Ghost Writer in the Sky

by Anthony, Piers

  Tartan and Tara exchanged a private look. Neither liked the sound of that doubt.

  The gourds were in a separate little garden. They looked like squash plants with green gourds on stems, not unusual at all.

  “Each of you must take a gourd, lie down comfortably, set it before you, and link hands with the others in your party,” Rose said. “Only when all of you are linked should you look in your respective peepholes. We will see that you are not disturbed during your session.”

  “Thank you, Rose,” Dolin said. “We truly appreciate your assistance.”

  “We do,” Emerald said. “We know it can be dangerous to use a gourd without a guardian.”

  Each person settled comfortably in the gourd patch. Tartan sat down on the spongy ground and lifted a gourd onto his lap, its stem trailing like a power cord. Tara sat next to him on his right side and put another gourd on her lap. Dolin was next to her, and Emerald next to him. Amara was next, then Mera, completing the circle on Tartan’s left.

  “Woof!”

  “Oh, of course, Tata,” Amara said. She set the dogfish on her lap beyond the gourd, and brought in a smaller gourd for him.

  “Now you may peep,” Rose said.

  Tartan hesitated, as did Tara. Dolin turned his gourd so that the end opposite the stem came up, and looked into the circular peephole there. He froze in place. Emerald, Mera, and Amara did the same, freezing similarly. So did Tata.

  “You must join them,” Rose reminded them gently. “Otherwise they will be concerned by your absence from the dream.”

  “Oh, yes,” Tara said, and oriented her gourd and looked. She, too, froze.

  “Get on it, slowpoke,” Ted said.

  Tartan was nervous, but knew he had to follow through. He brought his own gourd’s peephole around and looked.

  He was standing by the gate to a rundown residence on a rundown lot. The whole scene was spooky but completely realistic. He touched the gate, and it was solid and a bit slimy. He felt solid himself. The others were there too, and the dogfish. It was as if they had all stepped from garden to gate without any transition.

  “I have heard of this setting,” Amara said. “The gourds provide access primarily to the night dreams, which specialize in horror, in contrast to the day dreams. So naturally it’s spooky. That’s a haunted house.”

  “Why not a nice dream?” Dolin asked. “Many folk have pleasant dreams at night.”

  “There are nice dreams, of course,” Amara said. “But it seems that it is the bad dreams that have to be specially crafted, as they are intended to punish bad folk for doing their bad things. I understand that once the bad dreams got nullified, and bad folk ran riot, because they no longer feared punishment at night. It’s like the adult conspiracy: many folk don’t like it, but it does serve a purpose.”

  “So we have to endure a stupid haunted house?” Tartan asked, annoyed. “When we came here only to see the Night Stallion?”

  “There should be a way to bypass it,” Mera said.

  “Woof.”

  “Oh, is that so?” Amara asked the dogfish. “By all means show us.”

  Tata nudged the gate, which creaked open, and trotted across the unkempt lawn to a large sinister tree. He sniffed the base of the trunk. “Woof.”

  They followed, coming to stand around the tree. “Are you sure?” Amara asked.

  “Woof.”

  She turned to the others. “He says we should knock on the trunk.”

  “Why not?” Dolin asked. He stepped up and rapped on the bark with a knuckle.

  A door slid open. There was a lighted interior.

  “But that’s bigger than the tree trunk,” Tara said. “I can see that from here.”

  “We call it Mundanitis,” Amara said. “Being constantly surprised by magic, as if you haven’t seen it before.”

  “We haven’t,” Tartan said, coming to Tara’s rescue. “Not in Mundania.”

  Amara and Tata stepped inside. “This is the bypass,” she said. “Come on in.”

  The others joined her. The chamber was indeed larger inside than outside, and there was room for all of them. “It’s like an elevator,” Tara said.

  “What is that?” Dolin asked, and Emerald, Mera, Amara, and the dogfish looked similarly confused.

  “It’s a Mundane artifact,” Tara explained. “You step inside, the door closes, and it takes you to the floor you want.”

  “That’s magic,” Emerald said.

  “That’s science or technology.”

  “Surely different names for the same thing,” Dolin said diplomatically.

  The tree door slid shut. Now Tartan saw the panel of buttons on the wall beside the door. They weren’t marked. “Do we have to guess where to go?” he asked.

  “So it seems,” Tara said. “It isn’t as if we have a destination in mind, other than finding the Night Stallion.”

  “Maybe Tata can sniff him out,” Tartan said.

  “Not if he doesn’t want to be found.”

  Tartan punched a random button. The door slid open. Was that the door opener so they could exit without going anywhere? No, the scene outside was different.

  They stepped out. They were now in a kind of forest amphitheater with wide open sky above.

  A winged creature swooped down toward them faster than a bird or a plane. It was a bat. It banked and pulled up just before them, then did a fast loop in the air, like an airplane. Then it folded its wings and plummeted, almost smashing into the ground. It flew straight up like a rocket.

  There was a bong. The bat flew to a nearby tree and caught a branch, where it hung upside down.

  Another bat took to the air. This one zoomed around in an ascending spiral, then did a triple flip and went into a descending spiral.

  There was another bong. The bat went to hang on the tree.

  A third bat swooped in. This one hovered for a moment, then took off backwards, amazingly.

  “They’re showing off,” Emerald said. “But why?”

  “And why before us?” Mera asked. “We’re not really part of this framework.”

  “Woof.”

  “That’s it,” Amara said. “Tata got it. They’re Acro-Bats, performing stunning aerial displays before a captive audience.”

  Tartan and Tara groaned almost together. “So this is not a pun-free zone,” he said.

  “Of course it isn’t,” Amara said. “Some of the darkest dreams are pun-fested.”

  “Nevertheless, they are impressively skilled,” Dolin said. “Good job, bats.”

  The bats made an appreciative chirp.

  “Obviously the Night Stallion isn’t here,” Tara said. “Shall we try another address?”

  They returned to the tree, entered its chamber, and touched another random button. This time the door opened on a lot with an odd building. It appeared to be made entirely from clothing.

  “That’s a nice skirt,” Tara said, touching that part of a wall.

  Mera touched it too. “I have a notion about fabrics, from Mother Tapis’s work. Imitation blue chipmunk fur with a Freudian slip lining.”

  Tartan realized that he was hearing a loose translation, because Mera dated from before Freud’s time, assuming there was any parallel in time frames.

  “I love it!” Tara said longingly.

  The house collapsed, leaving her holding the skirt.

  “Oops, I said something I shouldn’t! I didn’t mean to ruin it!” she said, appalled.

  “Maybe you didn’t,” Tartan said. “I think that’s a Wear-House.”

  “Oh.” She thrust the skirt forward, and the house of clothing reformed around it. “That sort of thing could be useful,” she said. “Wear the skirt until you need lodging for the night, and it becomes a house.”

  “We’re finding puns,” Amara said. “But we wan
t the Night Stallion.”

  “I wonder,” Tartan said thoughtfully. “Could be he’s just playing with us.”

  “Trojan knows about everything he wants to know in the dream realm,” Amara said. “The question is, does he want to know about us?”

  “He was difficult in my day too,” Mera said. “We stayed clear of the gourds.”

  “Let’s try to get his attention,” Tartan said. He looked at the house. “I don’t think that’s a Wear House. I think it’s a Where House.”

  The house shed its covering of clothing and became more ordinary in appearance. “Now let’s get inside,” Tartan said, leading the way. “Now, House, I want you to be a Ware House, aware and wary of any threats to us. Such as a pesky Night Stallion who wants to mess us up by playing punnish games with us.”

  The house hesitated. Tartan wasn’t clear how that was evident, but he was sure it was so. “All right, so Trojan is your master, here in the dream realm, and you really can’t go against him. But maybe you can take us closer to him. Do it.”

  The door opened. Outside was a new locale. This seemed to be a jungle with huge footprints on the forest floor. “I don’t quite trust this,” Tara said.

  “Ware House,” Tartan said firmly. “You can’t betray your equine master. But that doesn’t mean you can’t be true to your nature in other respects. You have just transported us to a new Where, but I want your assurance that it is also safe for us, Ware. Do I have it?”

  The house nodded. That was a kind of little dip. “Good enough,” Tartan said. “Thank you, Ware. We’ll let you go on about your business now.”

  They went to the door. There on the doorknob was the blue chipmunk fur dress that Tara had liked. “A parting gift for me?” she said, taking it. “Thank you, Wear House. I will wear it with honor.”

  When they were outside, Tara quickly removed her existing skirt as the men politely averted their eyes and donned the new one. It looked lovely on her. In fact it was downright sexy.

  “That dress gives me naughty ideas,” Tartan said.

  “It’s supposed to, because of the slip.”

  “What do I do with this one?” He raised the old dress she had thrust into his hand as she changed.

  “I’ll give it as an exchange.” She took it and touched it to the wall of the house, where it immediately merged with the wall.

  “Dreams can be fun on occasion,” Mera murmured.

  Now they oriented on the scene they were in. It shook as something pounded the ground just out of sight.

  “Are you sure it is safe?” Emerald asked. “I can turn dragon if need be.”

  “The Ware House promised,” Tartan said.

  There was an unearthly scream that made the leaves of the trees wilt and drop. “What’s that?” Dolin asked, his sword magically appearing in his hand.

  Tata woofed.

  “A woman in distress,” Amara translated.

  “He can tell that by the smell of the scream?” Tartan asked.

  “So it seems. We had better investigate.”

  They walked in the direction of the scream. In three moments, give or take an instant, they discovered a solitary brick tower. There was a figure at a window near its top. “That must be the screamer,” Amara said.

  They stood at the base of the tower, looking up. The figure looked down at them. She said something, but though her scream had carried across hill and dale, her speaking voice was too faint to be properly heard.

  “We can’t hear you,” Tartan called.

  The figure considered. Then she dropped a rope ladder down.

  They exchanged three fifths of a glance. “Why not?” Dolin asked. Then he took hold of the rungs and climbed up the ladder.

  Why not indeed? Tartan followed him up, and so did the others. This was the dream realm, after all; probably they couldn’t be physically hurt by a fall, or by whatever the creature in the tower was.

  They reached the high window and entered the chamber atop the tower, one by one. And paused.

  The lady in the tower was exaggeratedly shapely, with a figure that the term hourglass would hardly do justice to. Further, what they had taken for a rope ladder was actually her rather long hair, plaited into ladder form. So she was captive, while they weren’t.

  “I am Prima Donna. Rapunzel is my cousin,” she said before they asked. “She got rescued long ago, but I still languish. Sometimes it makes me just want to scream.”

  “We heard,” Mera said.

  “Why don’t you cut off your hair, tie it to the bed, and climb down it to escape?” Tartan asked.

  “Cut off my hair?” Prima asked, horrified. “I could never do that! Everyone in my family has long hair. It’s our distinguishing mark.”

  “So it seems it is up to us to rescue you,” Dolin said.

  “If you would be so kind.”

  “Would you by chance happen to be a princess, Prima?”

  She laughed. “Me? No way! I’m just a humble commoner girl with delusions of grandeur. All I want is to be rescued and carried off by a strong smart male so I can emote on the stage and we can live happily ever after.”

  And in Xanth it was possible, even likely, Tartan realized. Here was another aspiring actress. But she wouldn’t do for Dolin, who was looking for a princess.

  “We’ll see what we can do,” Amara said. Evidently she had an idea.

  “We’ll check around,” Emerald said.

  They climbed back down the hair ladder. “I am thinking this is a set-up,” Amara said. “Like a challenge to enter the Good Magician’s Castle. There must be a way to rescue her, and if we succeed, the Night Stallion will condescend to see us.”

  A nod circled the group, and Tata woofed. “Even a tale as stupid as one the Ghost Writer wrote might do,” Emerald said.

  “So we just need to figure out the key to the challenge, and implement it,” Dolin said.

  “Yes,” Amara said. “There should be a hint nearby.” She glanced at Tata. “Can you sniff out a hint?”

  “Woof.” Then the dogfish set off, following one of the lines of big barefoot tracks. They followed.

  That brought them to the owner of the tracks. He was standing in the ones at the end, not yet ready to move on. He looked somewhat like an ogre, though a bit small, being only ten feet tall and weighing barely a thousand pounds. Just enough to make the imprints in the ground as he walked. That had to have been what they had heard before: his feet clubbing the ground.

  “Hello,” Tartan called before they got too close.

  The creature turned. “Are you addressing me?” he inquired in a surprisingly cultured voice.

  “We are curious about your situation,” Tartan said. “We’re visitors here, so there is much we don’t know.”

  “I am a Goesin,” the brute said. “That’s a contraction of ‘Goes In.’ As what goes in to X. We Goesinti calculate primes. We remain nameless until we either discover a new prime, or perform some horrendously heroic deed. Only when we earn our names can we seek romance and settle down to family life.”

  “A prime number?” Mera asked.

  He looked down at her as if considering whether she was a romantic prospect. Males tended to have such thoughts when encountering a princess as lovely as she was. “Of course. A number, x, that can be divided only by itself and one. But all the easy ones have been found, which leaves me in a quandary.”

  “So you are a strong smart male,” Amara said. “In need of a woman.”

  “Exactly.”

  “New primes may be hard to find. But suppose you heroically rescued a female prime, whom we shall term Prima?”

  “That would be fine,” the Goesin agreed.

  “Then all you have to do is bash down the tower in the glade, and carry off the maiden therein. Her name is Prima Donna.”

  “Why not?” The
Goesin turned around, and his tracks turned with him. He tramped toward the tower.

  “That’s one smart woman,” Ted said to Tartan as they followed.

  The Goesin marched up to the tower. “I have come to rescue you,” he announced in a voice loud enough to reach the top. “And make you my prime companion. Are you amenable?”

  “Very much so,” Prima called. “You have my number.”

  “Excellent.” He drew back a ham-fist and struck the wall of the tower. Several bricks dislodged and fell to the ground. He struck again, and more bricks went. After the third strike, the tower gave up and slowly collapsed into rubble.

  Prima stepped out from the rubble. Brick dust and fragments coated her body, but she seemed otherwise fit. “My hero!” She flung her hair in a loop that circled the Goesin’s head, hauled down his face, and kissed it. Hearts flew out.

  The Goesin glanced at Amara. “What’s my name?”

  “Gusto Goesin,” she said promptly. “Conqueror of the dread tower and rescuer of the prime maiden.”

  “That works for me,” he said. He picked Prima up, she not much loath, and carried her away.

  “For someone uninterested in romance,” Tara said, “You seem to have quite a touch for it.”

  “I am interested, merely not for me. It’s vicarious.”

  “I’m glad he found her,” Mera said. “I was not entirely easy with the way he looked at me.” Which was understandable.

  Tartan looked around. “Okay, Night Stallion. Have we passed your little test?”

  The air over the rubble shimmered. There stood a horse of indefinable color. “Yes,” he said.

  “A talking horse,” Tara said. “Somehow I expected something more, well, grandiose.”

  “Mundanes don’t rate grandiose,” the dark horse said. “Hefty equine is about the limit. State your business.”

  “We have a problem in Xanth that may impinge on your realm,” Tartan said. “A Mundane writer of little talent has been writing naughty little skits like ‘The Princess and the Pee,’ and requiring the folk of Xanth to act them out. He is in cahoots with a Night Colt, who takes him riding at dawn and dusk so they can spread the stories. Then whoever walks into them is caught until the scene plays out. The dreamlets become plays. Do you know anything of this?”