Anthony, Piers - Mode 1 - Virtual Mode

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Virtual Mode -- Piers Anthony

(Version 1.0 -- 12/12/2001)

CHAPTER 1 -- COLENE

COLENE had a study hall during the last period, and as an Honor student she had a regular

hall pass. RHIP, she thought: Rank Hath Its Privileges. She smiled marginally, remembering a

cartoon she had seen: two grave -- stones, one plain, one quite fancy. The plain one was lettered

RIP, the fancy one RHIP. She liked the notion. No one chal -- lenged her as she got up and walked

out of the room and down the hall to the bathroom.

She was in luck: it was empty at the moment. She went into the farthest stall, closed and

latched the swinging door, lifted her skirt, took down her panties, and sat on the seat. But she

did not actually use the toilet. Instead she held up her left arm, and used her right hand to

unwrap the winding around her left wrist. It was a style only a few girls affected:

bright red cloth on both wrists, complementing her blue skirt and yellow blouse. It was

attractive, of course, and Colene preferred to be aesthetic, but it was more than that.

For as the band came loose, her wrist showed, horribly scarred. There were welts all

across the inner side, some old and white, others fresh and raw. She gazed at it with mixed awe

and loathing. She was artistic and creative as well as smart, but this was none of these things.

This was closer to' her real nature, ugly and dull and tragic, that had to be hidden from others.

Then she reached down to fetch her compass from her purse. A knife would have been better,

but might also have brought suspicion on her. She lifted the point, set it against her wrist, and

made a sudden, sharp slice across. "Oh!" she exclaimed as the pain came. She hated the pain, but

it was the only way. Maybe she could get a small, sharp knife, seemingly decorative and harmless,

that would cut almost painlessly, and deeper. If she had the nerve. The nerve was | not in the

cutting, but in the acquisition; if anyone saw her

with the blade out, and asked...

The scratch was stinging, but only a bit of blood was show -- ing. She clenched her teeth

and made another pass, in the same track, harder. This time the surge of pain was rewarded by some

real blood. It welled out and flowed slowly across her wrist. It was beautiful, like a rich red

river wending across

a desolate terrain. :

She spread her legs and nudged back on the toilet, so that

she had more space in front. She angled her wrist so that the blood could drip directly

into the water below. The first drop gathered itself, bunched, and finally let go. It struck the

water and spread out, losing its identity as the water diluted it. It

was dying.

Dying. There was the thought that counted. Oh to fall like

that drop into the water, and dissolve, and dissipate, and be

no more. Just to fade away, forgotten.

Drop by drop, coloring the water, turning it slowly pink -- ish. Like menstrual flow, only

more vital. Menstrual flow was associated with life, or potential life. This was associated with

death, and that was infinitely more important, t

Another drop fell to the water, but this one was not red. I It was a tear. That seemed

fitting: blood and tears. For a man t it would be blood, sweat, and tears, but it wasn't feminine

to sweat, so just the blood and tears would do. Her life, gone into the water, flushed down the

toilet, cleanly. Part of the problem with death was the sheer messiness of it. She didn't like

mess. She liked things neat and clean and in order. If

only she could find a way --

The bathroom door opened. Instantly Colene snapped out

of it. She put her wrist to her mouth, licking off the salty blood. She dropped the

compass into her purse. She rebound her wrist with a practiced motion, and tucked in the end so

it was tight. Then she slid forward on the toilet and used it as was its custom, taking

care to make a splash so that the sound advertised the fact of her urination. There were levels

and levels of concealment, and she had learned not to assume that others would get the message she

intended. It had to be too obvious to miss. Nothing but pissing going on here, ma'am.

The other girl chose another stall and settled down. She was not suspicious. Still, it was

nervous business. If anyone were to catch on, Colene would just die of embarrassment. That was not

the way she wanted to die!

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She stood, reassembled herself, and flushed the toilet. No blood showed; the drops had

fallen cleanly into the water, leaving no giveaway stains. Yet somehow she feared that the traces

were there, a guilty ambience, so that the next person who used this toilet would somehow know

that a person had flirted with suicide here.

But maybe not. A girl could have changed her tampon, and that was where the blood had come

from. Not a pad, because that couldn't be flushed. A tampon would leave no evidence. Some girls

used pads so as to maintain the pretense that they were virginal, but most preferred convenience,

as did Colene herself. So she was covered.

She went to a sink and washed her hands carefully. No blood showed on her wrists, thanks

in part to the wrapping:

red covered red. The inner layer was absorbent, and would take up the blood and help it

thicken and clot. She would have to wash out the cloth at home, but she was used to that.

Back in the study hall she brought out her compass and wiped the point on a tissue, just

to be sure. Then she brought out her geometry homework, so that no one would wonder about the

compass. Geometry was a snap; in fact, it was boring, because it was two-dimensional. It would

have been more of a challenge in three dimensions, or four. If only they had a class in cubic

geometry, or multi-dimensional construc -- tions. Or fractals: now, there would be one she could

truly sink her teeth into. Class, today we shall take our little pencil and graph paper and define

the complete Mandelbrot Set.

Colene stifled a smile. The Mandelbrot Set was said to be the most complicated object in

mathematics. Even mainframe computers could not fathom the whole of it. Yet it was simply

an exercise in algebra, plotted on paper. How she would love to explore that beautiful

picture! To lose herself in its phe -- nomenal and diminishing convolutions, forever and ever,

Amen.

But this was mundane school, where brains were routinely

pickled in trivia. No hope here.

As the final bell approached, Julie came to sit beside her. It was Friday, and the teacher

in charge knew better than to try to keep things totally quiet in the closing minutes. As long as

they didn't make a scene, they were all right.

Julie had long yellow hair, which she liked to swirl about her face and shoulders. It was

a nice complement to Colene's similar brown tresses. But in other respects they differed more

widely. Julie wore glasses and braces, which made her by definition unattractive; Colene, with

neither, was far more popular. That was a barrier between them, and their friend -- ship was only

nominal, because it was mutually convenient to walk home from the bus stop together.

Actually Colene had no friends, by her definition, though many others called her friend.

It was as if she had an invisible barrier around herself that kept all others at a certain dis --

tance. No one touched her heart, and her heart was lonely. She wished it could be otherwise, but

the truth was that no one she knew at school was the type she cared to sincerely like and trust.

Maybe she was just an intellectual snob, and she felt slightly guilty for that, but only slightly.

If she ever encountered someone with really solid intelligence and integ -- rity, someone she

could truly admire for maintaining stan -- dards she herself could not, then maybe --

"Did you hear?" Julie inquired in a breathless whisper. "The principal canceled the rally

tomorrow!"

Colene had planned on skipping the rally anyway, but she acted properly outraged. "The

nerve of the nerd! Why?" "Too many Bumper Stinkers in the parking lot." Colene remembered: there

had been a rash of bad-taste stickers, using four-letter words and concepts. Principal Brown had

laid down the law: no more of them on the school grounds. Evidently some of the stupid high school

boys had tried it anyway. The principal wasn't satisfied to punish the errant boys; he had to

punish the whole school too. Actually there was reason for this: those stickers would keep reap --

pearing until there was a climate of rejection among the stu -- dents, and that would come

only if all of them paid the pen -- alty. Colene understood, but it would be traitorous to argue

the case.

"What will we do with Brown?" Julie demanded rhetori -- cally. It was a matter of

definition: no matter what happened, the principal was always wrong. That was one of the unifying

principles of the student body.

Colene glanced around, saw that the teacher in charge was not paying attention while

nearby students were, and launched into one of her clever little stories. She was good at this

sort of thing, and she enjoyed it in her fashion.

"Why, we should hold a benefit for him," she said brightly.

"A benefit?" Julie asked blankly, playing the straight man to Colene's act.

"Yes. When he drives up in his Datsun with the tags saying OBITCH -- " She paused, giving

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them time to put that to -- gether: DATSUN OBITCH. An expanding circle of sniggers indicated that

the joke had registered. "Then we should stage a gala fund-raising extravaganza, a dunk-the-idiot

benefit, with Principal Brown as the main event. Three balls for a dollar, and whoever scores on

the target makes Brown fall on the biggest, loudest, smelliest whoopee cushion ever put out by the

Ack-Mee Novelty Company!" She put the back of a hand to her mouth and blew the whoopee noise.

It came out too loud. The teacher glanced quickly over at them, and they all had to stifle

their laughter. Then the bell rang, saving them. That reminded Colene of a recording she had once

heard at a party she wasn't supposed to attend: a "crepitation" championship match, in which the

contestants broke wind in novel ways, each effort appropriately named, such as the sonorous

"Follow-up Blooper" and cute little "Freeps," and the end of the round was signaled not by a bell

but a flatulent horn. The school buzzer was actually more like that than a church bell.

JULIE and Colene got off the bus and walked home. It was a pleasant neighborhood, with

neat lawns, trees, and even some overgrown lots that were almost like little jungles. Drainage

ditches were forming into the beginning of a stream that wound on out of the city. Colene had

explored the re --

cesses of that nascent river many times, on the assumption that there had to be something

interesting there, like buried treasure or a vampire's coffin. Maybe even, 0 Rapturous Joy, a lost

horse looking for someone to love it. But all she had

ever found were weeds and mud.

"Groan, I have to go in for X-rays tomorrow," Julie was

saying. "Those damned hard ridges on the pictures always slice up my gums. I don't know

why they can't make them

softer."

"Easy to fix," Colene said brightly. "Just bring the pres -- ident of Code-Ack in for X-

rays, and have his gums and roof -- of-mouth cut up by those corners. Make him really have to chew

down on them for retakes, and tell him, 'Don't be a difficult child now; those things don't hurt!'

I guarantee: next day those edges would be soft as sponges."

"Yes!" Julie agreed, heartened. "If only we could!" But they both knew that nothing that

sensible would ever be done, and that sharp edges would continue to find their helpless victims.

That was just the way of it. The people who manufactured things never actually used them

themselves.

As they approached Colene's house, her wandering glance spied something in the ditch. It

was probably just a pile of cloth, or garbage tossed from a car; there were creeps who routinely

did such things. But she felt a chill, and surge of

excitement. Suppose it was something else?

She said nothing to Julie. She wanted to check this by

herself. Just in case.

They walked on. Julie's house was beyond Colene's house,

so Colene turned off. Her parents weren't home at this hour, of course; they both worked.

Not that it mattered. She had ways in her imagination to glorify the empty home. She liked to

pretend that the drainage ditch behind was a great river that wended its way past the most

illustrious regions: the Charles. Her simple residence became a gloomy mansion on the bank of this

river, where death was a familiar presence. Thus it was the Charles Mansion, a takeoff on a grim

killer in a text on legal cases. Her folks wouldn't have thought that funny, and her schoolmates

wouldn't have caught the allu -- sion. That seemed to be typical of her life: she couldn't relate

well to either parents or peers. But she was the only one who

realized this.

She unlocked the door and entered. She set her books on the table and walked straight on

through to the back door. She unlocked that and went out, glancing back over her shoulder to make

sure that there was no one to see her. It was fun being secretive, despite the fact that her whole

life was pretty much an act, papering over her secret reality. She fancied that she was a princess

going out to discover a fallen prince from a far land. What she would find would most likely be

garbage, but for thirty seconds she could dream, and that was worth something. Even garbage might

be better than tackling her stupid homework early.

She came to the cloth, and froze. It was a man! A grown man, lying face down on the weedy

bank. His clothing was strange, but it was definitely a man. Was it a corpse, thrown here by some

drug gang? Such things did happen, though not in this neighborhood. Of course the neighborhood

wasn't what it represented itself to be either; a lot was covered up for the sake of appearances.

Thrilling to this morbid adventure, she approached. Death fascinated her, though she hated

it. This was as good as watching her blood flow. Would the body be riddled with bullet holes?

She remembered one of her favorite lines, from a song she could not otherwise remember. It

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was about some great Irish or Scottish battle, and a sore wounded soldier had staggered back from

the front line. But he had not given up. "I'll lay me down and bleed a while, then up to fight

again!" he declared. She knew she would have liked him. Maybe this was such a man, who had laid

him down to bleed and had forgotten to get up again before overdoing it.

Then it moved. Colene stifled her scream, for all that could do was alert the neighbors

and bring a crowd, and her little adventure would be over. Cautiously she approached.

The man lifted his head, spying her. He moved his right arm, reaching toward her. He

groaned. Then he sank back, evidently too weak to do more.

But if she stepped within reach, he might suddenly come to full life, and grab her ankle,

pull her down, and rape her. It could be just a ruse to get her close. After he had his way with

her, he might kill her and roll her body under the brush near the trickle of water that was the

river. After several days

she would be found, covered by flies, and he would be long

gone.

It was as good a way to die as any. When it came right

down to it, it hardly mattered whether death was pretty or ugly; what counted was that the

escape had finally been made. A certain amount of messiness could be tolerated for the sake of the

novelty. She stepped deliberately within reach.

But the man did not respond. He just lay there, breathing in shudders. Maybe he was sick

with some deathly malady, and she would catch it, and die in horrible agony of a disease

unknown to science.

She squatted. "Who are you?" she asked. The man reacted to her voice. He lifted his head

again,

and uttered something alien, and sank down once more. He really did seem to be too tired

to do more. He hadn't

even tried to grab her ankle or to look up her skirt. He didn't

look diseased, just worn out.

That clothing was definitely strange. His language, too,

was unlike anything she had heard before. Could he be a diplomat from some faraway little

kingdom who somehow got off at the wrong stop and got hopelessly lost? Unable to speak the local

language, perhaps with no local money, he

might simply be starving.

Or he might be hideously dangerous in a way she couldn't fathom. As an innocent fourteen-

year-old girl, she definitely ought to get quickly away from him and phone the police. They could

handle it, whether he was a diplomat or a crimi -- nal. That was the only proper course.

Colene felt the thrill of danger, and knew she was about to do something monumentally

stupid.

She leaned close to his ear. "You must come with me. I will help you. I will help. Do you

understand?"

His hand slid across the ground, toward the sound of her

voice, the fingers twitching.

Maybe he was dehydrated. The day had been hot, though the night would be cold; that was

the way fall was in Okla -- homa.

"I'll be right back," she said.

She straightened up, paused as dizziness took her because of the sudden change of

position, then walked quickly back to her house. She went to the messy kitchen and fetched a

plastic glass. She filled it water from the tap, and carried it out.

The man had not moved. She sat down beside his head, set the water down in a snug

depression, and reached for him. "I'm back," she said. "I brought you water. Can you drink it?"

He tried to raise his head again. She put her hands on it and lifted; then she scooted on

her bottom so that she could set his head in her lap. She held it tilted up, then reached for the

glass. It was a stretch, and she had to lean over his head. Her bosom actually touched his hair.

He did not seem to notice, but the contact sent new waves of speculation through her. Wasn't this

the way the Little Mermaid had rescued the drowning prince? Holding him close, helping him survive

-- until he recovered and married somebody else, never realiz -- ing what he owed to the mermaid.

The tragedy of not even knowing!

She got the glass and brought it to his face, which was now propped against her front.

"Water," she murmured. "Water. Drink. Water." She touched his mouth and tilted the glass.

Suddenly he realized what it was. Eagerly he sipped. She tilted further, spilling some,

but he managed to drink most of it. She had been right!

"More?" she asked, still holding his head and feeling very maternal. "More water?"

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His hand came up, questing for something. He seemed to have more strength than before, but

that wasn't saying much.

She sec aside the empty glass and caught his hand with her free one. His fingers were

cold. She squeezed them with her warm ones. His squeezed back.

She was thrilled again. Communication!

Then she decided that she had better get away from him before he recovered too much. She

had already taken a phe -- nomenal chance; it was time to stop pushing her luck to the brink.

"More water," she said firmly, and pulled herself away. She set his head back on the ground,

scrambled up, got the glass, and hurried back to the house.

When she returned with the next glassful of water, the man was struggling to his hands and

knees. He was definitely gaining strength. It would be absolutely crazy to get near him again.

Anything could happen.

She brought the glass to him. But he had now recovered to the point where he might walk,

and he was trying to get to his feet. He was a good deal larger than she was, and surely stronger,

which meant yet again that it was time for her to get away from him. So she dropped the glass and

stepped in and helped him stand.

She put her arms around his body and heaved, and he

lurched to his feet. They staggered toward her house.

At which point Colene thought things through just a bit further. It didn't matter whether

she was being sensible or foolish -- as if there were any question! -- because once the man got to

her house, and her parents came home, the game would be over. They would call the police, and the

police would take the man away, and both parents would bawl her out for her stupidity before

settling into their usual pursuits for the evening. Her father would head off for his date with

his cur -- rent liaison, and her mother would settle down to serious drinking. Things would be

back to normal.

"No!" she gasped. "Not there -- there!" She shoved him away from the house and toward her

shed. This was a solid structure, larger than a dollhouse but considerably smaller than a real

house, perhaps originally intended for storage, but she had taken it over and made it her own

private place. Her parents had learned not to bother her there. It was often enough her main link

with sanity. Sometimes she spent the full night there, rather than watching her mother drink. She

called it Dogwood Bumshed, because a small dogwood tree grew beside it. It wasn't a great tree,

and it wouldn't survive at all if she didn't water it, but it did flower nicely in the

spring, its moment of glory.

The man moved in that direction, yielding to her shove.

She wrenched the door open and he stumbled in. He col -- lapsed on her pile of cushions;

his brief strength had been exhausted. Perhaps that was just as well. "More water," she told him,

and shut the door on him. Now he would not be discovered, by her parents or anyone else.

She fetched the glass, which had fallen and spilled when she helped the man walk. She took

it to the house, filled it again, then checked the supplies of food. There was a loaf of bread;

she took it whole. That would do for a start.

She brought the'things to the shed. The man lay where he

had settled, but revived when she entered. Now he was able to drink by himself; he

accepted the glass from her.

He did not seem to know what the bread was. She opened the package and took out a slice.

He gazed at it blankly. She took a bite of it. Then his face lighted; he finally understood. He

took a slice and bit into it with considerably less delicacy than she had. Oh, yes, he was hungry!

Standing there, watching him eat, Colene finally had time to reflect on what all this

might be leading to. She had res -- cued a man; now what was she going to do with him? He did not

seem to be aggressive, but of course he was weak from hunger and thirst. What would he be like

when he had his strength back? She really should report him now; she had taken much more risk than

she should have, and gotten away with it, but there were limits. She knew nothing about him except

that he was a man, and that was warning enough.

She returned to the house and fetched two blankets from her closet. She knew already that

she was not going to turn him in. He might turn on her and kill her, but that risk in -- trigued

her more than it frightened her. She would see this through to wherever it led, no matter what. If

she could only keep anybody else from finding out about him.

Did that mean she was going to try to keep him captive? After all, how could she stop him

from simply walking out? She didn't know, but until he did depart, she would take care of him.

The man finished the loaf of bread, and Colene returned to the house to get more food. She

couldn't take anything else that would be missed; it would be difficult enough ex -- plaining the

bread. She found some old cookies, and some leftover casserole in the back of the refrigerator;

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she could say it was getting moldy so she threw it out. It was getting moldy, but she trimmed off

the mold and took it anyway. She was an old hand at trimming mold, because her mother con --

stantly forgot things; she knew it wasn't anything to freak out about.

The man was glad to have the additional food. But he re -- mained weak, and she knew she

couldn't send him back out into the world. He would just collapse again.

But there was something she had to make clear to him. How could she establish

communication, so as to tell him

what she needed to? For the fact was that her parents would be getting home soon, and if

the man showed himself, the game would be up. He had to remain hidden.

Well, all she could do was try. First maybe they could exchange names. She tapped herself

on the breastbone: "Col --

ene. Colene." Then she pointed to him.

He looked at her, then tapped himself similarly. "Col -- ene."

Oops. She cast about for something else. She picked up a

notepad and pencil, and quickly drew two figures, one small and female, the other larger

and male. She pointed to herself, then to the female. "Me. Colene." Then to the male. "You."

She paused expectantly.

He took the paper. "Me. Colene," he said, pointing to

the female. "You. Darius."

Well, it was progress. "Me Colene, girl," she said, tap -- ping herself again. "You

Darius, man."

He nodded, pointing to her. "Me -- "

"No, you." He looked perplexed, but managed to get it. "You Colene

girl. Me Darius man."

She smiled. "Yes." It was a beginning. He did not know

her language, but he could leam. She drilled him on Yes and No until she was sure he

understood them, and tested him on the picture of the horse on the wall, titled "For Whom Was That

Neigh?" "Man?" she asked, pointing to it. No. "Girl?" No. "Horse?" Yes. He had it straight. Then

she gave her message. She opened the door and pointed to the house beyond. "House. Colene. Yes.

House. Darius. No."

After some back-and-forth, he seemed to understand. But he seemed uneasy, even

uncomfortable.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

Finally he made what might have been taken as an obscene gesture, but he did it in such an

apologetic manner that she knew he wasn't trying to insult her. He touched and halfway

squeezed his groin.

"The bathroom!" she exclaimed, catching on. "You have

to use the -- " But she couldn't bring him to the house for

that!

"Wait," she told him, and dashed back to the house. She

dug out a big old rusty pot and brought it to the shed. "This."

She pantomimed sitting on it. She even made the whoopee noise.

He looked extremely doubtful. "No, I won't watch you!" she said, knowing he couldn't

understand the words, but hop -- ing the sense of it came through. "I have to go to the house,

there." She pointed to it. "So my folks won't know any -- thing's up. I'll try to check back on

you, when I can. You just stay here." Then she stepped out, and closed the door on him.

She was just in time: her father's car was pulling into the drive. She hurried to the back

door and in. She checked the kitchen to make sure that nothing there would give her away, then

went to the front room to pick up her school books. But no, this was Friday, and she never did

homework on Friday. She didn't want to arouse suspicion. She had to be perfectly normal. So she

turned on the TV too loud and plumped down on the couch.

Her father came in. "Turn that thing down!" he snapped.

She grabbed the remote control and diminished the volume just enough to accede without

quite ceasing to annoy him. He went on to his bedroom.

One down. One to go.

An hour later her father, clean, shaved, and neatly dressed, went out again. Colene stared

at the TV, pretending not to notice. She didn't care about his date with his mistress, as long as

he was discreet. Well, maybe deep down she did care, but that was worse than pointless: it only

cut her up further. There was nothing she could do about it anyway. So it was safer not to care.

Fifteen minutes after that, her mother's car arrived. Colene remained before the TV.

Actually her mind was on the man in the shed; she wasn't paying any attention to the program. But

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she had to play her role, more so today than usual.

Her mother went straight to the kitchen, and Colene heard the first drink being poured.

Good; there would be no trouble from that quarter this evening.

She got up, leaving the TV on, and went to the kitchen. "I'll just take a snack out to the

shed, okay?" she said, picking up some candy bars and raisins. She put tap water into a plastic

bottle. Her mother, intent on hiding what could not be hidden, offered no objection.

Colene carried her things out. It was strictly live and let live, in her family; none of

them wanted the hassle that a challenge to any of them would have brought. If someone insisted on

visiting, all three of them shaped up to put on a good act for the required time. What was to be

gained by letting the truth be known? A philanderer, an alcoholic, a suicidal child. Family love?

What a laugh. Ha. Ha. Ha. Maybe there had once been love. Now it was merely strained

tolerance. Typical American family, for sure!

She knocked on the shed door, just to warn Darius. Then

she opened it.

He had used the pot. She could tell by the smell. She

should have brought a cover for it. Without a word she walked across, set down the candy

bars, picked up the pot, and car -- ried it outside and around to the back of the shed. There was

an old rusty spade there with a broken handle. She used that to dig a hole, and she dumped the pot

and covered up the stuff. She had had some experience with this sort of thing, and knew that it

wasn't worth even wrinkling her nose. It wasn't as bad as cleaning up her mother's vomit, after

all.

She found a battered piece of plywood, banged it against the ground to get the dirt and

mold on", and set it on the # pot. She brought the set back into the shed. She put them

down in a comer.

Then at last she faced Darius. "I can't stay long," she

said.

He nodded as if he understood. He smiled. She smiled back. Then she picked up the candy

and rai -- sins. "More food for you."

He insisted this time on sharing it with her, so she ate one

bar while he ate the rest. He was much more alert than he had been, which was a relief. He

was also halfway handsome under his dirt. There was nothing wrong with him that food

and a washcloth wouldn't cure.

Well, that she could handle. She found a tatter of colored cloth she had pretended was the

flag of her imaginary king -- dom in the Land of Horses and poured some of her cup of water on it.

"Clean," she told him, and proceeded to rub it across his face. He did not protest; in fact, he

seemed used to having such a thing done for him. Finally she fetched her comb and combed his hair

back. Oh, yes, he was handsome,

when allowance was made for his stubble beard. But that kind of beard was considered

macho, because of all the undercover criminal-playing cops on TV.

They drilled on vocabulary. Darius was a quick study -- a very quick study -- and so was

she. Soon they had the words for the parts of the body and items of clothing, and were working on

other parts of speech. For the first time Colene appreciated basic grammar, now that she was

teaching it. It was convenient to say "noun" or "verb" in some cases when clarifying the use of a

word. When Darius indicated the door and said "verb" she knew he was zeroing in on things like

"open" and "close" and "walk through."

One bit was fun in its own fashion. She had a little box of wooden matches in the shed,

which she used for lighting her canned heat so she could do a tiny bit of cooking. An electric

hotplate would have been better, but she didn't have one. This was good enough.

Darius saw the box, and inquired. "Matches," she ex -- plained. Then she demonstrated by

striking one. He gaped as it burst into flame. Then he wanted to try it himself. She let him --

and he burned his fingers on it. But he was really intrigued by the phenomenon, like a little

child. "Keep them," she told him generously. "I can get more."

He put the box away in a pocket, smiling. It was as if he had found a charm.

She tried to learn his words for things, but they were me -- lodious and extremely

strange, with nuances she was sure she was missing. She was apt at language, but knew that there

was nothing like this on this side of the world. So she con -- centrated for now on teaching him.

When he could talk well enough to tell her where he was from, she would look it up and learn a

whole lot more about him. Somewhere in the Orient, maybe, though he did not look Oriental.

She realized in the course of this session that she had lost her fear of Darius. He was

unusual and mysterious, but not dangerous. He was also fascinating.

It grew dark in the shed, for though there was a line here, Colene had used it only to

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listen to tapes in the day, and had never brought out a light. Now a light would be disastrous,

because it would show that Darius was there.

"I have to go," she said abruptly. "Mom will wonder if I

stay out here too long. But you stay here, and I'll bring you

more food in the morning."

"Yes," he said. She hoped that he really did understand. She slipped out the door, not

opening it wide, just in case her mother was looking this way, and closed it quickly behind her.

Actually there would be nothing visible inside except darkness now, but it made sense to practice

safe manage -- ment. She returned to the house.

Her mother was pretty much out of it by this time. Good. Colene scrounged in the

refrigerator for more to eat, and gobbled it down without bothering to sit. Then she went to her

room. There was her bed, neatly made, and her desk where she normally did her homework, and her

dresser and mirror, and the guitar she hoped someday to leam to play decently. All very

conventional. She kept it that way delib -- erately, so that no one could garner any secrets about

her by analyzing her living space. There was even a set of standard dolls on the dresser. Ken and

Barbie. What a visitor would not know was that she had renamed the male: he was really Klaus. Thus

the pair was Klaus Barbie. There had been a notorious Nazi criminal by that name. She flossed her

teeth, brushed her hair, changed into her pajamas, and lay down on her bed. She stared at the

ceiling.

Sleep didn't come. All she could do was think about Da -- rius, out there in the Bumshed,

and her heart was beating at a running pace. She had to slow it to a walking pace before she could

nod off. She knew from experience with bad nights.

After a time she got up, went to the closet, and changed into her silky nightgown. She

loved the feel of it against her skin. It was long enough so that she wore nothing under it, which

gave her a deliciously wicked feeling. It was a good outfit in which to dream. Very good. In fact,

too good.

Now her heart slowed, but her thoughts turned darker. She remembered the time a few months

ago when her beloved grandmother, one of the mainstays of her young life after the default of her

parents, had sickened with cancer and then died. It was as if the last leg had been knocked out

from under Colene's will to live. Without Grandma, what was the point? She had not exactly told

Grandma about the horrors she had experienced, or how her life had been falling apart,

but she suspected that Grandma knew. It was better to go where Grandma was, and have her

reassurance again. Colene had taken her mother's pills from the cabinet, one sniff of which, as an

Arabian Nights tale put it with suitable hyper -- bole, could make an elephant sleep from night to

night. She swallowed three, then another, pondered, and finally two more. Six was a good number.

Six-six-six was the devil's own number. Sick-sick-sick was what these pills would make her. Sick

unto death. Then she lay down in her sexy nightie -- the one she was wearing now. She wanted to

expire in maid -- enly style.

The elephant pills did not exactly kill her. They put her into a trancelike state in which

she had a vision. In the vision she was exactly as she was, in her naughty nightgown, and

gloriously dying; the church bells were warming up for the somber death toll, and there would be

mourning until the funeral. How sweet she would look in the casket, a red-red rose on her cold-

cold bosom. Other girls would envy her the beauty of that nightgown, knowing that they would not

have the nerve to be shown dead in such an outfit.

Three figures entered the room, coming through the wall, so it was obvious that they were

of the spiritual persuasion. Two were her grandparents, now reunited in the afterlife. Grandma

approached. "Dear, you may not yet die, because there is something you have yet to do with your

life. We love you and will always be with you."

Then the third figure, the stranger, approached. He was clothed in a dark robe and wore a

cowl over his head, and his face was shaded by mist. Who he was she dared not guess, but there was

an inherent glow about him that bespoke his authority. "Colene," he said, his voice full of compas

-- sion and knowledge. "You have to go on. You will not be able to quit. Your life will get

better."

Buoyed by that message, she had roused herself from the vision, stumbled to the bathroom,

poked her finger down her throat, and gagged out the remaining contents of her stom -- ach. "Just

call me bulimic," she had gasped with gallant gallows humor as her heaves expired. She had changed

her mind about dying. For a while.

No one had known. Her mother hadn't even missed the six pills.

Had she done the right thing? Colene could not be sure. Yet now, with the appearance of

Darius, it seemed that there was indeed something for her to do with her life. Maybe her vision

was coming true.

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After more time she got up again, slipped her feet into her slippers, turned out the

light, and cracked open the door. She made her way through the house. If her mother asked, she was

just going for another snack. But her mother didn't notice her passage.

Colene got the spare house key, stepped quickly out the back door, and locked herself out.

That way her mother would assume that she had locked them in for the night, and would not check

her room. Colene would use the key to let herself in again later.

It was chill outside, and she shivered as she made her way across the dark back yard to

the shed. Her heart was pound -- ing, but not because of the temperature. She was embarking on

another suicidally foolish risk.

She knocked on the door, then opened it. She couldn't see anything inside, but knew he was

there.

Indeed he was, hunched under the blankets. They really weren't enough, considering his

weakened state. He needed more warmth.

"I should have brought another blanket," she murmured. "But I would have had to take it

from my own bed, and that would be chancy. I'll see what I can do."

She sat down beside him, and pulled at the blankets, re -- arranging them. Then she lay

down, full length beside him, and drew the blankets over them both. "It's warmer this way," she

explained.

He rolled over to face her, and she stiffened with fear. "Please don't rape me," she

whispered. "I really don't like it." Yet she had come out here in her provocative nightgown. He

couldn't see it, of course, but he could feel it. She had gotten under the blankets with him, in

the dark. No jury would convict him.

"Rape?" he asked, not knowing the word.

Now she had to define it! How could she do that? If she managed to get the concept across,

without the use of her pad and pencil, it would have to be by touch, and he might think

she was asking for it. But she had used the word, and she had to explain it.

She pondered, her heart beating so wildly she almost thought her mother in the house could

hear it, let alone Da -- rius. Then she found his right hand under the blanket. She brought it

across his body and up to touch her head. "Yes," she said. Then she took it down to touch her

right breast through the nightgown, as she lay on her back. "Maybe." Finally she put it against

her thigh. "No."

He considered that, while she lay breathing rapidly, her body stiff. Then he reached

across her, not to embrace her, but to find her left arm. He brought it across her body and up to

his head. Her fingers touched his mouth. "Yes," he said. Then he took it down to his clothed

crotch. "No."

He understood! "That's right," she said, squeezing his fingers with hers. "I'm here to

warm you, and that's about it."

"Thank you." He brought her hand to his lips again, and kissed it.

Colene experienced a wild thrill. She knew she should just lie where she was, having made

her point. But it was her nature to risk disaster. Suicide was merely the most extreme extension

of a syndrome that permeated her existence. What -- ever she did, she had to push the limit,

courting trouble. This was folly, but it was her way. Had she been a man, she would have been a

daredevil cyclist, hurdling lines of cars soaked in gasoline, daring the flames to get her. But

she was only a teenage girl, so had to settle for lesser dares.

She rolled over toward him, scooted up a bit, found his head, and lifted hers to kiss him

on the mouth. Then she lay against him, her body touching his full length. Of course he was

clothed, but she wasn't; all she had was the flimsy night -- gown. With her wickedly bare torso

within it, her breasts nudging him with each breath she took.

He put his right arm around her and drew her close. His hand did not wander. She put her

left arm around him. They were embraced.

She had intended only to remain for half an hour or so, but this was such dangerous

delight that she couldn't bring herself to break it off. Slowly her heart eased its horrendous

pace, and she relaxed.

She woke, and realized that she had been asleep for some time, nestled against Darius. He

was warm and she was warm. As far as she knew, he had not touched her even in the "maybe" region.

She was almost disappointed. She fell

back into sleep.

She became aware of the creeping light. "Ohmigod!" she

squeaked. "Morning!"

She scrambled out from under the blanket, startling Darius awake. "My parents!" she said.

"I have to get back to my room, so they don't know where I was!"

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He nodded, seeming to understand. She found her slip -- pers, slipped out the door, and

almost flew, wraithlike, across

the yard to the door.

The door was locked. "The key!" she breathed in anguish. She turned about and flew back to

the shed.

A hand reached out. It held her key.

"Thanks!" She snatched it and ran back. The door seemed to make a thunderous noise as it

unlocked and opened. She went in, then turned to lock it again. She put the key away.

Then she forced herself to walk slowly through the house to her room. No one was up. She

was unobserved.

She entered her room, went to the bed, and threw herself

into it. She had made it!

Now she remembered how Darius had given her the key. He knew what it was for and where it

was. He could have kept it from her. He could have raped her. He could had taken the contact of

his hand on her breast last night as a pretext to go wild. It wasn't the kind of breast found in

macho male magazines, but it didn't exactly require padding for a formal gown either. She had

given him every opportunity.

He was either a decent man or he just wasn't interested. She cursed herself for her total,

absolute, unmitigated folly -- and knew she would try to find out exactly which it was. Decency or

disinterest. If it killed her. And it just might. Which was perhaps the point.

CHAPTER 2 -- DARIUS

DARIUS woke as the maiden jumped out of bed in -- the wan light of dawn. For a moment he

was dis -- oriented, but it quickly came back: she was Colene, and she had come back to spend a

chaste night with him, warming him with her company. He appreciated that very much.

She hurried out. She did not speak his language, unsur -- prisingly, but had taught him

some of hers. She had made it plain that she shared her domicile with her parents, who would not

understand Darius' presence here. That too was under -- standable. Certainly he did not want her

to be distressed be -- fore he could get to know her well enough.

He felt something cold against his ankle. It was her key. She would need that to enter her

locked house. He picked it up and moved to the door.

In a moment she appeared, shivering in her pretty nightdress, her breath fogging in the

chill morning air. He saw her small high breasts heaving enticingly. He extended the key. She took

it and ran back the way she had come. He shut the door.

Colene. She was young, but by the same token fresh and pretty. She had courage too, and

intelligence. She seemed eminently suitable. But would she want to do it? It was too soon to tell.

He had time to find out. Unless there was trouble before he did. If there was trouble, he

would have to --

Then he remembered that aspect. He couldn't! He had lost

the signal key!

What was he to do? Without that key he couldn't return. He would be locked in this

reality, and he had already dis -- covered that he was not equipped to survive here.

Well, did it really make a difference?

It was pointless, but the knowledge of his likely demise here caused him to set a higher

value on his life than hitherto. With renewed interest, he reviewed the events of the last few

days.

THE post of Cyng of Hiahtar was an enviable one, but it had its desperate drawback. A

castle was provided, fully staffed and supplied. The Cyng's magic was virtually limit -- less. As

long as he performed.

It was impossible to endure alone for long; every Cyng soon was depleted. The only

practical way to survive was to marry a strong, abundantly happy woman, and draw on her resources

until she was depleted, and then cast her aside in favor of a new one. Because the post was

prominent and the perquisites excellent, many women were willing to endure this, and it was

feasible to maintain a chain of marriages indefinitely. But Darius, new to the post, had rebelled

after divorcing his second wife. She was not a bad person, and they got along well, but she was

depleted. He did not want to marry a series of women for their life forces, daring to love none.

He wanted to marry one for love, and to remain

with her for the full tenure.

The wiser heads had nodded. It was often thus with new -- lings; they just had to leam

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