Some years back I had a problem with my tongue: it got sore when it touched one place in my mouth. A host of specialists could not fix the problem. I remember one: he listened carefully to my description, then checked it by pulling my tongue about a foot from my face and poking his finger two inches through the bottom of my mouth. Okay, so this is a subjective impression; still, it gives me a notion how a horse feels when the vet grabs its tongue. I think my dentist thought the problem was elsewhere in my head, but he made me a stint to protect my tongue from that place, and it works. I still use it. Once I was at a party, and it came out when I was eating, so I put it on the napkin; then my wife threw the napkin away. No, it was an accident; she went and fished through the garbage until she recovered it. And, yes, I did wash it before I put it back in my mouth. I do keep my mouth clean, whatever critics may think; I brush my teeth carefully three times a day, use a special little brush shaped like a Christmas tree once a day, and floss once a week. I also watch my diet, staying generally clear of sweets and alcohol, and of course I am a vegetarian. Yet still my gums recede, making my teeth sensitive and at risk for decay. During this novel it got worse; my gum was festering in one place and the tooth and bone structure were deteriorating. What was the matter? So my dentist sent me to a periodontist, who discovered that it was a specific problem in an otherwise healthy mouth: one root of a root canal job had gotten unsealed, and infection had weaseled in. So he in turn is sending me on to an endodontist, to see if it can be repaired. It seems it’s easier to do a root canal than to repair a bad one. Thus my continuing adventures in dentistry, strictly of the mundane kind.
I also exercise. For over a decade I ran three miles cross country, three times a week, but finally the sand-spurs (Florida’s version of curse-burrs), sugar sand, thorny blackberry bushes, biting flies, and vicissitudes of weather got to me, and I moved it indoors. I used a stationary cycle with connected handles to exercise the arms as well as the legs, and I read publications like Liberal Opinion Week and New Scientist and several health newsletters while doing so, so it didn’t get dull. But those machines wear out or break down, and it happened again during this novel. This time we bought a self-powered treadmill with arm handles. But how could I read? So we bought a music stand to hold the magazines, but it was too short. So we set it up on a stool with a square of plywood on top, but then it was too far away. So my wife brought out her needlework stretcher frame stand, which is a weird multi-jointed wooden device, and clamped it below the top section of the music stand. It was unbalanced, so we put a small roll of fence wire on its feet to stabilize it. And it worked! Now I can read again while exercising. All it takes is a treadmill, stool, plywood, fence wire, needlework apparatus, music stand, and a magazine.
In other respects, life had some unusual aspects. The hottest year on record, 1995, was followed by our coldest winter in some time. As I finished the novel, the Comet Hyakutake passed; my wife and I went out at odd hours of the night to try to outsmart the ornery trees and clouds and moon so as to catch a glimpse of it. I mean, if the brightest comet in five centuries comes to celebrate the completion of my novel, the least I can do is look at it.
Folk also ask about Jenny, my paralyzed correspondent who had been hit at age twelve by a drunk driver, as described in Letters to Jenny. I still write to her every week. At this writing she’s nineteen, and still mostly paralyzed, but she can say several words in one breath, can walk several steps when buttressed by leg braces and a wraparound walker, and uses a computer to facilitate communication. She hopes to go to college, if it can be arranged. But her life is complicated by continuing bouts of jaw surgery and the need for constant attendance. All because one drunk just couldn’t wait for schoolchildren with the right of way to get out of his way.
At this time I also read a book, Robert A. Heinlein’s Grumbles from the Grave. Heinlein was arguably the science fiction genre’s greatest writer. It’s a collection of his letters, mostly to his literary agent Lurton Blassingame, who was also my agent, describing his reactions to idiot editing, critics who pretended to know what was in his mind, the demands of fans who thought he should drop everything and give them his full time, requests for attendance at numerous functions, his travels, and thoughts on life. I relate to it very well, having encountered the same problems. It’s as if other folk believe that a writer’s novels spring full-blown from the head of Zeus, requiring no effort, so that the writer’s time has no value. One reader angrily stopped reading my novels when he learned that I normally work from 9 A.M. to 8 P.M., seven days a week, catching up on reading during meals and exercise, always behind on the mail and whatever else is demanding my attention. I love writing, but it has been decades since I had actual free time; the mail has taken all of it away. I simply do the things I need to do, and try to catch up after.
But that mail has its rewards. I have been credited with saving a number of lives, simply by responding to those who are suicidally depressive, and with teaching a number of children the joys of reading, because they found my funny fantasy the first interesting books. I have grown because of what I have learned from my readers. It is also clear that I will never run out of ideas; my readers are eager to share theirs with me.
Here, at any rate, is the list of credits for this novel, roughly in order of appearance. One of them I am unable to credit, because it dates from a decade or so back and I no longer have the correspondence, but it still deserves a mention. It was a letter from a girl in the neighborhood of twelve who sent me a picture of her ideal planet for a fantasy setting: a triangle. I pointed out that probably it wasn’t flat, but three dimensional, like a pyramid with four triangular faces, and she agreed. That was it; she has since disappeared into adulthood, I’m sure. But the notion remained, and finally I decided to use it. So if by chance that vanished girl is still reading Xanth, this is my credit for the notion. Thank you for Pyramid.
Shorter shrift to the others, though they are similarly deserving: Kara Oke—Sarah P. Bonnett. Gladiolas, horse radishes, Ray D O, Alpha Centauri, Attila the Pun—Katie Leonard. Com Passion—Gordon Johnson. Compatible female computer for Com Pewter; Cathyrn Centaur, with talent of blankets—Karla Sussman. Pewter chips—Dana Bates, Gregory Masseau, Andrew Graff. Cereal port for the mouse—Thomas-Dwight, Sawyer, Dorr. Demoness Sire, Deanna Fauna—Sarah Curran. Doughnut—Nicole R. Fuller. Psychologist shrinks folk—Rachel Gutin. Mer-dragon—Thomas Ferguson. Locomotive, Rave-on, talent of changing things to strawberry jam, talent of charisma, Ark-hives with books—K. Benjamin Perilstein. Dot, with spots on wall talent—Eugene Laubert. Talent of frightening folk—Danny Barton. LA as a name—Chris Seagrave. Air mattresses in the Nameless Castle—Adam Ross. Kero, winged unicorn—Vickie Roberts. Chemare, centaur night mare—Lizzy Prosser. Ilura, centaur filly—Ilura Windus. Imina and Imino Hurry—Rich Frazier. Dear horn, invisible ink pen—Jennie Metcalf. Vision Centaur, gen-e-tic—Patrick M. Burns. Gallop poll—Misty Zaebst. Half brother, Glitter Golem—Mandy Owston. Jelly fish; cat people—Nick Lawton. Sock that punches, jump rope—Lara Petredis and Amy Baniecki. Bay-bee—Robert Cobb. Polynomial plant with square roots, turtle recall—Kenneth Cain. Knuckleheads—Carl A Snodgrass. Venetian blinds—ThomasSawyer Dorr. See weed—Erin Hoffman. See-an-enemy—Jake Watters. B’s, tac-tic—Stephen Monteith. Punnsylvania punitentiary—Neil Ballou. R-tickle bush, head line—Ari S. Rapport. Spaghetti plant—Ken “Wirehead” Wronklewicz. Man-Age-Mint—Liz Driver. Fourteen crosses, and the “crossing” crosses; petrified wood—Robert Charles Pickthall. Revy—Jamie Mastros. Demos; Wigo, Hugo and Wira’s daughter—Kenneth D. Hardy. Nigel—Star Nicholson. Talent of being the exception (Scintilla)—Sarah Gordon. Talent of entering books and changing their story lines (Hugh Mongus)—Brian J. Laughman. Miss Gnomer—Richard Vallence. Canary Island, C-gulls, night hawk, mockingbird—Malcolm Jones. Owl Tree—Patrick J. Hall. Waterfoul—Debby Enloe. Good Magician’s castle on Ptero—Ray Koenig. A funeral procession in Xanth—Seth Poor. The stork’s view—Nick Kiefel. Justin Case—
Mike Weber, Meghan Jones, Laura Petredis, Amy Baniecki. Justin Time—Brandon Eller, Laura Petredis, Amy Baniecki. The play Raven, Sonata Socksorter. Miss Take, Out Take—Dale Saunders. Dawn & Eve description: Dawn Mynatt. Dawn & Eve go on a quest—Emily Ashcroft. Lings who do the impossible—Adam Williams. The seas: jealous, Indecen, Mer; sham rock—Wayne Gile. Sham rock makes you deceitful; Cat-I-pillar—Kirsten Slotter. Night-shade and sweetgum trees—Tyler Merchant. Assorted teas—served by June Bugg, a character in the fiction of Don Edward Davis. Spellcheck—Vicky Peterson. Talent: changing the color of the sky—Michael Ferreira. Throwing the voice, Hand gun—Kate McCrimmon. Ultra-Violent light bulb—Mat Powerman Powers. Jan Itor, A. Lert, talent of sending the wind—Matt Trost. Tooth-paste, Electra’s outlet—Meghan Jones. De-odor-ant—Benny Irizarry. Mountain goat, Polly Morph, Ghina—Jennifer Gregory. All ears creature—Chris Higgins. Todd Loren—Lori Munion. Lady Winter—Mike Ferreira. The super tangle tree, the Golem King—Jay W. Harmon. Hollow Day—Dale Saunders, Saaun Kline. Isle of Niffen—Sarah Schmidt. Talent of putting folk to sleep—Chris Robinson. Geddy Goblin—Stacy Ksenzakovic. Jfraya—Cheryle Koch. Talent of drawing a door that opens—Johnny Fink. Wolf spider howling—Sasha Skinner. Tea tree, Tree Tea—Brandon Eller. More fancy teas, seven bulls—Samantha Parsons. Ilene, Gerrod—Angella Castellano. Dire wolf, King Cobra—Robin Tang. Largemouth bass—Kris Stroup. Chess nut, Hu Man—Gregory Masseau. Kerby—Robin Jeffreys. Steel plant, stratagems—Carl A. Snodgrass. Basketball—Katie Leonard, Daniel Chambers. Toe jam from toe berries—Caroline Wilson. Pi tree with 3.14 pies, Guardian angle, Polly Graph—Eric Steiger. Geis-a girl—Kirsten Slotter’s dad. Grey Murphy taking away magic, as punishment—Veronica Frank. Talent of blessing—Trista Casey. Grounds for divorce; cuss toady—Sue DiCamillo. Tropical depression—Donovan Lee Beeson. Atlas Mountains—Daniel Chambers. Bookworm—Shelly Robichard. Ten centaurs (of thirty-five)—Christopher “Joker” Justino. Bluejay—Angela C. Moerschell. Bull horn—Larry Hornbaker. When mites go up, tites come down—Mr. Ferguson or Professor Martin, relayed by Sheryl Stewart, who isn’t sure which man told it. Ore tree, Cerci—Jamie Malos. Watch band—Nathan Paquette. Watch dogs—Richard A. Medlin. Grant & Isabella, Grey & Ivy’s children—Amy Whitacre and Brookie Butler. Emily Carolyn, with talent of borrowing talent for an hour—Carolyn Bernhard. Arien, talent of borrowing talents—Robyn Fitkin. Nora Naga—Katie Green. Son of Trent and Iris ages rapidly; talent of reversing talents—Zoë Marriott. Misty Meanor—Margaret Fitzgerald. Children of Girard & Gina Giant—(anonymous because I forgot to list the credit). Chaos, son of Metria—Devon Prewitt. Talent of making things transparent—Emily Waddy. Mourning & Knight Naga—Dwayne E. Favors. Barking lot, Airy with diction—Liz Homsy. Ray of sunshine—Ray Koenig. Punkins—Cliff Roberts. Faun & nymph glade scene—Barbara Hay Hummel.
I’ll try to use up more of the pun backlog in the next one, Zombie Lover, a year hence, if they don’t rot first.
Turn the page to continue reading from the Xanth Novels
1
BLACK DREAM
Breanna felt fortunate. It was partly her appearance, which was filling out nicely: she had lustrous black hair to her waist, and glowing green eyes. Her dark skin fairly shone. That was because she was a bright healthy girl of the Black Wave, and proud of her heritage. She should really be something, she thought, when she finally turned sixteen.
She turned away from the mirror pond and looked for a blackberry pie to eat before dawn. And that was the main thing: alone among the teens of her village, she had a magic talent. Normally only a baby delivered in Xanth had magic, but she was special. She blessed the day she had discovered it, for it had changed her life. She had come to the Land of Xanth with her Wave six years ago when she was nine, and thought she would never have magic. How wonderfully wrong that had turned out to be!
Her talent was to see in blackness. That was why she now went about by night, and slept during the day. It was just so much more interesting at night, when other human folk were sleeping, and the weird creatures of darkness were abroad.
Oh, yes, there was danger. But she had obtained a safety spell that warned her of any direct threat to her tender flesh, and that was enough. She hoped. She hadn’t renewed it recently, so the spell might be fading. She was able to move quickly and silently and lose herself in the night, foiling most monsters. She also had a sharp dagger, which she hoped she would never have to use as other than a threat. Meanwhile the lure of the mysteries of darkness drew her to ever farther explorations.
There were no pie trees close by, but she did spy a tart bush. Tarts were a bit sharp on the tongue, but would do. She picked a black raspberry tart and bit into it, and it was fine. She found a coffee tree with a cup of black coffee, and that was fine too. At home she wasn’t allowed to drink coffee yet, but that was yet another adventure of going out on her own: no one told her what not to do. Her folks were so dull that they could see only mundane things, despite living in a magic realm now. They would need special magic glasses to see most of the magic of Xanth.
Breanna really didn’t miss Mundania. Xanth was so much more interesting. Oh, there were dangers, but they were mostly magical, instead of dreary things like robbers and drunk drivers. She might have liked to have some chewing gum, but here it was as apt to chew the person as to be chewed.
She saw what looked like a barrister bloom. Maybe if she wore its flower, it would enable her to argue her case better at home. It had a nice daisy-like flower. But as she touched it, something awkward happened. She jumped back. Oh, now she saw that it was a different plant, a bare aster. She wouldn’t want to wear one of those flowers.
She came to a river that seemed a bit too wide and deep to wade across. Fortunately there were big banana plants, or plantains, growing by its banks, with the biggest fruits she had seen. Magic could be very good for plants. So she grabbed onto an old plantain and managed to haul it down. She wedged it open and scooped out the remnant of its pulp. Now she had a banana boat. She used an old stem as a paddle, and moved across the water.
Another craft came floating down the stream. It was small, and had two hulls, and several cats were on it. Oh—a catamaran. It figured. It had a sail, but one cat was busily shredding it with its claws. Then the cat spied Breanna, and dived down out of sight, terrified. That one would be called Fray D. Cat, she was sure.
She landed, and saw a big dog house with a small pup tent beside it. That too figured: big dog, little dog. Things tended to be literal, in Xanth.
She saw a bright rift forming in the east, and realized that it was the first crack of dawn. Night was over, and soon light would spill through the crack and inundate the region, flooding it with day. So it was time for her to sleep. She loved her talent, but it did have the small disadvantage of making daylight uncomfortably bright for her. She acclimatized when she had to, but preferred not to bother. Also, she got tired, after being active all night. So now she simply slept in the daytime, when away from home.
Unfortunately she wasn’t sleepy yet. Oh—because of that coffee. She should have remembered that it had a mild wake-up spell. That was why her folks didn’t let her drink it: they said she was enough of a handful by day, and they didn’t need to have her active by night too. How little did they know! But though she hated to admit it, their rule would have helped her in this case. How could she get her rest?
She looked around. She saw a large dried fish mounted on a pole. Birds were coming in to sit on it. That was a perch; it was a favorite resting place for birds. But she was no bird.
There was a commotion, and several small metallic objects ran by. They looked like keys for doors, still new and shiny. Oh—those would be latchkey kids, running home. As she herself should be doing, if she weren’t too ornery to give up her adventure. She saw them charge up to a big block marked WRITER. What were they doing around a writer’s block? They climbed up on top of it, where there was a board. They settled down comfortably on that board, each little key evidently having its own spot.
When every key was in place, the block put down wooden pegs and walked away.
“Oh, I get it,” Breanna said. “The key board unlocks the writer’s block.” But her problem wasn’t being blocked, but needing to get some sleep.
She saw a spreading tree whose branches might offer a decent place to be. But then she recognized it as a sycamore, and the last thing she wanted was to get more and more sick.
Then she remembered something she had seen nearby: dark glasses. They were supposed to have a spell to put folk to sleep. So she walked back to the spectacle bush she had passed recently and checked it over. Sure enough, one of its offerings was a handsome dark pair. And, conveniently close, was an open shelter with what looked like a comfortable bed under a pleasant canopy. Nobody was using it, so she would borrow it for a few hours.
She lay down on the bed, put on the dark glasses, and closed her eyes. Immediately she felt the magic taking hold, and sank into a lovely dark slumber.
Suddenly Breanna couldn’t breathe; something was covering her mouth and squishing her nose. She struggled, reaching wildly with her arms—and discovered that a head was resting on her face. It was a man. In fact, he was kissing her!
Faun & Games Page 34