Ghost Writer in the Sky

by Anthony, Piers

  “I appreciate the infernal logic,” Isis said grimly.

  “But here’s the thing: you can have a lot more freedom than you may appreciate. All you need are suitable hosts, whose pleasures you can share. Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy that phenomenal ellipsis you just put us through.”

  “I loved it. Tara has a nice little body with all manner of innocent aspects. But that’s hardly the same as being free to do my will in my own body.”

  “Maybe we can talk some good virile men into visiting you in the comic strip. I’m sure that once one tries it, he’ll be eager to return. But going out with the hosts is no bad thing either. You can tour Xanth with Amara, and tackle Ted any time you want. You can go to the world of Ida, what’s its name, Ptero, in your own dream body, where all the men who ever even thought of existing are, and most of them would really like to be with you.”

  “Most?” she asked dangerously.

  Oops. “It’s a case of the ninety-five percent and the five percent: the ninety five who really want to be with you, and the five who lie about it because their wives are listening.”

  “Oh. Of course.”

  “And the Dream Realm,” Tartan continued. “You have a gig there, but that doesn’t mean you have to stay on the set all the time. All those men who have been told ‘in your dreams’ will be eager to play out those dreams with you, if you let them. Even goblins, trolls, and ogres will pant for you; you know that.”

  “I do,” she agreed thoughtfully.

  “And Mundania, where you will have to stick with one man, but that may be your most rewarding experience of all.”

  “One man?” she asked disdainfully. “I am the Goddess of Fertility!”

  “Yes. And for thousands of years you haven’t had the chance to be fertile. What you most truly miss is being a loyal wife and mother, this time with a man who won’t get treacherously killed by a rival for the throne, and with a son who won’t grow up to kill you himself. Because both will know that without you they are nothing. You can finally have it all, in your little anonymous corner of drear Mundania, as a perfectly ordinary housewife.”

  “An ordinary housewife!”

  “I learned something about Demon Ted, as I used his body,” Tartan continued inexorably. “His father is totally anonymous. His mother is Demoness Metria, who keeps his father in a state of perpetual bliss so he doesn’t get into trouble. Meanwhile she gads about getting into all the trouble she wants, searching out mischief. Ted sometimes gets disgusted, but what can he do? She’s a full demoness, and they can’t be constrained. What she doesn’t do, her slightly crazy alternate self Mentia does, and her childish Woe Betide. But she serves as a useful example for you. You can have several lives. In Mundania, the loyal dull housewife and mother. In the comic strip, the royal seductress. In Xanth, the companion and friend to those who know you and like you for what you are, with a regular sometime boyfriend. In Ptero, the wild vamp. In the Dream Realm, the mistress of monsters. These are five venues that you can be in any time, as long as you’re careful and remember which host you are in. You’re not confined at all, any more than Metria is. You can realize all your ambitions, in your fashion, almost simultaneously.”

  “Stop, or I’ll kiss you.”

  Tartan opened his mouth. She kissed him. Stunned, he shut up.

  “You have made your case,” she said. “You have persuaded me. I will take out the Ghost Writer so he won’t bother Xanth any more. But to do that I must first locate him. How can we do that?”

  “I thought you’d never ask. Tomorrow when he rides the Night Colt out to seed his naughty little dreams, your spirit will quietly follow them. When they return to his home in Mundania, you will note the place. Then we will go there and set things up for you. We were recruited because we can operate in Mundania, and we will.”

  “But the Night Colt can see my spirit form. He’ll know what I’m up to.”

  “Not if the other members of our group distract him. We need to devise a show that will grab and hold their attention, so they don’t even think of you.”

  The Goddess nodded. “You have thought this out.”

  Tartan laughed ruefully. “I have tried to. But my plan may be full of holes.”

  “You have given me something to ponder. I will see you tomorrow.” She faded out.

  Tara took a huge shuddering breath. “That was something, and I don’t mean just the ellipsis. You really came through, Tartan!”

  “Xanth has given me you. I have to repay it somehow.”

  “That’s so sweet.” She kissed him.

  “And I’d rather have your kisses than hers.”

  “Is that your ninety-five percent statement, or your five percent?”

  He laughed. “You know, if I didn’t love you already, I’d be getting there, you cute little tease.”

  “Now about that show we will do tomorrow morning to distract the Ghost Writer and the Night Colt. What do you have in mind?”

  “I did say there might be some holes in the plan.”

  “Like having no idea what to do?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Let’s work this out. What would distract a man and a colt?”

  “A mass orgy?”

  She hit him with a pillow. “Get serious.”

  “Actually the surest way to get a man’s attention is with a pretty girl. We know the Ghost Writer already wants Isis. If she did a provocative dance—”

  “Is there any other kind she would do?”

  “He’d watch,” he concluded

  “One tiny little problem: Isis won’t be there. The dance is to distract him from seeing her as she spies on him.”

  “Oops. But maybe Amara can fake it.”

  “Manifesting as the Goddess, in the absence of the Goddess? That’s one tall order.”

  “Awful tall,” he agreed.

  “But let’s consider. Suppose we use the magic roses?”

  Tartan glanced down at his own rose. “Considering that they mostly can’t be seen, I’m not sure how.”

  “Not to show, silly. As a theme. The Ghost Writer may think they’re imaginary, but we can craft a dance about taking the roses and being true to them. Amara has Isis’s rose. Maybe it will lend her the ability to pretend Isis is with her. She will be, really, in the form of her rose.”

  “Maybe so,” he agreed cautiously.

  “And there can be plenty of jumping and whirling.”

  “That will make it seem that Isis is there?”

  “Like this.” She got up, donned her clothing, and stood before him. Then she jumped. Her breasts bounced and the hem of her skirt flared upward, showing a flash of her thighs. Then she whirled, and the hem rose up almost to her waist, showing her panties. Here in Mundania that didn’t freak him out, but he certainly appreciated the effect.

  “I am beginning to get your point,” he said. “If Amara does that, emulating Isis, he will notice.”

  “That was my thought. Now let’s work out the whole dance, simple so the others can quickly learn it, and as sexy as we can make it without violating the dread Adult Conspiracy.”

  “You’re a genius!”

  “I thought you liked me only for my body.”

  “That, too,” he said, joining her on the dance floor.

  “Oops,” she said, pausing in place.

  “I don’t like the sound of that, cute as it is when you say it.”

  “It’s that the Ghost Writer is there in person only from half an hour before dawn and until half an hour after dusk, day excluded. We’ll have to get there early.”

  “Very early,” he agreed. “Because we’ll need time to prepare before he arrives.”

  “I’ll set the alarm.”

  Then he thought of one. “When it’s time for the Ghost Writer to go home, he won’t be able to watch
the dance any more. Then he may see Isis.”

  “Bleep! The dancers can’t follow them through the sky.”

  “But we can, as ghosts.”

  “And he’ll know we’re tracking him, and will go anywhere but home.”

  A bulb flashed. “Maybe not. Suppose we continue the dance, as ghosts? So he keeps watching us, and when he gives us the slip, he won’t be watching for Isis.”

  “Maybe that will do,” she agreed. “But there are so many Ifs I’m getting nervous.”

  “All we can do is our best, and hope.”

  They worked out the dance, had supper, and turned in early. Then in the darkness of the wee hours they held hands, ready to head back to Xanth. “I hope they’re not mad about being woken up early,” she said.

  “Who knows what state they’ll be in, after discovering their love?”

  “Oh, my! Monica may be clasping Dolin when I arrive in her body. Maybe we better wait until tomorrow.”

  “No, Isis will have told them it’s today. We’d better gamble.”

  “I’ll be so embarrassed, if—”

  They arrived. The six members of the group, and Tata Dogfish, were seated in a circle. “About time you got here,” Ted said.

  “You—you were expecting us!”

  “Sure. Amara said you’d be here now. That’s her talent, you know. So we turned in early and got up early.”

  Isis manifested in Amara. “You have a plan.”

  “Yes, Tartan said. “You will watch in ghost form while we distract the Ghost Rider and maybe the Night Colt with a dance. Then you will follow him to his lair, and mark its location.”

  “But once he starts home—”

  “Tara and I will continue the dance in the air, so he keeps his eyes on us.”

  Isis and the others looked doubtful, but didn’t protest further. Obviously luck needed to be on their side.

  “One more thing,” Tartan said. Then he explained about how Amara would have to fake manifesting the Goddess.

  “I will try,” she agreed gamely. “I’m not interested in romance or ellipses, but this is a kind of acting, and I have been learning from Isis.”

  Tartan and Tara demonstrated their Dance of the Roses by the light of the moon, holding their roses aloft. They knew that the others, close friends as they were, could see the flowers. “The point is to make it interesting enough so he’ll keep watching,” Tara said as they danced. “That means short skirts on the women, and lots of twirling.” She smiled. “Yes, men, we’ll flash panties; be prepared.”

  The group had associated long enough now so that their panties had become familiar and no longer delivered full freakouts; but they still had impact, so the warning was well advised. If they freaked out the Ghost Writer, so much the better; the Colt would nudge him back awake, and he would keep watching. Especially the women, focusing on Amara.

  Tara twirled. Tartan saw Dolin’s eyes widen appreciatively. He might have had a good night with Monica, but he still appreciated sexy exposure when it presented itself.

  They went through their little routine several times, then turned the bodies over to their hosts. Now Ted danced with Amara, Dolin with Monica, and Mera with Emerald. Both members of the last couple wore skirts, and both were marvelously esthetic girls; their twirling was fully adequate. Tartan, now watching rather than dancing, had to yank his gaze away. They might not be interested in men, but they were certainly attractive to men. Tata also danced, Princess Eve manifesting as a ghost.

  “They come,” Amara said. Either she knew from her talent, or Isis had seen them.

  They had their dance perfected. They continued it as the Ghost Writer and Night Colt arrived, pretending to be oblivious to their invisible presence. Actually, knowing they were there helped, and maybe the magic roses helped too, because they almost seemed to be visible.

  The three couples whirled and twirled, the four women flashing in unison. Amara was especially provocative; she was acting exactly as if the Goddess were with her. Tartan, who was free to look around beyond the group while Ted did the dancing, saw that the Ghost Writer was indeed fascinated, his gaze glued to Amara. Maybe he was seeing what he hoped to see: the Goddess.

  Then Amara flung her yellow rose high, intending to catch it. And the Colt and Ghost Writer zipped in and caught it in the air. He could see the rose! That meant that his interest in the Goddess was genuine.

  “Hey!” Amara called. “Come back with my rose!” Actually Isis’s rose, given to her by the Goddess. Amara’s rose was pink.

  But the Ghost Writer and Night Colt galloped away into the sky.

  Tartan shot out of his host, and Tara joined him. But they knew that Isis was watching, so instead of openly pursuing the fugitives they continued their dance, floating after the rider and steed. Tartan found Tara especially evocative, because now she was dancing in the air and it was easy to imagine that a person on the ground would get a good look under her skirt. Not that the dancers below were looking.

  The Colt paused, and the Writer looked back, seeing them. Tartan struck a dance pose and Tara twirled, her Blue Chipmunk skirt elevating exactly as when physical. She was flashing him with her ghostly panties. The Writer noticed, and licked his lips as he watched, interested without freaking. Maybe panties had to have more substance to have full power.

  Then the Colt shook him, reminding him of the time, and they resumed their trip.

  Tartan and Tara sailed after them, not pursuing so much as maintaining the distraction so that Isis would not be seen.

  The Writer made a flinging motion, as if seeding a field. What was he doing?

  “Uh-oh,” Tara said. “He’s sowing dreamlets.”

  “But they can’t affect us in our spirit forms.”

  “I am not sure of that.”

  Ghostly forms appeared in the air. They seemed to be emaciated people, flying without wings. What were they? “They look like ghostly zombies. But zombies don’t fly.”

  Then they saw the fangs. “Oh, bleep!” Tara swore. “Those are vampires!”

  “Ghost vampires? I didn’t know those existed.”

  “Maybe they don’t. Except in the Ghost Writer’s sick imagination. Now they’re coming after us.”

  “Ghost vampires to prey on ghost dancers,” he said. “I think we’d better get out of here.”

  They moved back the way they had come, but the vampires moved faster, cutting them off. They formed a large sphere surrounding the two of them, covering above, below, and all directions. They would have to pass through that bubble to get away.

  “What happens to spirits that get eaten by ghosts?” Tara asked nervously.

  “I think we don’t want to find out. Solid vampires suck the blood of living folk, and then the victims become vampires themselves. We might become ghost vampires. I don’t think our bodies would like that much.”

  “Not much,” she agreed nervously. “It might ruin the ellipses. We’d be trying to suck each other’s blood instead.”

  “Ugh!”

  “I was trying to joke. I don’t think I succeeded.”

  The vampire sphere constricted. It looked all too tight. This was getting ugly.

  “I’ll charge them,” Tartan said gallantly. “Then you zip through the hole I make in their wall.”

  “And what happens to you?” she demanded. “I’m not going without you.”

  “Then I guess we’ll just have to try to fight them off.”

  “They’ll be ready for that, and there are a lot more of them.”

  Tartan was afraid, not for himself, but for her. He didn’t want her getting bitten by vampires. “Tara, I want you to know that if this is the end—”

  She cut him off with a kiss. “Focus,” she said urgently. “There must be a way.”

  Then he noticed something. A curving twisting band of translucence w
as snaking through the sphere. It looked like ribbon candy, but was big enough to take in a person. What was it? Another of the Ghost Writer’s creations?

  Then a bulb flashed. “The comic strip!” he exclaimed. “A strip of it must have torn loose and drifted up here.”

  “I think I see puns in it,” she agreed. “But I’m not sure how that can help us.”

  “Isis! She’s physically confined to the comic strip, but she’s able to control it somewhat. She could have sent it to help us!”

  “Yes! Dive in!” She did so herself.

  Tartan followed. Now they were both inside the flat band, looking out. The vampires crowded close, looking nonplussed or nonminussed. It seemed that they hesitated to enter it themselves. What would unmitigated puns do to ghost vampires? It might be no laughing matter to them.

  But they weren’t giving up. Soon one of their bolder spooks would screw his courage to the sticking point and dive in, and others would follow. This was only a temporary reprieve.

  “But maybe we can fight them off from here,” Tartan said. “We can throw puns at them. There should be a plentiful supply.”

  “Yes!” Tara grabbed a foul smelling flower. “Eau de Cay—zombie perfume.” She wound up and hurled it out of the strip. It hit a vampire, not having much choice, as they were thickly clustered.

  “Eau!” the vampire wailed, deep in disgust. It dropped out of the formation, struggling to get away from the smell.

  “But we’re spirits,” Tartan protested. “We can’t handle physical things.”

  “We’re not,” Tara said. “See, the plant is still there. I merely grabbed its spirit essence. That’s just as stinky.”

  Well, now. Tartan looked, and spied a set of knives made of cheese. He picked one up, noting that all he got was its essence: sharp Cheddar. He hurled it out at the vampires. It caught one right in the gut, giving it a bellyful. It was certainly sharp! And cheesy. This vampire, too, dropped out of the sphere.