Then he realized what would. “Who is stupidest?” he asked.
“Me!” the first ogre cried, forgetting to rhyme.
“Me, me!” another exclaimed, remembering.
There was a chorus of claims, for of course each was proud, and considered himself the stupidest creature of all time. But finally one emerged as dominant: the hugest and slackest-jawed of them all. He was so muscular that when he tried to think, the muscles bulged on his head, but so stupid that his effort to think couldn’t even dislodge the fleas; his skull couldn’t get hot enough.
“Well, I am stupider than you,” Esk asserted. “I’ll prove it.”
Then he concentrated, and his terror of failure invoked his ogre strength. He marched across and wrapped his arms around the ogre’s legs, and picked him up and swung him around, exerting all his ogre power, and cracked the ogre’s head into a tree. The tree snapped off, but the ogre wasn’t hurt, of course.
The ogre was, however, annoyed. Ogres didn’t really like snapping tree trunks with their faces; they preferred ham fists. He snatched up the fallen trunk and swung it toward Esk, ready to smash him down into the ground with a single blow.
Esk stood his ground. “What could be stupider than doing what I did to an ogre like that?” he asked.
The ogres considered. Then, as the tree came down and Esk jumped aside, they started to laugh. The welkin shuddered with their haw-haws, making the sun vibrate and shed a few rays, and even the ogre Esk had attacked joined in. It was a good joke indeed. Nothing could be stupider than that!
“That was a darn fool thing to do!” Latia snapped.
“Totally idiotic!” Bria said.
“Precisely,” Esk agreed. “It was the stupidest thing I could have done.”
They were silent, acceding to the sincerity of his claim.
Thus it was that Esk’s party impressed the ogres and won their support for the mission. Now all they had to do was survive the ogres’ welcoming party and manage to explain how to reach the Vale of the Vole from here. The ogres would help.
Chapter 12. Wiggle
Volney tunneled down toward the wiggle princess, guided by the locator pebble the squiggles had given him. This stone, like the other, was reversed for him; he had to orient on the foulest taste, avoiding the good taste.
The wiggles, as he understood it, were the strongest borers of all the clans of the voles. More correctly, their larvae were. When a pair of wiggles mated, the female went to a suitable patch of rock and made her nest, and when the larvae hatched they drilled out into that rock in an increasing radius until they found good locations for feeding and growth. Very few were lucky; the great majority of the thousands of larvae perished when they used up all their strength in the vain search.
The wiggles’ problem was that their tastes were highly selective. Each individual liked only a particular flavor of rock, and would not eat any other. Since there were many hundreds of flavors, and the veins of rock were randomly distributed, the chances of a single wiggle larva happening on its particular flavor were perhaps one in a thousand. There were several thousand larvae in a typical swarm, so normally a few did find their homes. This was the reason that the ground was not overidden with wiggles; a female mated only once, and was thereafter sterile, because all the egg cells in her body were expended in the laying of the larvae. In any given year, there would be only one or two swarms, limited to their particular veins of stone. It might have helped if the stone that was suitable for swarming was the same as what was suitable for eating; then all the larvae would settle down immediately and eat.
But as he reviewed this in his mind, Volney saw why this was not so. If all the thousands of wiggle larvae ate the rock they swarmed in, they would soon finish it, and the vein would become a pulsing mass of partially matured wiggles. None of those would grow to maturity, because the food would be gone. All would perish, and the swarm would die out without descendants. So it was necessary for swarm taste and grow taste to differ, the swarm taste was identical for all the larvae, while the grow taste was different for each. The wiggle system really did make sense, when taken on its own terms.
But this particular wiggle princess, the squiggles had explained, was a mutant, or close to it. There was normally a good range of variation in a swarm, with the tastes of individual larva including the most mundane flavors of rock and the most exotic. The flavor required for swarming matched that of the princess’s food; since she normally consumed most of the food in the process of maturing, she then had to find similar rock in another place for her nest. This particular female had an extremely exotic taste, so had been unable to find any more of her kind of rock. She could not mate until she was assured of a proper nesting site. Once she found that, she would summon a male, and they would mate, and she would go to the new site to make the nest.
The reason the squiggles, who were fairly canny creatures, thought Volney might be interested, was that this princess’s taste was for air-flavored stone. She had found her vein and consumed it, but that seemed to be the only such vein available. Generally wiggles preferred rockflavored stone; she was a real rarity. But what she might not realize was that there was a good deal of air-flavored stone on the surface, because of the way the air contaminated everything it touched. In fact, a similar taste accounted for those few swarms that occurred at the surface, when a wiggle female happened on the surface and had a matching taste. The creatures of the surface believed that they had to destroy every wiggle larva in the swarm to prevent any from generating new swarms; that was their ignorance. The truth was that their effort made very little difference, apart from some temporary complications caused by the manner the larvae drilled through things, because none of the larvae would have the same taste as their queen-mother. Only those with some taste for deep rock, who managed to reach a suitable vein of it, would survive. All the surface creatures needed to do was ignore the swarm, and it would pass. Thus spake the squiggles, who had been more than satisfied to educate one of their lofty volish cousins on the facts of life at the other end of the spectrum.
All this was news to Volney, who had shared the conventional surface creature alarm about wiggle swarming. That showed that there was some justice to the attitude of the lower species of ground borers: the voles of the Vale had gotten out of touch, and were forgetting the nature of their relatives. He would have to reeducate his companions of the Vale, once this mission was over.
But first he had to get it over, and that was not a sanguine prospect. Though a wiggle swarm might not be the disaster he had supposed, it would still be devastating enough in the temporary sense, because of the way the larvae drilled through everything they encountered, leaving their little zzapp holes. Such holes could be quite painful for other living creatures, and even lethal. To loose a swarm on the Vale of the Vole—he remained uncertain how wise that might be, even if the voles and other creatures there had sufficient warning to evacuate the area until the swarm had passed. Concerns of this nature had caused him to dismiss the notion of seeking the wiggle princess out of paw, before. But now, with the failure of the other two members of the party to obtain help, he had to try it. He hoped he wasn’t making a terrible error.
Such were his thoughts as he tunneled down at a slant, following the foul taste of the pebble. Periodically he rested and ate some fruit and root from his pouch, for this was an extensive dig. In due course he slept, keeping his whiskers alert for nickelpedes; he had no intention of being trapped that way again!
After two days, the sourness of the pebble practically numbed his tongue. He was getting close!
Indeed, in another moment he broke through to the tunnel network of the princess. He blinked, for it was lighted; bright fungus grew on the walls, illuminating the region in pastel shades. There was a definitely feminine aura here; he would have known immediately that this was the abode of a female even if he had stumbled on it by accident. He paused to prepare himself for the encounter, then sent out a call in voletalk.
/> She answered immediately. “Who intrudes on my network?”
Volney was taken aback. Her voice, in vole terms, was dulcet. He had expected a somewhat grating encounter, for his kind had very little contact with her kind.
“I am Volney Vole, seeking perhaps a favor.” His words reminded him of the manner his human and centaurian companions hissed their “s” sounds, making their speech artificial; he was of course too polite to mention it to them, realizing that they probably suffered from infirmities of their palates.
She appeared, and he was surprised again. She was a surprisingly petite creature, reminiscent of a female of his own species, with gray fur that seemed to glow. She resembled a wiggle larva not in the slightest; she was definitely of the family of voles.
“And I am Wilda Wiggle,” she responded. “I would be more than happy to grant you that favor, but I am not at the moment seeking a mate.”
“So I have been informed,” he said, surprised at her interpretation. He was not her type! A vole and a wiggle, however compatible physically, were incompatible genetically; they could only go through the motions of mating, never producing offspring. “My favor is not of that nature; I am not of your particular species.”
“What is it, then?” She fluffed out her fur, looking very pretty. Volney became conscious of the grime on his own fur, because of his two days of boring. He should have taken time to lick himself clean! But he had a remedy: he shifted to his surface suit, his fur turning gray, his eyes brown. Because he had not been boring in that, it was clean.
“I am from the Vale of the Vole, and we have a severe problem. The demons are harassing us, and they have straightjacketed our formerly friendly river, the Kiss-Mee, and made it and the Vale unfriendly. We are seeking some way to drive the demons off, so that we can restore the river to its natural and superior state, so that our Vale may be pleasant again.”
“That is very interesting, I’m sure,” she said politely. “But I think it is no affair of mine.”
“It occurred to me that if a wiggle swarming were to occur in that vicinity, the demons would be discomfited, and would depart, allowing us to restore the river.”
“But wiggles do not swarm on the surface,” she protested. “There is no decent-tasting rock there!”
“There may be,” he said. “According to the squiggles, who bore both in the depths and near the surface, there is a good deal of air-flavored stone at the surface.”
“Air-flavored stone?”
“I understand that the flavor you prefer is of that nature.”
“I know what I like, but I never knew what it was called. Do you mean to say that there is stone in the flavor I require at the surface?”
“The squiggles seem to think so. When I first encountered them, they mistook me for you, because of the odor remaining on my fur. Therefore it seems that the particular atmosphere of the Vale may be compatible for you.”
“You don’t smell like my rock,” she protested.
“It has largely dissipated now, for I have been some time away from the Vale. But perhaps some smell remains in my pouch.” He opened his pouch.
She sniffed. “Yes! That is my flavor! Oh, I wish I had known before! I must mate and go there immediately!”
“There is a complication,” he said. “The larvae of a wiggle swarm are damaging to the creatures of a region.”
“Damaging? I know nothing of this.”
“That is because your kind normally swarms in limited veins of specialized rock, where no other creatures live. On the surface the range of a swarm becomes virtually unlimited, because the larvae travel through the air, which offers little resistance. They leave holes in the creatures, which is awkward.”
“Oh, I see. I suppose that could be awkward, as you say. But why don’t you use a containment spell?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“A containment spell. This has been used historically by our kind on those rare occasions when our territory overlaps that of other creatures. It confines the swarm to a set radius, so that no harm occurs beyond it.”
“But doesn’t that interfere with your cycle of reproduction? If the larvae cannot travel freely, how can they find the rocks they need?”
“Not any more than a limited vein of swarming rock does,” she pointed out. “We wiggles are accustomed to limitations. If the containment spell limits only the radius and not the depth, some larvae will find deep rock. Those that remain on the surface have no chance anyway, as they seek a different flavor.”
Volney was highly gratified. “Then it appears we can exchange favors,” he said. “Tell me where this containment spell is, and I will tell you where the Vale is.”
She was visibly pleased. She fluffed out her fur some more, and gazed at him with eyes that shifted from brown to gray as her fur converted the opposite way. “It is lost at the moment; someone carried it into a gourd and failed to bring it out.”
“Would that be on the Lost Path in the gourd?” he asked, remembering something that Esk had said.
“Why, yes, I suppose so. So if you go there, you should be able to find it.” She gazed at him with those big eyes, that were now turning from gray to violet, while her coat became pleasantly green. It was evident that the wiggles were more versatile about coloration than the voles were. “You are a handsome vole, Volney.”
“The Vale is—are you familiar with the outline of the land of Xanth?—it is in the central part, south of the Gap Chasm, north of Lake Ogre-Chobee.”
“I am sure I can find it,” she said. Her eyes were brightening to red, while her fur was turning silver. “I am so glad you came to see me!”
There was something about her attitude that nagged him. He looked into her face, and realized what an extraordinarily attractive creature she was. Those blazing red eyes—
Red eyes! That was the color of mating!
“I must dig on, now,” he said quickly. “So nice to have encountered you.”
“Remain awhile,” she breathed. “We could have such a good time.”
He realized now what had happened. Wilda had found a suitable place to nest, because he had told her of the Vale and confirmed it with a smell. That had moved her into her mating phase—and he was the closest male. Wiggles were not the brightest of voles, just as the diggles weren’t; they were governed mostly by staggered instincts. First a wiggle found a place to eat and grow; then the males turned to prowling and the females searched for nesting sites. Once the sites were found, the females were ready to mate, and the first male who prowled their way was the one. That normally did not take long, because they put out a mating scent that attracted any males in the vicinity.
The mating scent! That was why she was becoming so attractive! She was starting to generate it, and he was feeling its initial impact. They might be of different species, but it seemed that this type of scent signal was universal. If he remained, he would soon be overwhelmed by it, despite the distinction of species, and—
And it was a trap. Not because there was any danger in the act itself; it was apt to be quite pleasurable. But because they were of different species.
“Remember, I am a vole, while you are a wiggle,” he reminded her.
“Don’t tell me you are prudish about cultures,” she murmured, rubbing her fur against his. The process sent an electric tingle through his body.
He took a deep breath—and realized that the mating scent was getting to him. He would be overwhelmed all too soon, and then he wouldn’t care about species.
“It isn’t prudishness,” he explained. “It’s pointlessness. We would not be fertile; you would produce no swarm.”
“I don’t understand that,” she said. “When one mates, one produces. One swarm; then one joins adult society, and subsequent matings are infertile.”
“The genes differ. You need to mate with one of your own species, a wiggle male. I’m sure one will happen along soon.” Because the mating scent could circulate through the fissures of the rock, reaching
prospective males, who would delay not a moment.
“Let’s not wait,” she said, nuzzling his neck.
The scent was about to overpower him. Volney knew why this was wrong, but now he was having trouble remembering. Did it really matter? She was such a lovely creature!
Then he had a desperately bright notion. He took the guide pebble from his mouth and jammed it up his nose. Now the bitterness of it overwhelmed the alluring mating scent, and his mind reverted to normal.
Now it was clear to him why this was a dangerous trap. If he tried to mate with her, it would not take. Therefore she would not become gravid, and her mating instinct would not abate. She would continue her desire to mate, and her scent and appearance would reflect that desire—and he would find himself locked into a perpetual mating role. She would not seek any other while he was there, and no wiggle male would intrude, however eager, for no volish creature was wanton about mating; thus there would be no way for her to become gravid. And no way for him to escape, because a male could not deny the mating scent when it was in full strength.
He would never leave this tunnel, not even to eat. He would gradually starve, unable to wrench himself away, and his last act before he died would be another mating with her. Nature’s natural curtailment would not be invoked, because of the genetic incompatibility. Other creatures of Xanth could crossbreed, but not the voles; they were pure strains, kept pure by this limitation.
Well, it might be possible for the mating to take, if enhanced by the elixir of a love spring, or by an accommodation spell. But neither was present on this occasion, so that was of no significance.
“Don’t you like me?” Wilda inquired.
He did not want to affront her, because he wanted her cooperation when she did successfully breed with one of her own kind. A wiggle swarm, suitably contained, should banish the demons from the Vale, and certainly it would ruin the demons’ dikes and let the water out of the Kill-Mee channels. “I simply want what is best for you,” he said. “And that is a mating with one of your own species. I must go locate the containment spell.” And that was most of the truth—about all she might be capable of assimilating.
Vale of the Vole Page 22