Anthony, Piers - Xanth 10 - Vale of the Vole

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Chapter 1. Metria

It wasn't always easy, being the son of an ogre and a nymph. Sometimes the

ogre started smashing things just for the joy of it, or squeezing the juice

from stones one-handed, making an awful mess. Sometimes the nymph was rather

empty-minded, or threw a tantrum. That was why Esk had made this cosy hideout

that no one else knew about. Whenever things became too difficult at home, he

came here to relax and unwind. He loved his parents, but there was virtue in

solitude too.

He paused to look about and listen carefully. He didn't want any creature of

Xanth, tame or wild, seeing him enter, because then the location would be no

secret, and sooner or later his folks would learn of it, and his privacy would

be lost.

His hideout was in the hollow trunk of a dead beerbarrel tree. He had been

lucky: he had been in the vicinity in the month of AwGhost, when barrel trees

gave up the ghost if they were going to, and had seen the spirit departing.

"Aw, Ghost!" he had exclaimed in the classic ogre manner, and that had

enchanted the tree so that he could take over the busk without creating a

local commotion. He had cut a door in the fat trunk that sealed tightly so

that it didn't show from outside, and made vents so that the steamy beer smell

could dissipate; his mother, Tandy, would never understand if he came home

reeking of beer! Then he had set straw in the bottom, and brought in pillows

from a nearby pillow bush, and carved decorative scenes in the walls, and made

it perfect. He was rather proud of himself; his only regret was that he could

not afford to boast of his accomplishment, because of the necessity for

secrecy.

All seemed clear. He hooked his nails into the crevice and pulled the door

open. It was a small door, with an irregular outline, so that its contour was

not obvious. He ducked down to step through, then drew it carefully closed

behind. He stepped across the floor and dropped onto his nest of pillows.

2 Vale of the Vole

"Ouch!"

Esk jumped. "Who said that?" he demanded.

"Get your fat mule off me!" The voice came from below.

He looked but saw only pillows. "My fat what?"

"Your fat donkey!" the voice snapped. "Pony, horse, jackass, whatever —offl"

Esk finally got a glimmer of the word that was being sought. He got quickly

off the pillows. "Where are you?"

The pillow shifted outline. A mouth formed in its center. "Here, you oaf! What

did you think you were doing, putting gross anatomy like that in my face?"

"Well, I—"

"Never mind. Just don't do it again, moron."

"But pillows are supposed to be—"

"Oh? Did you ever ask the pillows' opinion about that?"

"Well, actually, no, but—"

"So there, imbecile! Now get out and let me sleep."

Esk got out. Then, as he wended his way home, he pondered. How had he been

able to talk to a pillow? He knew of only one person who could talk to an

object, and that was the King of Xanth, Dor. Since it was generally understood

that talents did not repeat, except in the case of the curse fiends, that

meant that it wouldn't be Esk's talent. Beside that, he already had a talent:

that of protesting. Sometimes his mother said he protested too much, but she

did not deny it was magic. Since no one had two magic talents, that, too,

eliminated the possibility of talking to inanimate things.

Finally he worked it out. He was not the smartest person, being quarter ogre,

but he never let go of a problem, being half human, and usually was able to

come to some kind of settlement, however crude. It wasn't his magic, but the

pillow's magic. He must have picked a special pillow, without realizing: one

that was alive. All he needed to do was take it back out to the pillow bush

and exchange it for another, and his problem would be solved.

Reassured, he continued on toward home, having forgotten whatever problem had

brought him to his hideout. As he neared it he smelled the delicious odor of

purple bouillon. That meant that his father, Smash, had gone into his full

ogre guise and foraged for the makings. Smash was actually only half ogre, for

Esk's grandparents on that side had been Crunch Ogre and an actress from the

curse fiends. But when Smash got ogreish, no one could tell him from a full

ogre; he swelled up horren-dously and burst out of his trousers. Tandy,

however, being of nymphly

Vale of the Vole 3

stock, preferred Smash as a man, so usually that was what he seemed to be.

Esk could not voluntarily turn ogre, but when he got mad enough or desperate

enough he did develop some ogre strength. It never lasted long, but of course

it didn't need to; one strike by an ogreishly-powered fist could pulverize the

trunk of a rock maple tree. Similarly, he was normally inept at acting, but

when he really had to he could become temporarily proficient. That was his

heritage from his curse fiend grandmother. Most of the time it was his human

heritage that dominated, since he was part human through both of his parents.

He was a pretty ordinary person, with gray eyes and nondescript brown hair. He

often wished he were otherwise, but really had no choice; he was obviously not

destined for any sort of greatness.

But there was no use worrying about that; there was purple bouillon to be

eaten!

Two days later, being bored, Esk returned to his hideout. He entered and

checked the pillows. They all looked normal. "Which one of you is the live

one?" he inquired, but had no answer.

He shrugged. He picked up the whole mass of them and took them out to the

pillow bush, unceremoniously dumping them beside it. Then he picked several

new ones. He had to do this periodically anyway, so they didn't get dirty and

stale. He carried these to his tree and plopped them down inside.

He hesitated, then eased himself down on them. Contrary to what the living

pillow had said, his posterior was not fat; in retrospect he wished he had

corrected the pillow about that matter. But he always thought up the smart

responses way too late. That, again, was part of his heritage: neither ogres

nor nymphs were known for their quickness of wit.

He was hungry, so he brought out a pie he had picked some time ago. It was a

humble pie, and they were always best when properly seasoned. This one was

decked with sodden raisins, and had a crust that was rock-like, while its main

body seemed to be decomposing. It was definitely ready for consumption.

He brought it to his mouth and took an ogreish bite. His teeth came down, dug

in—and the pie erupted in his face. Raisins popped out and flew at his eyes,

and the crust writhed against his lips. "Get your ugly cat out of here!" the

pie exclaimed.

"My ugly what?" Esk asked, startled.

"Your ugly kitten, feline, grimalkin, tabby—"

"Oh, you mean my ugly puss?" he inquired, catching on.

4 Vale of the Vole

"Your ugly whatever," the pie agreed, forming a wide mouth. "Just what did you

think you were doing, ogreface?"

"Ogreface?" Esk repeated, appreciating the compliment. Then he realized that

the pie probably hadn't meant it that way. "I was trying to—"

"Oh you were, were you! Well, don't do it aga'n!"

"But—"

"You never asked the pie whether it wanted to be chewed on, did you?"

"But it's humble pie! It's meant to be eaten!"

"A likely story. Now get your dim-witted face out of here so I can rest."

"Listen, pieface, this is my hideout!" Esk said, developing a smidgeon of

heat. "I just tossed out an obnoxious pillow, and I'll do the same with you!

You sure aren't very humble!"

"You just try to toss this cookie, and you'll be sorry, bean-brainl"

That did it. Esk carried the pie to the door, pushed the door open, and skated

the disk out into the forest. Then he plumped down on his bed of pillows for a

snooze.

It was a moderately cool day, and while true ogres loved cold weather, Esk

didn't. He cast about until he found the tattered old blanket he had salvaged

for this purpose, and drew it over him.

The blanket writhed and wrapped itself around his feet. Then it squeezed his

legs, and inched up his torso, constricting as it did.

"Hey!" Esk exclaimed.

"Hay yourself, moo-brain!" the blanket said, forming a mouth on its surface.

But it did not pause in its squeezing; Esk's legs were getting uncomfortable.

Abruptly concerned, he thrust his legs apart, the ogre strength coming to him.

The blanket tore—but then it fogged and rose up as a flying thing, hovering

before him. "Listen, dung-head," its mouth said, "now I'm really going to make

you sorry!"

But Esk's ogre dander was up. He grabbed the blanket with both hands. "We'll

see about that, threadface!" Then he tore it asunder.

The pieces fogged again. The whole thing became vapor. This time it re-formed

into the shape of a demoness. "You're stronger than you look, bug-wit. But how

long do you think you can oppose me?"

"What wit?" Esk asked, confused again.

"Flea-wit, ant-wit, chigger-wit—"

"Oh, nitwit!"

"Whatever. Why don't you answer the question?"

Vale of the Vole 5

Now at last Esk caught on. "The pillow—the pie—they were all you! You assumed

their forms!"

"Of course I did, genius," she agreed. "I was trying to get rid of you gently.

But now it's no more Miss Nice Gal. I'm going to twist you into a pretzel and

feed you to a dragon." In her natural form she had arms and hands, which were

now reaching for him.

"Dragons don't eat pretzels," he said, realizing he was in trouble. Demons (or

demonesses) were notorious; they had inhuman strength and no conscience, and

they could pass right through solid walls. If he had realized what he was

dealing with, he would have left her alone. Now it was too late.

"I'll jam you down its mouth anyway," she said grimly. "Maybe it will forgive

me in a century or two." The hands closed on his neck and squeezed.

But this stimulated his ogre strength to full potency. Contrary to popular

lore, ogres didn't really like getting twisted into pretzels, whatever they-

might do to others. Esk grabbed her wrists and wrenched them apart. "Who are

you?" he demanded.

"I am the Demoness Metria," she replied, fogging again. Her arms and hands

reappeared at his throat, leaving his own hands empty. "DeMetria for short.

Who are you?"

Esk grabbed her wrists again, and wrenched them outward again. "I am Eskil

Ogre, and I'm not going to let you choke me."

"That's what you think, mortal," she said. Her substance fogged yet again and

re-formed, and this time her arms were linked by a length of thin rope. She

hooked this over his head and looped it around his neck. "You can't get this

off before you're done for."

"No!" Esk gasped.

Now she seemed startled. "No?" Her grip relaxed.

Esk balled a fist and smashed her in the face. The blow was solid, but her

head simply folded back on the neck, as if hinged, then snapped back into

place as he withdrew his arm. She looked slightly aggravated.

"No," he repeated. "I protest it."

She reconsidered. "Well, maybe not. I suppose it would be pointless to kill

you; your body would only stink up the region, and I don't care to haul it far

enough so the smell wouldn't carry." The cord dissolved into vapor and

coalesced about her arms; it was evidently part of her substance.

"Well, I'm going to throw you out of here!" Esk said, his ogre aspect still in

force.

"I'd like to see you try it, mundaneface."

Vile of the Vole

Mundanefacel Her insults were getting more effective. That kept his ogre

aspect in force. "I'll try it!"

He tried it. He grabbed her about the middle and hauled her off her feet. Then

he paused. Her body was humanoid and naked and voluptuous, and was now tightly

pressed against him. He had been distracted by her words and actions, but now

was noticing her shape. This was a new experience.

"Well, now," she said, smiling. "I didn't realize that you wanted to be

friendly. Just let me get your clothes off—"

He dropped her. "Just get out!" he exclaimed, disgruntled.

"Forget it, junior. I found this place and it's mine."

"I made it and it's mine!" he retorted.

She arched an eyebrow. "You made a beerbarrel tree?"

"Well, not that, but I adapted it after it gave up its spirit. That's close

enough."

"Well, I like it, but I don't like you, so I'm going to get rid of you."

"No."

She paused, studying him. "Ah, that's your magic, isn't it! When you say 'no,'

you stop a creature from doing what she intends. That's why I'm changing my

mind, against my better judgment."

"Yes." His talent was not exactly magician class, but it served him in good

stead when he needed it.

"So I'd better not make any more threats because you'll just say no to them,"

she continued. "But I'll bet it isn't all inclusive. You can't say 'no* to the

whole category of what I might try to do to get you out, but you can say it to

each individual thing as I try it."

"Yes." She was catching on with dismaying rapidity. Obviously there was no

ogre blood in her lineage.

"So I'll just have to find a way to make you want to leave," she concluded. "I

can't hurt you directly, but you can't hurt me either, so we're even, for

now."

"Why are you here?" he asked plaintively.

"Because it's getting too annoying back where I come from," she said. 'The

hummers, you know."

"The what?"

"Never mind. Mortals can't hear them, generally. But they drive demons crazy.

They've gotten really bad recently, there in the Vale of the Vole, despite all

we've done to eradicate them. So I've had enough; I've moved to where I can be

comfortable, after my fashion."

"But you're trying to take the place where / can be comfortable, after my

fashion," he protested.

Vale of the Vole 7

"So sue me."

"What?"

"It's a mundane term. It means 'What are you going to do about it, stink-

nose?'"

"I don't understand. Is Sue a girl?"

She laughed, her whole torso jiggling. "I suppose we're stuck here together,

junior. Might as well make the best of it. Maybe we'll even get to like each

other, though that may be stretching a point. Come, let me initiate you into

the ways of demon sex." She advanced on him.

"No!" he exclaimed.

She stopped. "There's that magic of yours again! I really wasn't going to hurt

you, you know, this time. I can be very affectionate, when I pretend to be.

Let me demonstrate."

"No." He was afraid of her now, as he had not been before, and ashamed for his

fear. It wasn't because he thought she would use a pretext to get close to him

and then try to choke him again; it was because he was afraid she would do

exactly what she threatened, and that he would like it. He didn't trust a

demon-stration.

She eyed him speculatively. "How old are you, Esk?"

"Sixteen."

"And I'm a hundred and sixteen, but who's counting? You're old enough, in

mortal terms, and I'm young enough, in immortal terms. Why don't you let me

buy this den from you, and pay for it with experience? I can show you exactly

what it's all about, so that you will never have to embarrass yourself by

being clumsy with a mortal girl."

Esk barged by her, dived out the door, and headed for home. Only when he was

well away from the hideout did he ask himself why. Was he afraid that she

would somehow lead him into some much worse embarrassment than he could guess?

Or that he thought that what she offered was simply wrong? But was it wrong?

He wasn't sure.

He thought about asking his parents about the matter. But then he'd have to

tell them about his hideout, which he didn't want to do. Also, he suspected

that they just wouldn't understand. His mother had never said much about it,

but he understood that a male demon had once approached her, and that she had

been horrified. He could guess how she would react to news of a demoness's

approach to her son. She might even throw one of her tantrums at him, and that

would hurt. His father loved those tantrums, because they reminded him of ogre

slaps, but an ogre slap could knock a grown tree askew or put a network of

cracks in a rock.

Vale of the Vole

So he kept silent. Maybe Metria would tire of his hideout and go away. Demons

were known to be inconstant, after all.

Several days later he ventured again to the hideout. He entered cautiously.

There was no sign of the demoness. But he knew that she could be concealed as

anything; only time would tell whether she really was gone.

He sat on the pillows, and there was no outcry. He shook out his blanket, with

no protest. He found a piece of redberry pie and ate it without event. He

began to hope.

It was surprising how quickly boredom set in. One thing about his experience

with Metria: it had been interesting, in more than one way. Now that it was

too late, he wondered whether he had been mistaken in turning down her oifer.

She might have provided him with some phenomenal experience!

He dug out his game of pebbles. His collection of stones had served well in

past times to while away dull hours. They were of several different colors,

and he had fashioned a game by drawing them out of the bag one at a time and

setting them down on the floor in patterns. Each stone had to be set next to

one of its own color to form a line or curve. The object was for one color to

circle another. He might draw several red stones in succession, not looking at

each until it was clear of the bag, and Red would make progress against White;

then White would produce several and reverse the advantage. Blue and Green and

Gray were also in there fighting. Sometimes the colors made alliances, ganging

up against each other. The game could get quite exciting, as he animated the

personalities of the colors in his mind. The patterns could become quite

convoluted.

He brought out the first stone. It was glistening black. He set it down,

starting the game.

"Hey, freak, what do you think you're doing?" the stone asked.

He snatched it up and thrust it back into the bag and twisted the opening

tight, trying to seal it in. But smoke issued through the material and swirled

before him, and soon Metria was there. "I thought you'd given up and left it

to me," she remarked.

"I thought you'd given up," he retorted.

"Demons never give up unless they want to. Come on, I really want this place.

Can't we deal?"

"No." But then his foolish curiosity overcame him. "Why are you so insistent

on this place, instead of just becoming a bird and perching on a branch or

something?"

"This place is secluded and comfortable, and other creatures don't

Vale of the Vole

know about it. We demons need to spend most of our time in solid state, and

it's easiest to do it while sleeping, so a good private place is valuable."

"I thought demons didn't need to sleep."

"We don't need to sleep, mortal. But we can sleep if we choose, and often we

do. This is a perfect sleeping place, so I mean to have it."

"Well, I don't mean to let you have it."

Her lips formed a pout. "I'm trying to be nice about it, Esk. It's an effort.

Suppose I give you two great experiences?"

"Two?"

"Sex and death."

"You already tried to kill me!"

"I mean the other way around. You can kill me, after you enjoy me."

"Demons can't be killed." But he found himself guiltily intrigued.

"We can't die, but we can do extremely realistic emulations of dying. You can

choke me, and I'll gag and turn purple and my eyeballs will bulge way out and

I'll struggle with diminishing force until finally I sag down and stop

breathing and my body turns cold. It will be just like throttling a living

woman."

"Ugh," Esk said, revolted.

"Well, what do you want, then? Three great experiences? Name your stupid

price."

He was tempted to ask about the third experience, but decided that he probably

would not like it any better than the second. "No."

"I'll even throw in the first one free," she said. "Just so you can fully

appreciate what I offer. I can assume any form you wish, just to make it

interesting. Is there any particular mortal girl you've been wanting to—"

"No!" he cried.

"Look, there's no obligation! I just want to demonstrate my good faith! I

really want this den, without getting bothered all the time. I know an awful

lot that you could hardly learn in a year, let alone in a day, and—"

"No!"

"Don't be so stuffy." She inhaled, making her breasts stand out splendidly,

and leaned toward him.

"I said no three times," Esk said querulously. "Why aren't you stopping?"

"Because I'm not doing, I'm persuading," she said. "And you want to be

persuaded, don't you, Esk?"

He was afraid that anything he said at this point would be a lie. He lurched

out of the hideout, ashamed of himself. He had to get rid of the demoness,

before she succeeded in corrupting him!

Vale of the Vole

He stayed away a full ten days this time. But he felt out of sorts without the

use of his hideout, and realized that he was actually giving it up to her

without a fight. He had to go there and pester her until she left, instead of

allowing her to do it to him.

He braced himself and went to the beerbarrel tree. All was quiet, outside and

in, but he knew this was no certain indication of her absence. He sat on the

pillows, shook out the blanket, ate a scrap of cheese, dumped all the colored

stones out on the floor, and poked everything he could think of. There was no

response from any of it. Could she really be gone this time? Or was she merely

lying low, waiting until he relaxed, before appearing with some new offer? How

many such offers could he resist, before he succumbed to the temptation. How

many did he want to resist?

Already she was corrupting him, and she wasn't even trying!

Still, if she never manifested, then the hideout was his, even if she was

here. Except that if she should be watching and listening to everything he did

here, how could he ever really relax? He had to be sure she was gone, and not

just out doing some temporary mischief elsewhere.

He heard something, faint in the distance outside the tree. He held his

breath, listening.

"Eskil! Eskil!"

That was his mother's voice! She was searching for him, calling his name, and

if he didn't show up soon, she was apt to discover this hideout! He scrambled

out and ran to her, not directly but in a roundabout way, so as not to give

away the location of his secret place.

"What is it, Mother?" he called when the direction was suitable.

Tandy turned to face him. She had kept much of her nymphly figure, and was a

pretty figure of a woman. There was the corruption of the demoness again: How

could he presume to notice such a thing about his own mother?

"Oh, Eskil," she said. "You must come home right away! It's horrible!"

He was gripped by sudden alarm. "What's horrible?"

"Your father—some other ogre smashed him, I think, and—"

His alarm became horror. "He's hurt?"

"He may not survive the hour! We have to get some healing elixir before it's

too late!"

"I know where there's a spring!" he cried. "I'll go get it!" He took the

little bottle she carried, and charged off through the forest, his heart

pounding from more than the exertion. His father, dying!

Vale of the Vole

He reached the spring and swooped with the bottle dipping out the healing

elixir. Then he ran back toward the house.

He charged in. "Where is he?" he cried, panting.

Tandy turned from the table, where she was preparing leftover soup. "Where is

who, dear?" she inquired mildly.

"Father! Smash Ogre! I have the elixir!"

Smash emerged from another room. He was in his human mode. "You called me,

son?"

Esk looked from one to the other. "You—you're not hurt!"

Tandy's brow furrowed. "Whatever gave you the idea your father was hurt, Esk?"

"But you were just telling me, out in the forest—"

"I have not left the house all afternoon, dear," she said reprovingly.

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摘要：

Chapter1.MetriaItwasn'talwayseasy,beingthesonofanogreandanymph.Sometimestheogrestartedsmashingthingsjustforthejoyofit,orsqueezingthejuicefromstonesone-handed,makinganawfulmess.Sometimesthenymphwasratherempty-minded,orthrewatantrum.ThatwaswhyEskhadmadethiscosyhideoutthatnooneelseknewabout.Wheneverthi...

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