Faun & Games

by Piers Anthony

  It was a rather hairy old man. Forrest wondered about the variation in age among the folk of limbo, as they were all merely potential beings, shouldn't they be ageless? But maybe they could be any age they chose, until they reached their territories, when they could control their age by moving around.

  Forrest approached him as Imbri set down the timer. “Who are YOU and what is your parentage?”

  “I am Hugh Mongus, son of Scab and Svelte.”

  “Does your talent affect others?”

  “In a manner.”

  “Does it affect you?”

  “That depends.”

  This promised to be another frustrating interview. Forrest soon established that the talent didn't affect anything physical, but might affect something mental. “How do others feel about it?”

  “That depends.”

  “Depends on what?”

  “On how they feel about it.”

  Forrest suppressed his annoyance, because he didn't have time for emotion; his glass was sifting sand. But no matter how he tried, he could never pin Mongus down, and finally he ran out of time.

  Contrary, aware that he could win the contest by getting this one, did his best, but the subject was just as balky for him. “Does your talent affect inanimate things?”

  “That depends.”

  “Depends on what?” the centaur asked, in much the tone Forrest had found himself using.

  “On your definition of inanimate.”

  “You don't know what the word means?”

  “I know what it means.”

  “Then give me your definition.”

  “Anything that isn't living or moving.”

  “Very well. Does your talent affect anything that isn't living or moving?”

  “That depends.”

  “Depends on what?!”

  “On how you see it.”

  “I see it the way you do! Does it affect anything that isn't living?”

  Hugh considered. “Yes, I think it does.”

  “Good! Does it affect any living thing?”

  “That depends.”

  “Confound it! Can't you say anything else?”

  “Not if you don't ask a more relevant question.”

  The centaur seemed about to swell up to adult size, but then his time ran out. This candidate, too, had defeated both of them.

  Now it was Forrest's turn to choose, again. He spied a gnome woman. Did gnomes have talents? “This.”

  Contrary approached her as Imbri set down the timer. “What is your name and ancestry?”

  “I am Miss Gnomer, of respectable but anonymous gnome stock.”

  “Miss No More?”

  “No.”

  “Miss Gnome?”

  “No.”

  The centaur looked a bit nettled, understandably. “Well, whatever your name is, do you have a magic talent?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does it affect you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does it affect others?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does it affect things?”

  “No.”

  “Does it help anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Does it hurt anyone?”

  “No.”

  Contrary paused. “It is indifferent to the welfare of anyone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it under your conscious control?”

  “No.”

  “Is it apparent to others?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “When?”

  “I can't answer that.”

  “Is it like a spot on the wall?”

  “No.”

  The centaur paused again. His time was running out and he was getting nowhere. Forrest was stumped too.

  “Does it please anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Does it displease anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Confound it, woman, it has to be one or the other!”

  “Does it?”

  Contrary scratched his head, trying to think of a definitive question.

  “Time,” Imbri announced, showing the exhausted minute glass.

  “Dam!” the centaur swore. He had lost another, giving Forrest another chance to win.

  Forrest tackled the subject as Imbri turned over the glass. Since he had no idea how to proceed, he tackled a minor irritation. “Exactly what is your name?”

  “Miss Gnomer.”

  “Miss Nomare?”

  “No.”

  “Can you spell it?”

  “No.”

  Forrest began to get a glimmering. “Does your talent relate to your name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it that it is unspellable?”

  “No.”

  “So you can't spell it because that would reveal your talent?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Miss Gnoma,” he said, but realized that he had gotten it wrong again.

  “Miss Gnome.” Still not right. Then a light bulb flashed. “Is it that no one gets your name right?”

  “Yes!” she cried with realization. “Misnomer.”

  “That must be very frustrating.”

  “No, I am used to it. May I go now?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Then, as the woman departed, Forrest realized that he had gotten two points ahead, and won. All because he had tried to get the name straight, and failed. He looked at Contrary. “You must go to your age thirty.”

  “Dam,” the centaur repeated glumly. “I should have guessed that talent.”

  “This was a tougher game than I anticipated,” Forrest said. “It was just luck that I won.”

  “It's just luck when any ordinary creature beats a centaur.”

  “Well, let's head west.”

  But then the dragons reappeared. There was something about their flight formation that looked angry. “We had better hurry,” Imbri said. “I can't fool them again.”

  So they ran west, trying to find cover under stray boulders or trees.

  But the dragons weren't fooled. They oriented, and prepared to dive down on their victims.

  Contrary unslung his bow. “Run for cover; I'll hold them off.”

  “You can't stop a whole flight of dragons!” Forrest protested.

  “True. But I can delay them. I am older and stronger now. Go!”

  Indeed, he was now about twelve; they had come several years To. He seemed to have matured somewhat in attitude, too.

  Forrest hesitated, not wanting to desert the centaur. But what else could he do? Then he had half a notion. Maybe there would be a hint on the Good Magician's list of words.

  He dug into his knapsack, but couldn't find it. Oh, no-that must have been the paper that had fluttered away when he took out his panpipe!

  “What's the matter?” Imbri asked. “Aside from the dragons?”

  “I lost the Good Magician's list of words.”

  She looked stricken, but she tried to put a good face on it. “We'll get through without it.”

  He hoped so. They were really on their own, now.

  The centaur fired an arrow upward. It would have been a remarkable shot, for anyone but a centaur. It struck the lead dragon on the snout, pinning it closed. The dragon huffed and puffed, but couldn't dislodge the barb, and wee-wawed out of control. The flight of dragons followed their leader, making a crazy display as they all weewowed across the sky, huffing and puffing.

  Then another dragon caught on. Flying dragons were not known for their intelligence, because the heat of their fire tended to fry their lightweight brains, but they had some experience with injuries. The other dragon took the end of the arrow between its teeth and hauled it out. That freed the leader, who cauterized its wounds with fire, then resumed the chase.

  Meanwhile the fugitives had run farther west, and had a lead. But the dragons quickly caught up again, and there was still no cover. So Forrest took his turn. He brought out his panpipes and played a military melody: reveille.

&nbs
p; The dragons were militaristic creatures. They heard the music and immediately fell into formation for review. Then Forrest played a marching tune, and the dragons proceeded to march across the sky, their wing-beats keeping perfect step.

  Then the leader, who had been a bit distracted by the fresh holes in its snout, realized what was happening. It roared, drowning out the melody.

  The dragons milled about, then oriented once again on the targets.

  But the desperate fugitives had made further progress west-and caught up to Cathryn Centaur, who had cut south to intercept them.

  She was about five years old at this point, with cute pigtails and a toy bow and quiver. Her white wings, too small at this age to enable her to fly, were folded, forming a kind of cloak over her body.

  Contrary, now thirteen, glanced at her with disdain. “Go away, twirp. I have no interest in you.”

  She stared at him. “You mean you're the one? My supposed ideal mate? A wingless, landbound creature? What a laugh!”

  “For sure, brat. Now get out of the way before you get toasted and gobbled by a dragon.”

  “Don't quarrel, you two!” Forrest cried. “Can you help, Cathryn?”

  “I think so. There's a forest just north of us; run to that for cover.”

  She turned to show the way, her little hoofs galloping swiftly.

  “The dragons will follow the sound of our hoofs, and close in on us anyway,” Contrary sneered. But he turned to follow her, and Forrest and Imbri ran along behind.

  The dragons wheeled in air and looped around to cut them off. But the fugitives had just enough time, and reached the cover of the edge of the forest just ahead of the first blast of fire. They turned west to go into the center of the wood.

  Cathryn raised her hands as if throwing something. “What's the matter, twirp?” Contrary demanded. “Giving up already? Don't worry; in a mo-“ His voice cut off. Forrest looked, afraid something had happened, but the centaur was still running and still talking. His mouth was moving, but no sound was emerging. What had happened?

  Then a dreamlet voice came in his head. Cathryn threw a blanket of silence, Imbri explained. Now the dragons can't hear us. They can't track us by sound.

  And with the cover of the trees, the dragons couldn't track them by sight, either. Now the four of them could make good their escape.

  Cathryn's remarkable talent was really helping.

  But there were harpies in this forest. The dirty birds came flapping down, intent on mischief. There were so many of them that there was no way to avoid them.

  Cathryn, now a size larger at age six, raised her hands, drawing in her blanket. Suddenly the harpies became audible. “We've got you, you $#&!!'s,” one was screeching. “We'll poop your faces!”

  “I'd rather face the dragons,” Contrary muttered.

  “So would I,” Forrest agreed. One of the harpies looked a lot like the one who had tricked him, a century ago, though of course she couldn't be the same one.

  Cathryn made a motion as of throwing something toward the harpies. It was another blanket, but it was hard to see. It spread out and surrounded them with a fine sparkling net. At that point their cursing was silenced, but it hadn't ceased. They were all screeching worse than ever; it just wasn't getting out.

  “I threw a blankety blanket,” Cathryn explained. “Now their cussing is reflecting back on themselves and smirching their own feathers.”

  Indeed, provocative symbols were appearing, of lightning strikes, corkscrews, exploding cherry bombs, asterisks, and stars. They were striking the harpies, who were screeching worse than ever as they felt themselves tagged by their own expletives. This only intensified the problem. Scorch marks were appearing on their tail feathers.

  “You can do that to harpies?” Contrary asked, amazed. “That's not bad.”

  “Gee, thanks,” little Cathryn said, blushing.

  That reminded Contrary of his objection to her. He shut up, so as not to let slip any other compliment.

  The four ran on by, leaving the harpies to their fate. But now the dragons could hear them again, for the blanket of silence was gone.

  Cathryn could throw only one blanket at a time. Still, she had really helped them to move along.

  Imbri ran beside Cathryn. “I'm sure he's much more mature when he's adult. He has already shown some beginning signs of centaur decency.”

  “But the wings. He has no wings.”

  “Nevertheless, I think he is the one. Maybe we can verify it with the dear horn.”

  Cathryn nodded as they ran. She lifted the horn and blew on it.

  Forrest heard nothing, but the filly nodded again. “It echoes from him.”

  “It must know,” Imbri said.

  “I suppose.” But the filly seemed anything but certain.

  The dragons were reorienting on their sounds. But now Cathryn had to draw in her last blanket, because she couldn't maintain it at a distance, and the harpies were escaping too. They were horrendously furious. “Wait till we catch up with you!” their fowl-mouthed leader cried. “We'll tear you to quivering stinking bits!”

  A dragon, swooping down to spy out the fugitives, heard. It roared. It thought she was screeching at the dragons! Soon several more dragons came swooping down, ready to avenge their honor. Dragons and harpies didn't get along too well together at the best of times, and the dragons were in no mood to be insulted. So they shot fire first and saved the questions for later. But the harpies were in no mood to brook interference either, and this was their forest.

  Forrest and the others ran on, not staying to watch the developing fray.

  But they heard the roars and curses as it worked its way into something the forest would probably remember for a long time.

  They emerged from the forest. They were at this point a fair distance west, and Contrary was a stallion in his twenties, readily taking the lead. Cathryn followed, now coming into her teens. Her wings had grown, and she was using them to add to her forward velocity. Then came Forrest and Imbri. They had been running for some time, but Forrest didn't feel really tired; apparently soul-bodies didn't fatigue the same way physical ones did. So while the centaurs had to hold back somewhat to keep from leaving the two more human figures behind, it remained a fast pace.

  Contrary put on a spurt and came to a line marked 30, stepped across it, and stopped. He was now a fine mature figure of a centaur, muscular and handsome. “There is my mark,” he said. “I have crossed it. Now I must flee before I get trapped.” He turned as the others were catching up.

  Cathryn drew to a halt. They knew this was the turning point in a second way. If the stallion passed her and escaped back to his childhood, she would never see him again. But how could she stop him?

  Contrary took a step back. Forrest saw that the centaur's eyes were closed. He was refusing to look at the filly. So that was how he proposed to avoid the dread confrontation! If he never saw her in her mature aspect, he couldn't be impressed by her.

  “Look at me,” Cathryn cried. “You owe me that much, I think.”

  “No I don't,” Contrary retorted. “I made a deal to cross my thirtieth year. That was all.” He took another step.

  “What can I do?” the filly asked, defeat looming.

  “Kiss him,” Imbri said succinctly.

  Cathryn smiled. “I'll give him fair warning.” Then she called to the stallion: “If you don't open your eyes and look at me, I'll intercept you and kiss you.”

  Contrary took another step. Cathryn took two steps. She could travel faster with her eyes open than he could do safely with his eyes closed.

  The stallion heard her hoofbeats, which she was taking pains to make loud. His fine centaur mind processed that information, and he realized that he would have to compromise. “Very well. One look. Then I'm gone, and you can't intercept me.”

  “Agreed. But I will throw one blanket at you.”

  He laughed. “A blanket of silence? Do your worst, foal.”

  Forrest realized th
at the stallion had not gotten a good look at her Since the forest, and retained a mental picture of her as six or seven.

  That was an understandable but foolish error.

  Contrary faced Cathryn and opened his eyes. His jaw dropped slightly.

  Forrest looked at the filly, to see what the stallion saw. She was now a lovely full-breasted, long-maned, white-winged centaur filly with a deep brown hide and flowing tail. She was panting slightly with her recent exertion. If she had been a nymph, she would have been stunningly attractive. She was surely similar for a centaur’ Then she threw a blanket. Again, Forrest didn't see it directly, but the scintillation of the air indicated that there was something flying toward the stallion. It reached his head.

  Contrary blinked. His eyes lost focus. “What's this?” he asked, confused.

  “A blanket stare,” Cathryn said.

  “A blank stare? I don't understand.”

  “That is its effect. Why are you fleeing me?”

  He looked at her again. “I'm drawing a blank on that. Is there some reason?”

  “There may be. Why don't you blow this horn?” She stepped forward, offering it to him.

  He looked puzzled. “What horn is this?”

  It will show you by its sound where your True Love is.”

  He frowned. “Is that a challenge?”

  “Is it?”

  He took the horn and blew it hard. There was no sound-but then he stared at Cathryn in a new way. “You are the one,” he said in wonder.

  “You really are the one! I will sacrifice anything for you.”

  But now it was Cathryn who wasn't sure. “If only you could fly,” she said regretfully.

  “Who said I can't fly?” And suddenly from his body two massive black wings unfolded. What they had taken for his body color was actually the hue of the flattened wings. “I never had use for them before, for they would only have taken me where I didn't want to go, but now I want to fly with you, you fantastic creature, forsaking my prior childishness.”

  Now it was Cathryn's jaw that dropped. “The dear horn did know,” she breathed. “It really did!”

  Contrary dropped the horn. “Come fly with me, my sudden love. We have more than geography to explore.”

  “Oh, yes! But first I must guide my friends to the territory of the fauns, or as close as I can get to it.”