The Zombie Master shook his head. “I doubt I need to. This is surely what he has in mind. Assuming that Justin is amenable.”
Breanna turned inward, but spoke aloud. “Are you, Justin? Take my mouth.”
How neatly she had put it together! He was overwhelmed. “Yes!” he said with her mouth. “But still, in fairness, I must point out that you are not yet of age to make such a decision. You must wait three years. By that time you may have reconsidered.”
“How about this: we stay together that three years, just as we are now. Then we decide whether we still feel the same way, and want to do it. Maybe I’ll have changed my mind, or you’ll have changed yours. So we can stay together, or separate, or decide to take the position. Then we go to the Good Magician and ask him for the youth elixir. Then we go to your tree, and Magician Trent changes you back to human, and you take the elixir and turn twenty one. Then we get married and move to Castle Zombie for a long time, and stand up for the zombies when they need it. Does this make sense to you?”
Justin, amazed again, couldn’t answer immediately. Her impulsiveness was absolutely delightful, but this was almost too much to assimilate. But Millie kissed Breanna, and the Zombie Master reached out and shook her hand. “It makes sense to us.”
Breanna caught Bink’s eye, and he came over with Chameleon. “You won’t need to worry about Castle Zombie,” Breanna said. “Justin and I may go there, in three years, when we’re young enough and old enough.”
Bink smiled. “I am glad to hear it. It is a most convenient coincidence.”
Breanna laughed. “For sure! I’m glad you didn’t take that position.” She stepped close and kissed him. “Thanks.”
Chameleon raised a brow. “Just what is your relationship with this girl?”
“There’s just something about teenage girls that is appealing,” he said, kissing her. She, of course, was now sixteen.
“I remember,” the Zombie Master said, glancing at Millie.
Then the four of them dissolved into a dialogue about old times. Breanna faded back. “Come on, Justin—let’s go somewhere and pretend that I’m eighteen and you’re twenty one, and we’re kissing.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Of course not. But let’s not tell, okay? Not for three years.”
But they were intercepted by another couple: Mare Imbri in human form, and her partner Forrest Faun. “Would you like a dream?” Imbri inquired.
“For sure! You know which one. Make it extra real.”
“My love is very good at making the unreal extra real,” Forrest remarked, patting Imbri’s bottom.
“Are you trying to be a satyr instead of a faun?” Imbri asked him archly.
“No, I was trying to be more of a satire. The kind curse fiends hate, when they put on a play.”
“This play will be no satire. It’s more of a romance.”
“But it wouldn’t be proper to—” Justin started to protest. However, his heart wasn’t in it. He longed for just such a dream.
Imbri looked into Breanna’s eyes, and through them into Justin’s eyes. “Dreams don’t have to be proper,” she murmured. “That’s part of what the Demon learned.”
Then reality dissolved, and Justin was a virile young man, and Breanna was a lovely black eighteen. They were alone in the glade that once had been filled by his tree form. It was some dream, whose naughty details they would never tell.
Epilog
The Good Magician Humfrey made. his way to one of the few secluded spots on the Castle Roogna premises: the rose garden. The roses were beautiful, fragrant, and restful. He sat down amidst them, closing his old eyes.
“How nice to see you again, Humfrey.”
He didn’t open his eyes. “Go away, Clio; I’m not ready for another challenging historical nexus.”
She laughed. “Have no concern; I will be occupied for some time recording this one. What a delightful girl!”
“Jenny is no girl. She’s a married woman, thanks to our meddling.”
“And Breanna?”
He nodded. “There are appealing qualities about her, despite her youth. She is direct and forthright and determined, and quite ready to challenge the status quo—exactly the kind of representative the zombies need to combat the prejudice of the rest of Xanth. When Mare Imbri told me about her connection with Nimby—”
“Nimby,” the Muse of History repeated thoughtfully. “He gave her back her memory of his true nature.”
“Just as Bink told her of the nature of his talent. It is all information Justin Tree may need, when he becomes the new Zombie Master. It is a more important position than most folk realize.”
It was her turn to nod. “Indubitably. Bink is fortunate. He and Chameleon have a second youth to spend—all so they could serve as an example to those who needed to think of youthening to similar ages. So that they could achieve their necessary if unlikely destinies.”
“And so Bink could handle the rigors of the rest of the mission, and ensure via his talent that it not come to grief.” Humfrey finally cracked open half an eye. “Now if you are quite done reminiscing about the obvious—”
Clio laughed. “For now. But brace yourself; the next volume promises to be more complicated, with a special irrelevant significance.”
The Good Magician groaned.
Author’s Note
The last novel, Faun & Games, introduced the worlds of Ida’s moons; this one explored them farther. Readers have asked me why Xanth has a hell and no heaven; I think heaven is somewhere among those tiny moons. They are larger than they seem from a distance, and there is room for everyone there, even princes and zombies, as we have seen.
I continue to hear from my readers, at a rate of about 150 letters a month, and some have more than puns on their minds. Consider this paragraph by Monica Ramirez:
You know, life is funny. Jenny Elf got hit by a car, sent to the hospital, and put in your books. Other people who get hit by cars aren’t put in novels, but that doesn’t lessen the pain of their families any more. Unfortunately, I had a Jenny Elf experience lately. Not me, a friend of mine. Patricia Foley has been my baby-sitter since my earliest childhood, mine and my sister’s. When my sister would ignore me, I would talk to Miss Pat, as I called her. We’d play board games, and we became close friends. But on February 8, she was crossing the street on her way to a doctor’s appointment and got hit by a car, like Jenny. But unlike Jenny, there was nothing the doctors could do for her, so [they] disconnected the machines that kept her alive. I attended the funeral of my thirty-nine-year-old friend on Monday night. But they never caught the driver who hit her; he just drove on. Most likely he was drunk. Why do people drink and then try to drive? It only results in pain and sometimes death. It’s not fair. She didn’t need to die. Please, Mr. Anthony, why?
It’s really the wrong question. Drunk or reckless drivers do it because they can get away with it, because our legal system doesn’t take the matter seriously. The drunk who took out Jenny Elf never paid any penalty. They don’t give half a darn for the welfare of anyone else. The right question, as I see it, is why does our society allow this pointless mayhem to continue? Freedom is great, but what about the freedom of innocent folk to live in peace without being targets for any idiot with a bottle and a car?
Meanwhile my own dull mundane life continued during the writing of this novel. Last year I bought a right-handed compound bow and learned to fire it reasonably accurately. This time a reader, Dee Lahr (I suspect she’s related to the nice demonesses, such as D. Light or D. Lirium) sold me her composite left-handed bow, and now I am slowly learning to fire it, considerably less accurately. A compound bow is always strung, and has pulley-cams that perform the seemingly magic trick of allowing you to hold the string with only, say, twenty pounds of pull—but when you release it, it assumes the force of fifty five pounds of pull, and propels the arrow viciously forward. Once I developed the muscle to draw that fifty five pounds, so as to reach the twenty-pound let-of
f, it was great. In fact I have now cranked it up to sixty pounds, because I’m doing this for exercise rather than entertainment. But the composite bow is simpler; it must be strung each time, which is tricky if you don’t know how, and there is no let-off. So I work harder to shoot the arrows with considerably less force. But it’s all good experience.
Last year, also, I bought a recumbent bicycle, that resembles a deck chair with wheels. You lean back and peddle out front, and the handlebars are under your seat. It’s weird at first, but a superior machine and a great ride, because there’s no stress on your arms, and no crotch-binding saddle. That set me up for the cycle I bought during this novel, not long after the left-handed bow: the RowBike. It’s actually an exercise machine, but it can be ridden around the neighborhood. You row it, the seat sliding back and forth while you draw the oars, which are the handlebars, and move forward. But it’s awful to balance, at first. You need lots of room to maneuver, but I don’t have room, just a long narrow drive. So I went constantly off the sides and had to slam to a stop. But I’m making progress, and now can make the whole three-quarter-mile trip to the gate in one haul, though I do make constant involuntary S-curves.
So my adventure of life has not ended in my’60s. But it’s not all good. Also in this period I developed a pain in my left upper jaw, together with pressure and cold sensitivity. When it got so bad that I had to take heavy-duty pain pills so as to get to sleep, I went to my dentist. By the day’s end, I had had a root canal job done on a lower left tooth. They call it transferred pain; where I felt it wasn’t where it really was. The discomfort faded, but I had to chew on my right side—which had some similar symptoms in the upper jaw, now that I couldn’t avoid it. I returned in two weeks for a routine followup check—and got another root canal in my lower right jaw, to take care of the referred pain there. My mouth felt better, but in another two weeks I had a third root canal, in the upper right jaw, to clear up the smaller remaining sensitivity. The endodontist seemed to be getting quite cheerful with all that business I brought him. Each one means a reworked crown to follow, too. O joy! That will make my regular dentist happy too. No, I take care of my teeth. It seems that the weak point in the sixteen onlays (partial crowns) I had two decades ago—the experience translated into my dental science fiction novel, Prostho Plus—is the cement. Saliva breaks it down and the germs wedge in, and take out the nerve. So about half of those onlays have been replaced following root canals. Teeth are expensive to maintain. My advice, based on solid experience, is to choose parents with naturally perfect teeth, so that your tooth genes are better than mine.
As I set up to edit this novel, I was letting our ninety-one-pound dog Obsidian out into our fenced yard—we live on a tree farm, but the dog does not roam that, because there are alligators and rattle-snakes and other creatures we don’t want hurt—when I spied an owl in our pool enclosure. Our pool has long since gone natural, somewhat in the manner of my teeth; frogs live in it, dragonflies hatch from it, and a tree poked a branch through its wire-net ceiling. We had a flap, catching dog before dog caught owl. Then the problem: how to get owl out of enclosure? I call her Jean Owl; she’s a barred owl, a foot and a half long, a huge bird. No, not quite as big as Roxanne Roc. She’s been around for years, and uses the trees in our yard for snoozing in daytime. Evidently she got in through the ceiling hole, and couldn’t find her way out. So we propped open the doors, but though she would fly up and sit on the door-sill, she didn’t catch on that it was a way out. Then her offspring, Junior, arrived. Instead of Jean flying out to join him, he flew in to join her. So now we had two owls perched on the pool railing by the door, not knowing the way out. Finally I took tools and ripped out the netting above the door. Then I circled around, sort of herding them toward it, and this time when the owls perched there, they hopped to the top of the open door, and thence back into the wilderness. So I was an hour late starting work, but Jean and Junior were free. All part of the fun of living in the forest, and we wouldn’t be here if we didn’t like nature. We have gopher tortoises living in their burrows against the north and south sides of the house; “Tortle” comes out to watch me practice my archery. Wrens try to nest in my bicycle bags; that’s awkward, because I don’t think they want their eggs to travel up to our gate and back each day. So I covered the back of the bicycle with plastic wrapping material—and they started building their nest in that. So I moved the bike and hung the plastic on an iron ring used for storing wood, and that worked; Carrol and Lina Wren are using it. As I edit this novel, there are perhaps five eggs in the nest. I suspect that in due course they will hatch into Wrenny and Gwenny and their siblings. We like wrens; they are brave little birds, and go after bad bugs. We just have to compromise a bit to make them feel at home.
Some readers may not be aware of the story of Jenny Elf, so I’ll give a brief reprise. She started as Jenny Gildwarg in Mundania, age twelve, crossing the street on a school route, when a drunk driver cruised by the stopped cars and carried her away on his bumper. Fast help got her smashed body to the hospital, but she was given only a fifteen percent chance to survive. But she hung on, and was upgraded to fifty percent after emergency surgery. But she remained in a coma for months, until her mother, in desperation, wrote to her favorite author, in the hope that a letter from him might rouse her. So I wrote to Jenny early in 1989, and they read my letter to her, and the ploy was successful; she did come out of the coma. That was when it became apparent that she was almost totally paralyzed, being able only to wiggle one toe, move her right hand some, and her head some. She couldn’t talk. Her mind was there, but not most of the connections to her body. So began a major one-way correspondence; I still write to her every week, eight years later, and the first year’s letters were published as Letters to Jenny. Now she is twenty, and by the time this novel is published she will be twenty one. The character based on her, Jenny Elf, appeared in Isle of View, has made incidental appearances since, and now is married. I thought it was time. But Jenny in Mundania remains mostly paralyzed, though her computer is a big help. She can speak a few words, and with the aid of leg braces and a wraparound walker and nervous nurses ready to catch her if she falls, can walk a few steps. She has continued her schooling, and hopes to attend college, if the system can handle a person this physically limited.
And what of Breanna? Is there a real life analog? I thought not, but again, as I edited, I saw a page ad in the Sunday supplement Parade for an “In The Limelight Barbie” doll, patterned after the famous white Barbie, but black. She wears a snugly fitting chocolate brown gown, and a metallic cape with a lime-green inner lining, and is described as “boldly stylish.” I have my doubts about coincidence; I think that’s Breanna manifesting in Mundania. Sort of having her fling before settling down to her life’s work.
Suggestions have continued to pile in from readers at a rate faster than I can use them, so some notions I received in 1992 are still waiting for their spot. I try to use the oldest ones first, but they have to fit into the story, and some require special stories. So some old ideas wait, while some new ones get used. So the span of notions used this time date from 1992 to 1997, with most from 1995-96. The most recent is Happy Bed Monster, found orphaned by Sharon Ellis, so she sent Happy to me, and she arrived in FeBlueberry 1997. Happy’s so young she still wears mittens on her six little hands, and hides under my keyboard. She didn’t quite make it into Xanth proper, because nobody much was using beds this time, but she is with me as I type. Maybe she’ll be in the next, Xone of Contention, the novel that will, as the Muse of History remarked, have a special irrelevant significance.
Some readers have commented on my relation to Xanth. Eugene Laubert spoke of Peer Xanth on Knee. Robert White says I am like the Demon X(A/N)TH. Sure: a mule-headed dragon. But it is true that despite the humorous mythology, I do write these novels, and pretty much control what goes into them. Though I identify to a degree with all my characters, I am mainly the ogre. Ogres are justifiably proud of their stupidity.
Some notions were used indirectly. Pedro Léon de la Barra suggested that Xavier and Zora be given an adventure. That didn’t happen, but their son Xeth does have an adventure in this novel. Each character seems to have his/her/its following, and readers are constantly suggesting that old characters be brought back to prominence. For example, Wayne Murphy asked for Dolph, and Dolph does have his chapters in this novel. But normally I don’t list credits for such suggestions. I use both new and renovated characters as the story warrants.
Suggestions continue to pour in from readers. I counted 181 noted but not yet used, and some are ones I had expected to use here, but didn’t. I have used around two hundred here, which is about the limit. Many readers like puns, but others don’t. Some seem to be ambiguous; one told me I used too many, then finished his letter with a page of his own suggested puns. The fact is that I reject as many reader notions as I accept, because they duplicate ones already used or just don’t work well for me. A number of readers want their names used as characters; I limit that, but do use some intriguing names on occasion. Each novel is a kind of balancing act, trying to make the best story compatible with reader satisfaction. Each novel will have some reader who believes it is the best yet, and some other who says it is the worst yet. The cri-tics, of course, think the series should be abolished. What I don’t understand is why they think that no one else should be allowed to read novels that the critics personally dislike; why don’t they just go read something else and leave Xanth alone? Assuming that the critics’ agenda is not simply to make everyone else as miserable as they are.
Here, then, are the credits, listed approximately in order of use, except when several belong to one person: Breanna of the Black Wave—Rachel Browne; Ability to see only mundane things in Xanth—Gavin Lambert; Chewing gum, bananas drive folk crazy—Chris Swanson; barrister/bare aster flower—Rose Blaylock; Banana boat, catamaran for cats, doghouse/puptent—Katie Leonard; Fray D. Cat—Brandy Stark; Perch—Chris Conary; Latchkey kids—Jennie Takata; Keyboard unlocks Writer’s Block—Bryce Weinert/Kristina Courtnage; Xeth Zombie—Angella Castellano; Sleeping bag—Jennifer Walker; Zombie corps d’esprit—Bruce Morton; Penta-gone—Sarah Rushakoff; Hippo-crit—Katrina Brooks; Shortening, largening—Gordon Johnson; Mun Danish, Sapphire Fly; Midas Well—Robert Cobb; Glare of the sun—Megan Thorne; igNore folk—Jenny Wilson; Ayitym, who absorbs one property of what he touches—Nat J. Silva; Tyler, with a different talent each day—Tyler Hudon; William Henry Taylor—Addy Taylor; Ricky Golem—Katelyn Bundrick; Sea Attle—Shelley Robichard; Sea Mint—Michelle Detwiler; Cross Walk, VirginiTree—Andrew Crawford; Back Village should spread out—Dorcas Bethel; Sickly sycamore—Sarah Bennett; Night Foal for Night Mare, Flame Vine—Nicole Adkins; Ability to conjure any kind of seed—Catherine Coleman and Emily Waddy; Choose the breed of one’s future children; fancy spot-on-wall picture talent—Eugene Laubert; Hearing from a distance—Ian Rhoad; Power to create a small void—Michael Tesfay; Conjure a geyser at any spot—Jeremy and Cameron Gray; C puns—George Kummerer; Transformation of the inanimate—Jeremy Schenefield; Alarmed Clock—Sasha Skinner; Time Fly, spasmo tic, irrelevant, ench ant—Robin Tang; Fish Tank—Ben Chambers; Fish bowl with pin and needle fish, Miss Conception, Interpret, Givings, skeleton carrying boot rear, pair o’ docks—Gwyneth Posno; Hair spray, cat scan—Heather Oglevie; Hare comb, Karla Winged Centaur—Karla Sussman; Mr. E—Stephen Stringer; Hack-berry Tree, mud, suds, and hush puppies, sand witch, Che/Cynthia’s foal should have a separate magic talent—Monica Ramirez; Cindy Centaur—John Newton; Root beer with roots—Stephen Vandiver; Jackpot—Brian Baurmash; Currant jelly—Michael J. Kaer; Mouse pad—Kelly Brown; Seymour Bones and Rick R. Mortis—Andrew van der Raadt; Smart Alec, winged goblins should have separate talents—Stephen Monteith; Magic Dust to Mundania—Avery Campbell; De Censor Ship—Meghan Jones; Liquidation—Brian Visel; Time line, chorus vine—Donovan Beeson; Clap hands for reports—Miguel Ettema; Seal of Approval—Nissa Cannon, Miguel Ettema; Reverse wood with lethe = memory enhancer, Toy Let, rain bow—Chris Efta; Forest of Forgetfulness, Chelle—Michelle Crim; Winged humans/birds—Billy Banks; Lady Bug—Abby Everdell; Mega bites—Matthew Bohy; Gooey GUI—Steve Godun; Gnome Well—Rick Frazier; Metro Gnome, re-done-dance—Bonnie Sarkar; Across tics—Andrea Thomalla; Psycho tic, psycho path—Debbie King and Janice Rodriguez; Eye teeth—Juliana Boiarski; Bowling—Daniel Chambers; Lap dogs, hot dogs—Richard A. Medlin; Disperse, disso-lute—Morgan Stecher; Sidewinder—Pamela, John, Jeremy Rowe; Pain ting—Abby Everdell; Running commentary—Nicole Adkins; Running gag—Monique Craig; Wild roses for wild women, fire hydrant, rainbow trout—Justin P. Roth; Floor play—Frederick Douglas Bennet Sr.; Man who likes zombies—Michael A. Weatherford; Justin Tree to have adventure—Justin Henderson; Invisible castle, sticky situation—Arthur L. Bolen; Dream Catcher—description from one sent me by Karen Yoesting; Native American’s dream catchers for night mares—Debbie King and Janice Rodriguez; Forget-me-not extract—Stacy Spitz; Sandy Sandman, goblin-harpy-dragon crossbreed—Laura Brown; Pop quizzes—Anne McAndrew; Govern mint—Chris Robinson; Ant onym—Arthur L. Bolen; Brilli ant, reli ant—Nicole Taylor; Thumb tax—Ryan Manzer; Midget roc bird, role for prior winged mermaid—Suzanne Schack; Aurora—winged mermaid—Ariel Aurora Dawn; Demons become dust devils in Time of No Magic—Andrew Crawford; Sea lion—Austin Hull; The Oliver Twist for poor boys—Allison Meshell; Uncle lions—Jessica Kross and Eileen Wang; Love spring make parental love for child—Meghan L. Card; The flew, lip bomb, Eye-full Tower, club soda, manatees, womanatees, boyatees, girlatees—Aaron Batista and Mike Burkholder; Couch potato—David Hoover; Firebreathing puppy, catfish—Douglas Laidlow and Andrew Gobeil; Story of the misplaced talent—Joy Boem; Serena Winged Girl—Serena Loder; Chea Winged Centaur—Laura Slocum; Sharon Centaur—Sharon Ellis; Erica Winged Mermaid—Erica Hendrix; Bad breath—Kristin Gardner; Living room—Jessica Mansfield; Sun glasses—Scott Josephson; Maxi and mini mums—Margaret Fitzgerald; Two-three-four-five lips—Garrett Perryman; Lip-o-suction, banana cream pie tree—Kurt Parakenings; Envelope/ antelope—Tom Morgan; Talent of bringing characters and items from books—Jeffrey Sosnoski; Talent of molding things into other things—Derrick Walters; Bovine puns—David M. Gansz; Everblue, yellow, and green trees—Bethany Corvo; Dee Composed, Dee Ceased—Brenda Toth; Voracia, Zyzzyva, D. Claire, Nefra Naga—Susan Hatfield; Loni, with undecided hair color—Loni Mori; Brown Knees—Reneé Kuljis; Molly Coddle—Tiffany Stull; Lasha Lamia—Sarah Jo Wagner; Catrana Demoness—Cat Busch; Vera Similitude, with Disa pointer and Up Setter—Samantha Parsons; Tipsy Troll—Sarah Curran; Talent of the cold shoulder, heated exchange—Anonymous; Clinging and Bo Vine—Robert Gallup; Davina—Davina Viniana; Fiona—Fiona Rairigh; A cute gastritis—Miranda Futrel; Cross dressers, Brass ears—Ron Leming; Fire ants—Rick Raddue, Jennifer Henry, Jake Watters; Lake Hogwash—Travis McElroy; Disk cuss—Vasudev Mandyam; Sep tic—Allen Lupfer; Rubber bands—Andrew Graff; Pet peeve—Jerod Browne; Warts make war—Kelly English; CORN Tent Ahead—sign seen by Glenn Puro; Pun cushion—Sheila Cody; Jenny Elf gets a werewolf friend—Kim Livesay; Jeremy Werewolf—John Henry Wilson; Quandary, mass confusion and hysteria—Greg Clem; Ink well, shameless plug in tub—Dana Bates; Aspects of Dolph’s talent—Rachel Choy; Polly Tician—Alan Little; Miss Succubus—Stuart E. Greenberg; Voracia’s variations of bra-nds and bra-ss knuckles, the Iron Maiden’s two forms (and lovely pictures)—Randy Dale Owens; Krissica—Krissica Montano; Selfish Steam—Rich Lynch; cloud of love/hate vapor—Carol Miatke; Cream rinse—Duane Hachten; deoder ant—Alexandra Roedder; Demon E(A/R)™’s departure repeals the law of gravity—Alina Vogelhut; Satire/satyr—Joe Barder.
Zombie Lover Page 33