had backfired. I recovered my blade, welcoming it like an old friend, washed it in the river, and watched bemusedly as the bloodstained water flowed around the corner and up the wall. Fascinating! Then I dried the sword on the hot hide of the flying dragon and returned to Pook.

  It was pleasant here, with green grass, bushes, and patterns of racks and dragon tracks—

  Dragon tracks?

  I examined them more closely. Yes, these were the spoor of a big dragon, one who evidently hunted here. That made me a trifle nervous; I had already had enough experience with dragons to last me the rest of my life—a life that would not necessarily be long, if I encountered one more dragon.

  I was nervous with reason. Now Pook’s ears perked, and I heard it too: whomp-whomp-whomp! That was the whomp of a low-slung, heavy-set dragon!

  The sound was coming from the east, so we galloped west. Soon I looked back and saw it—a horrendously toothed monster of the steam variety. Whomping wasn’t the most efficient way to travel, but with a creature this size, it was fast enough.

  Pook put on a little more speed, and we stayed comfortably ahead of the dragon. That was one big advantage to having a horse! But I saw that the chasm was narrowing, and this made me nervous; suppose it dead-ended? That was one hefty steamer back there; I didn’t think I could slay it. It would take a full-grown ogre to fight that thing!

  An ogre. I glanced back at the bundle of joy. No, that was a baby ogre, formidable enough for his age, but only a tiny fraction of the ugliness and power of a grown one. Some qualities of ugliness take a lifetime to achieve. We’d simply have to escape this dragon—which would be easy enough if the Gap remained wide, and impossible if the Gap became too narrow. I didn’t really care to gamble that the chasm would favor us.

  I looked at the cliffs on either side. No hope there! We needed a channel, a level path cut into the steep slope that a horse could navigate. One trouble about this was that anything a horse could travel, a dragon of this configuration could also travel. Still, if we followed the path and stayed ahead until we got out of the chasm—

  This was the stuff of daydreams. There was no path cut into the side.

  The floor of the chasm became corrugated. There were ridges in it, as if the walls had squeezed together and wrinkled the base. These ridges gradually rose up until they were as high as Pook. I didn’t like this; we were being channelized, and I preferred room to dodge the dragon. If one of these little channels should dead-end, it would slow us in scrambling out, and the dragon would gain on us.

  Pook sniffed. “You smell something?” I asked. “If it’s a way out, I’m for it!”

  He came to an intersection of channels and swung left. The walls of this channel rose up higher, up to my riding head height. Then, abruptly, the channel ended.

  Pook’s hooves skidded, churning up turf, but he couldn’t stop in time. We spun halfway around and crashed into the end. Dirt shook down as we righted ourselves, and the ogret growled.

  Then I saw a tunnel slanting back. It hadn’t been visible from the other side, as the entrance was narrow. And I heard the approaching whomp of the dragon. “Get in there!” I cried.

  Pook squeezed in as the dragon whomped by. I was afraid the dragon would turn and pursue us, so I urged the ghost horse on into the darkness. As my eyes adjusted, I was able to see because wan rays of light leaked in through cracks. This tunnel was close to the surface, but never quite emerging. Where did it go?

  It twisted in wormlike fashion to the right and then began to rise. Surely we would break out of the ridge any moment now! But we didn’t.

  Then I saw a larger crack and paused to peer through it. There was the chasm—slightly below us! We were in the wall!

  We continued on up. The tunnel meandered up and down and around,
and sometimes formed large spirals in the earth, but generally trended upward. I hoped it was a way to the surface. It smelled dank, and there were spider webs in the cracks, so it seemed long disused, but it had to go somewhere. Wherever that was, that was where we were going.

  It took a long time, but our hope ascended as the tunnel did, and we got there. The tunnel finally debouched into a lesser crevice, one running at right angles to the Gap Chasm but intersecting it well above the base, so that we could not have entered here without using the worm tunnel. We followed this one south until it lost interest and surfaced and we returned at last to the ordinary ground of Xanth. This was the heart of what the lost map claimed was ogre country—which was right where I wanted to be.

  Now all I had to do was deliver the bundle of joy to its expecting family and proceed to Castle Roogna. I found I had lost any interest I might have had in challenging a mature ogre to heroic combat. If a baby ogre was this horrendous, I had better stay away from a grown one! But also, I no longer saw ogres as bestial monsters; because of the ogret, I realized that they had personalities and families just as real people did. It’s hard to condemn any creature whose glare and growl has stopped a dragon from consuming you.

  But where was the ogret’s family? Ogre country was a broad, vast region; there could be many ogre tribes, and many families within each tribe. How could I know which one was the right one? Without that information, how could I deliver this bundle of joy?