Anthony, Piers & Philip Jose Farmer - The Caterpillars Questi

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Chapter
THEY had told Jack they thought it was psychosomatic She could talk if she wanted to, and might
even recover the sight of one eye But it had taken seven years to obtain the grant from the
foundation, and now she was thirteen
He glanced at her, sitting tight and stiff in the passenger bucket Her dark hair was cut so short
it was boyish, but the gentle bulges in the heavy man's shirt she wore belied any boyhood or
childhood One hand toyed indifferently with the buckle of the seat belt, and under her cotton
skirt the shiny length of a metal brace paralleled her left leg Her sharp chin pointed forward,
but of course she was not watching anything
The horn of the car behind him blared as the light changed Jack shifted and edged out, waiting for
the string of late left-turners to clear He wasn't even certain which city this was, the hours of
silent driving had grown monotonous
"Are you ready to stop, Tappy7" But she did not answer or make any sign He knew she heard and
understood—but he was still a stranger, and she was afraid Had they even bothered to tell her
where she was going, or why7
Tappuah Concord, maimed at the age of six, in the accident that killed her father She had never
known her mother, and the nearest of km that took her in had not been pleased very long with the
burden Jack had no doubt they had made this plain to the little girl many times
He pulled into a roadside restaurant His job was to transport her safely to the clinic She
couldn't cover a thousand miles without eating
Why hadn't they sent her by plane, so that all this driving was unnecessary9 No, the plane was out
of the question Tappy surely still remembered that last trip in her father's little flier
Apparently
1
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there had been a miscalculation, and they had crashed. Jack had not inquired about the details,
for Tappy had been there listening, and he had never been one for pointless cruelty.
He got out, opened her door, unsnapped her seat belt, slipped his hands under her arms, and lifted
her to her feet. They had warned him about this, too: there was often no way to make her come
except to make her come. Anywhere. Otherwise she might simply sit there indefinitely, staring
sightlessly ahead. He felt awkward, putting his hands on her, but she did not seem to notice.
He guided her firmly by the elbow and stopped at the little sign pointing to the ladies' room, not
certain whether the girl knew her way around public facilities, and doubtful what he'd do if she
didn't. He had to ask her, rather awkwardly because of the people passing nearby, and she shook
her head no. Was it wisest to treat her as a child or as a woman? The difference was important the
moment they left the isolation of the car. He decided on the latter, at least in public places.
They took a comer table, enduring the interminable wait for their order. He was super-conscious of
the glances of others, but Tappy seemed oblivious to her surroundings. She kept her hands in her
lap, eyes downcast and incurious, and he saw too clearly the narrow white scar that crossed one
eye and terminated at the mutilated ear. What did his petty embarrassment mean, compared to her
problems?
"Lookit that girl's ear's gone!" exclaimed a younger boy at a neighboring table, his voice
startlingly loud. There was a fierce shushing that was worse than the remark because it confirmed
its accuracy. Heads turned, first toward the boy, then toward the object of the boy's curiosity.
A slow tear started down Tappy's left cheek.
Jack stood up so suddenly that his chair crashed backward, and he stepped around the table and
caught her arm and brought her out of that place. It was as if he had tunnel vision; all he saw
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was the escape route, the room and people fuzzing out at the periphery. They made it to the car,
strapped in, and he drove, arrowing down the highway at a dangerous velocity. He was first numb,
then furious—but he wasn't sure at what.
Gradually he cooled, and knew that the worst of the situation had been his own reaction. It was
too late to undo what damage he might have done, but he could at least be guided more sensibly
henceforth. He schooled himself not to react like that, no matter what happened next time.
The Caterpillar's Question 3
But first he had something more difficult to do. "Tappy, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done diat. I
just—" He faltered, for she was not reacting at all. "I'm sorry."
She might as well have been a statue.
At dusk, starving, he drew up to a motel and left Tappy in the seat while he registered for two
rooms. He took her to one of them and sat her on the bed. He crossed the street and bought a six-
pack of fruit drinks and two submarine sandwiches for their supper. Class fare Jt was not, but it
was all he could think of at the moment.
He set things up precariously on the bed in her room, and was glad to see that she had a good
appetite. She evidently was not used to this particular menu, but was experienced with bedroom
meals. His pleasure became concern as he thought about it. Had they ever let her eat at the table,
family style? He could see why they might not have, but it bothered him anyway. There was a human
being inside that tortured shell!
His thoughts drifted to his own motives. Why had he taken this job? A week before he'd have
laughed if someone had predicted he'd be sitting on a motel bed eating supper with a blind girl
almost ten years his junior. But he hadn't realized how hard it would be for a budding artist with
one year of college to get a decent summer job.
Jack had kicked around for two, three years—he didn't know exactly where the time went—before
running into Donna. Then suddenly he had the need to make something of himself. So he went to
college and studied art. Did okay, too; he did have talent. But by the time he got it together,
Donna had drifted elsewhere. He never even got to tell her of the effect she had on his
motivation. He grieved, of course, and considered giving it up. But he discovered that life did go
on, and there might even be other girls on the horizon.
Meanwhile, he needed wherewithal to continue college; that kept him busy around the edges. He soon
realized that he was not likely to make it by washing dishes at joints that had never heard of the
minimum wage scale, or changing tires for tips, or taking any of the other menial positions for
which one year of art seemed to qualify him.
The ad had offered a thousand dollars plus liberal expenses and the use of a good car for one
week's light work. It had seemed too good to be true, and he was amazed to learn that the job
hadn't been taken. No, it didn't involve drugs or anything
4 Piers Anthony and Philip Jose Farmer
illegal; it was just chauffeuring. If he had a valid license and a good record ...
Jack had little else, but he did have those. He valued his potential career as a world-famous
artist too much to mess it up with bad driving. He liked to travel; every new region was grist for
his painting.
The job was to deliver Tappy to the clinic across the country. He assumed mat it was legal for him
to transport this child, or they would not have hired him. He needed the money, and didn't ask too
many questions. He had had no idea that jobs like this existed! If he could find a couple more
like this, at similar pay scales, his next year of college would be assured.
They had covered four hundred miles today. At this rate he'd have Tappy at the clinic the day
after tomorrow, and could be back two days early. The pay was for the job, not the time, so he had
nothing to lose by being prompt. If the girl didn't talk, at least she wasn't much trouble. After
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this he'd get sandwiches and they'd eat in the car, avoiding restaurants entirely.
Jack cleaned up the mess of crumbs and told Tappy he'd check on her in the morning. "You can find
your way around the room okay? Bathroom's in a straight line from the bed, and there's a radio.
I'm in the next unit if you need me. Just yell."
He paused, embarrassed, remembering that she was mute, or chose to be. "I mean you can bang on the
wall or something. That okay?" Slowly she nodded, and he was relieved. She responded so little
that he was never quite sure she understood him. "Good. Now get some sleep. I'll knock before I
come in, so I won't catch you by surprise." That was his concession to the woman aspect of her;
she had to have time to cover up if she happened to be changing.
It all seemed simple enough.
But in the morning he found her sitting there still, shivering, the moisture squeezing hopelessly
out of one eye. She might have moved about during the night, but the dark patches under her eyes
showed she had not slept.
"Why?" he demanded incredulously. "Why didn't you summon me, if you couldn't sleep?"
She answered him only with that catatonic passivity, and a tear. Evidently there was something he
had missed.
He told her to go to the bathroom while he fetched breakfast, and she did. He told her to change
her clothing while he faced
The Caterpillar's Question 5
into a comer, and she did. He no longer trusted her to do things in his absence, but he intended
to treat her with propriety. They ate, and got back on the road.
Jack pondered the event of the night as he drove, deeply disturbed. He had not mistreated Tappy,
and there had been no trouble, except for the business at the restaurant. He had spoken to her and
had supper with her, and she had not been crying then. She didn't seem to be afraid of him, though
he wouldn't have blamed her for that. Indifferent, perhaps, but not fearful. So what was bothering
her?
He was taking her to the clinic that might bring back her sight and make her talk. She should be
happy.
"Don't you want to see again?" he asked her. "I mean, there's all kinds of scenery out here. We're
in New York State now—"
She turned suddenly toward him, startling him into silence. He glanced at her, but her face showed
no emotion. After a moment she straightened out again.
There was something! This was her first voluntary response to him. She had reacted to something he
had said. Was it his question about her sight?
"You do want to see?" he repeated. But this time there was no reaction. Apparently she had acted
without thought, but now she had clamped down again.
She couldn't want to stay blind! Maybe his question had deserved no answer. Yet she had reacted.
There had to be something else. Something she knew that he didn't.
Was it really a clinic she was destined for? Or had that been something they told him to obtain
his cooperation? Now that he thought about it, there were a number of funny things about this
whole arrangement. If they had so much money for specialists, and enough to pay him so generously
for unskilled labor, why hadn't they done something about her ear? Comparatively minor cosmetic
surgery could have eliminated most of the scar tissue on her face, too. And there had to be
something better than that ugly metal brace on her leg. She wasn't paralytic; the leg should have
mended by now.
And why hadn't they hired a professional nurse for this trip? Nurses could drive. This was a
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gearshift car, but only because he had asked for it; he preferred to do his own driving. They
could have gotten an automatic shift for a nurse. Why had they been so happy to trust him, a male
stranger? They had hardly checked his credentials, which were minimal. The only virtue he
6 Piers Anthony and Philip Jose Farmer
seemed to have was ignorance. Yet for three days Tappy was in his hands. Anything could happen.
Legally she was still a child— but she was a woman-child.
He drove on, no longer in a hurry. The doubt kept spiraling through his mind, growing uglier with
every loop. If not a clinic, whatl
Tappy wouldn't talk to him, so he talked to her, just to keep his mind off whatever unthinkable
thing it sought. Maybe it was to inhibit his own suspicions. He read out the stupid billboards as
they threaded their way through the complex of Schenectady, Albany, and Troy. He cussed out the
other drivers. He kept up a meaningless monologue. Anything to fill the air with sound and keep
his mind at bay.
Jack did not allow himself to wonder why he was deviating from the direct route marked on his map.
He just drove where the scenery looked best.
Finally, as evening came to the highway, he felt a soft touch on his arm. He looked, and found her
slumped like a straw doll, sleeping.
This was the supreme compliment. Tappy would not speak, but she now trusted him enough to sleep.
Jack realized then, coincidentally, why she had reacted when he talked to her initially. It had
been the first time he had spoken to her without an imperative. He had started to describe the
scenery they were passing. Perhaps it had been a long time since anyone had talked to her about
anything that might interest her, however slightly.
He drove more carefully then, winding around the curves as the mountain ridge loomed high ahead,
marking the physique of the state of Vermont. Just before the road seemed fated to plunge
suicidally into the sheer wall of mountain, it spun aside, and there was a pretty town. He found a
motel and stopped.
She was sleeping as he carried her into the unit and placed her on the bed. He took off her shoes,
having a little trouble with the brace; the metal passed all the way under the foot and was
awkward to get around. Tappy's feet and legs were well formed, however, and though she was light,
her skeletal structure was good. She would have a handsome figure when she filled out, if only
something could be done about her injuries, both physical and emotional.
Jack left her and turned out the light as he closed the door.
The Caterpillar's Question 7
Sleep was more important than food at the moment. He hoped she would lie undisturbed until
morning.
She did and she didn't. In the night he woke, hearing a voice. Someone was in Tappy's room. He
went there, but there was no one. Tappy was lying on the bed—and talking. The words were slurred,
almost indistinguishable.
He paused, realizing that she was not awake. She was talking in her sleep! That was the one time
her emotional barrier was down, and her voice was freed.
Then out of that seeming gibberish, some words appeared. He listened, fascinated. "Empire of the
stars," she said, if he understood correctly. Then: "Reality is a dream."
But after that she turned over, and there were no more words. He withdrew, excited. So what if she
was muttering about some television program she had overheard? She could talk!
Next day they toured the great Green Mountains, the car's little engine laboring in a lower gear
to manage the steep ascents. That was all right; he was no longer in a hurry, and they could
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proceed as slowly as they wanted. He continued to call out the view, and though Tappy did not turn
her face to him again, he could tell by her alertness that she was interested.
He spoke of the old elms and maples, the mossy rocks, the near and distant mountain slopes covered
with green foliage like thickly woven rugs. They passed a ski run—a long bare swath running up the
side of one of the higher peaks, resembling a scar.
And she was crying again, in her silent way. The scar—why hadn't he kept his brain connected
enough to stifle that analogy before it was spoken! His description lapsed; he couldn't think of
any apology that would not hurt her more.
He understood now that her passive attitude concealed an extremely sensitive nature. Yet perhaps
there was a positive aspect, for at least she was now showing her emotion. He had spoken to her,
and gained her interest, thereby making her vulnerable. If he could hurt her, could he not also
help her, if he found the right words?
They should have passed on through the Green Mountains and headed for New Hampshire, but Tappy
seemed to be coming alive. Her head turned to the north, and her blind eyes became round. What was
she trying to see? Jack remembered her words of the night, and decided to learn more of this if he
could. He brought the car about, returned to the last intersection, and turned north.
8 Piers Anthony and Philip Jose Farmer
Tappy's head now faced straight ahead; there was no doubt she was orienting on something, and it
was independent of the motion of the car. What could it be?
He followed the direction of her gaze until it turned to the side. There was now no road where she
looked, but her excitement suggested that the thing was fairly close.
At noon he pulled into a motel consisting of a row of ramshackle cabins. He thought it was
deserted, and he only intended to search for some fresh water for lunch, and perhaps to see
exactly where Tappy's fascination lay. But presently a man ambled out. He was dressed in high-
fronted jeans, a style Jack had thought only picture-book farmers affected. They were in the
hinterlands now!
"Don't get much business hereabout, this time o' year," the man remarked amiably. He spoke with a
rich backwoods accent that also caught Jack off guard. " 'M the caretaker, but I can fix you up
with a cab'n if you like."
'Two, if you please," Jack said. After all, he couldn't drive forever. Tomorrow was time enough to
deliver Tappy. "There's a girl with me."
"Ay-uh," the man said affirmatively. "Saw her. Two'11 cost you double, you know. Don't have to
spend it."
Jack smiled at his candor. "It isn't my money," he said, as though that made everything all right.
He accepted the keys to the two cabins. Then a thought gave him pause. "Do you have any books? I
mean simple ones, to be read aloud? Like a children's book, or—?"
The man scratched his hairy head. "Well, now. There's some things the tourists forgot." Evidently
the two of them didn't rank as tourists, which was probably for the best. Jack no longer detected
much accent in the caretaker. The man wandered into a back room while Jack waited at the door, and
sounds of rummaging drifted out. At length he emerged with a slim volume. "Don't know about this
one," he admitted. "First I come to. If it don't suit, there's others."
Jack read the title: The Little Prince, by one Antoine de Saint-Exupery. He had never heard of the
man. "I'll give it a try. What do I owe you?" The man declined money for the book, to his
surprise, and he went to escort Tappy to her cabin.
They had sandwiches on a wooden table outside the cabin. Tappy made them up with a certain
finesse, and he was reminded again that she was used to doing for herself. It was a mistake
The Caterpillar's Question 9
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to think of her as clumsy; of course the other senses had been stimulated to make up for her
blindness. Touch and memory, sound and smell: these she possessed. And feeling.
The day clouded over. It wasn't really cold, but he wrapped Tappy in a voluminous quilt, set her
on the cabin's sagging bunk, and read to her from The Little Prince. It was a curious story, a
mixture of childish fantasy and adult perception, with appropriate illustrations. There were hats
and boa constrictors and elephants, and confusions between them; there were gigantic bottle trees
growing on pea-sized planetoids. Jack didn't know what to make of it, but Tappy seemed interested,
and he continued to read all that afternoon. He took time to describe all the illustrations as
they appeared.
When he came to the part about taming the fox by following the fox's own instructions, Tappy
smiled. Jack could not honestly claim it was like a ray of sunshine. It was not poetic. It did not
erase the terrible scar across her face. He was not about to use it as a model for a contemporary
Mona Lisa portrait. It was simply a faint, frail, rather human smile. But it was the first, and
his heart jumped that moment.
When he read the soliloquy to the field of roses, Tappy cried. But it was the tear of a woman at a
wedding, incomprehensible but not miserable. The Little Prince had a cherished single rose, then
was confronted by an entire field of roses, each as pretty as his own. But he had learned a lesson
from his taming of die fox. "No one has tamed you, and you have tamed no one," he said to those
other roses, much to their embarrassment. "You are beautiful, but you are empty . .. because it is
she that I have watered . .. she that I have listened to ... because she is my rose."
Jack would not have thought that a girl of thirteen would comprehend the message there. He wasn't
sure he grasped it himself. Apparently he had stumbled across a book that was meaningful to her.
When it finished, she took the volume from his hand and held it to her breast. He left her sitting
there, swathed in the quilt, tightly hugging the story she could not read herself. She was there
when he returned an hour later with a bag of groceries. He let her keep the book that night, and
she slept.
This time he was alert, and was there to listen the moment she began talking. But the words made
no more sense than before. "Alien menace ... only chance is to use the radiator." He thought mat
was what it was. Evidently more of the television program.
10 Piers Anthony and Philip Jose Farmer
Yet why should she be so intrigued with it that she repeated it in her sleep? This child suffered
so terribly; how could a routine segment of a silly program affect her like this?
Then she said something different, with a peculiar intensity. "Larva .. . Chrysalis ... Imago."
Quite clearly. He knew what that was: the several stages of the growth of an insect. First it was
a kind of worm, then a kind of bug, finally it metamorphosed into its moment of glory, the flying
form. He had of course painted many butterflies. But she could have picked this up in any class on
natural life. Why was she repeating it in her sleep with such intensity?
Unless she identified with it. Tappy's present form was about as miserable as it could be. Was she
dreaming of metamorphosing into something far better? He could hardly blame her! Yet he had an
eerie feeling that there was more to it than this.
She was up, bright and clean, the next morning, wearing a new dress. He hadn't realized she had a
third one in her small suitcase. Her dark hair was freshly combed and seemed longer than before.
He saw that she was taller, too, now that she stood up straight, and her figure was better
developed than he had credited. Except for the scar, she was not an unattractive girl.
Something clicked, and he ran to the car. Sure enough, there were dark glasses in the glove
compartment. They were men's glasses and were too big for her, but a little effort with the car's
compact tool kit enabled him to bend die frames around to fit her face. It was awkward to adjust
for the damaged ear; he had to use adhesive tape from the first-aid kit. But when it was done,
both the scar and the vacant stare were inconspicuous. He did not explain what he was doing, but
was sure she understood.
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She raised her hand as he applied the finishing touches. He thought she meant to remove the
glasses, but she brushed his face instead. The cobweb caress of her delicate fingertips passed
over his cheeks and nose, and he realized that this was her way of seeing him. "My eyes are gray,"
he told her helpfully, then wondered if she had any conception of color. Yes, of course she did:
she had been normal until the accident. "My hair is brown and I stand five-seven in thick socks."
Then, abruptly, she turned, as if hearing something. But there was nothing out of the ordinary.
"What is it, Tappy?" he asked. She only stared, eyes round, as she had in the car. Whatever it
was, it seemed closer now; she was trembling with excitement.
The Caterpillar's Question
11
Her face oriented on something beyond, as it had before.
"Why don't we go somewhere where I can paint?" Jack suggested. She acceded gladly. She wanted to
go somewhere, certainly.
The day outside was beautiful. The bright sun sent shafts through the mountains and made the
morning mists rise in perpendicular tails. He hauled his portable easel from the car along with a
couple of canvases, and took Tappy by the hand.
The caretaker came out as they passed the lead cabin. "Going to do some painting," Jack called to
him. "We'll be here a few days."
A few days! What was he doing?
"Ay-uh," the man said knowledgeably, and went about his business. Jack had not told him that Tappy
was blind.
Tappy led the way. There was definitely something she wanted to find. His curiosity thoroughly
aroused, Jack cooperated. They climbed through field and forest, heading for the top of the
mountain. That summit had looked very close from the cabins, almost overhanging them. Two hours
later it still looked close. He had not meant to subject the lame girl to this much labor, or
himself, burdened with his painting apparatus.
Jack put his free arm around Tappy's waist to help her climb, as she did not wish to turn back. He
discovered a hardness there. In a moment he realized that she had The Little Prince with her,
tucked inside her blouse. All this time ... this was foolish of the girl, but it pleased him
obscurely, and he gave her a friendly squeeze.
There was a dip in the thickening forest for a mountain stream whose bed comprised little more
than a collection of massive round rocks. A driblet of water trickled between them, very cold.
Jack dipped his hand in it and splashed a few droplets on Tappy. She shook them off prettily and
tugged him on. Why was she so eager to make this climb?
The stream originated in a sandy patch beneath a huge old maple tree. Ancient sugaring spigots
ringed the giant's gnarled trunk. Careless, he thought; these should have been removed. The water
percolated up from some subterranean reservoir, as though this were the vanishing sap of the tree.
Jack lay on his stomach and drank, feeling the moist coolness of die leaves and twigs against his
chest. Then he guided Tappy to the same refreshment.
Life appeared. Little tubular shells decorated the bottom of the streamlet, and threadlike
animalcules, and an agile salamander skittered magically away. A tiny gray and white bird watched
12 Piers Anthony and Philip Jose Farmer
them from its perch on a neighboring trunk—upside down. It proceeded to spiral on down, around and
around the tree headfirst, until it reached the ground. It took wing for the next tree's upper
section, then started down again.
He described it to Tappy, who listened attentively. She raised her hand toward the bird and
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smiled. For a moment he thought the nuthatch was coming to her; then it was gone, and they resumed
the climb.
The ascent became ferociously steep near the end. They had to scramble over jutting rocks and
tangled roots, and his painting paraphernalia neutralized a hand he needed. Tappy had no trouble,
now that touch was the most important guide, and soon she was leading the way and indicating the
best route for him. He followed, trying to avoid staring up inside her skirt as her legs moved
above him, feeling guilty for even being conscious of the impropriety. Her legs looked healthy;
did she need that brace at all?
They made it at last. There was a brief clearing at the summit, a disk of grass and bare rock tike
the balding head of a friar. Tappy hurried to a big rock at the top, seeming much taken with it,
yet somehow disappointed, too. She opened her blouse and brought out the book, setting it on the
rock.
He stood there and marveled at the ring of mountains, row on row, circle beyond circle, extending
as far as he could see. The very world seemed to turn under his feet, giving him a strange
exhilaration and a sense of power.
There had been a time when he thought little of such displays, when a pinnacle had been merely a
distant high place. But in his youth his father took him for a climb, one unexpected day, and when
they rested on the height, fatigued and perspiring from the hike, he showed Jack the land. Now
Jack relived that experience.
Through the aeons of prehistory the earth itself crumpled and cracked, wrinkling into the jaggedly
fresh peaks of a stony range. Then came the rain, and the ice of a glacier, and the mightiest of
mounts wore down with the burden of time. The green mold of verdure pried at its grandeur, die
rivers spirited away its substance for deposit to the accounts of alluvial banks. Natural history
lived in the decline of the mountains, and it was written here, all around him, in the remnants of
a range once greater than the Rockies. It was as if he could see all the way into the past—and
into the future, too.
The Caterpillar's Question 13
How was he to record any fragment of this language of eternity on his poor flat canvas? Yet it was
a joy to try!
Tappy sensed his mood, and she stood on her toes beside him and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
Without thinking he turned and took her in his arms and kissed her deeply on the lips.
She clung to him, her slight eager body pressing tightly against his. Nothing seemed to matter but
the indefinable emotion of the moment.
Jack withdrew, confused. This was a thirteen-year-old child, with outsized glasses and a nebulous
fate. He had traveled with her only three days. He had to deliver her to—
"Let's settle down awhile and ... paint," he said, setting aside a situation too complex to be
understood at once. He set up his easel and stood facing out onto the bowl of the world.
He glanced back to see Tappy comfortable on her large rock, the book on her lap. She was smiling
slightly, her face made intriguing by the dark glasses. She was really quite fetching, framed by
die backdrop of sky and cloud. He toyed with the idea of painting her portrait, but decided
against this. It would be best to put her out of his mind for a time.
Jack's mind meandered as he painted. Perhaps the kiss had set his attention coursing along
familiar channels, or it could simply have been the mood of the mountain vista. He thought of
Donna, of the good times they had had together, and would not have again. That weekend they spent
last spring at the cabin on the lake ... She was marvelous, she was everything a man could ask
for. And she was gone. He was trying to forget her, but it was a slow process.
Jack applied a gray edge to a distant peak, humming a half-remembered folk song. How did it go?
"Up on the mountain the other day the pretty little flowers grew; never did I know till the other
day what love, oh love could do!"
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He paused. What subliminal connotations had brought this song to his drifting mind? He glanced
again at Tappy. She was smiling and holding a goldenrod whose image showed darkly in her glasses.
His mountains were finished, at least on canvas. But his palette remained crowded with dabs and
mixtures of American Vermilion, Cadmium Yellow, Ultramarine Blue, Burnt Umber, and Ivory Black.
How could he casually throw away such exotic distillates? He cast about for some suitable subject
for the extra.
"How about fetching me a spectacular tropical bird?" he asked
14 Piers Anthony and Philip Jose Farmer
Tappy. She cocked her glasses at him. There was a falsetto cry of some large bird in the distance.
Jack jumped, but it was only a crow. Nevertheless, he gave up the notion of painting anything
more. It was time to begin the long trek down the mountain. Whatever imperative had brought Tappy
here seemed to have abated. He didn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed; he had really
gotten curious about the identity of the thing on which she had oriented. Apparently it was only
that large rock.
It was late afternoon by the time they made it back to die cabins, since they found descending
almost as hard as ascending. Tappy was tired, and he had his arm around her slim, book-braced
midsection, almost carrying her as they traversed the last few hundred yards. The painting was
taking a beating. The caretaker looked up as they went by. "Ay-uh," he said.
Then it was evening, and Tappy was sitting up in bed in a flannel nightie, brushing her hair. Why
had he thought it was short? It was long enough to cany a gentle wave, now that she was giving it
proper attention.
Jack no longer felt awkward with her. She never made a sound, but her attitude called him friend
and he was flattered. He sat in the rickety chair and tried not to think of the Judas-mission that
he feared was his. That clinic ...
He had given her a little human consideration, that was all. He had talked to her and read her a
story and taken her on a hike, and now she was able to smile. Had anyone at all spared her even
this much kindness in the last seven years?
The shadows played across her face as she brushed, highlighting her cheeks and hiding her eyes.
Burnt umber—that was the color of her hair at the moment. She was soft, she was lovely in the half-
light of the cabin. Something had animated her, something she hadn't quite found on the mountain.
What could it be? An imago, a transformation?
Then Tappy was kneeling before him, blind eyes staring into his face. One hand rested on his. The
other hand held The Little Prince, a corner of the book covering her mouth.
Discovering that she had his attention, she lowered the book and lifted his hand to her lips.
Jack froze. Suddenly he realized what he should have seen coming: she had a crush on him.
He had to deliver her to the clinic in a hurry. God, if this ever got out—
The Caterpillar's Question
15
'Tappy," he began.
She raised her face quickly, smiling. As quickly, she stiffened, grasping his import. Her face
became expressionless.
Then he saw die tear. That always gave her away.
He had been clumsy again. He had been preoccupied with his own reaction to a suddenly awkward
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situation, and had forgotten hers. What could he say to her?
The tear coursed down her pale cheek and tucked into the corner of her mouth.
'Tappy—'*
The book dropped to the floor. She scrambled to her feet and ran headlong to the bed. She flung
herself facedown, her body heaving.
Jack went to her and put his arm around her flannel shoulders. 'Tappy, I didn't mean to hurt you!
I was only hired to—I'm trying to—"
Trying to what? Build her up for a worse fall? Offer her a friendship less man she craved—a
friendship that was doomed anyway, tomorrow?
He stroked her hair, ashamed. All he could feel was the vibration of her silent sobbing. He opened
his mouth, but could not speak. The situation was impossible.
Finally he turned her over and kissed her.
He could taste the salt of her tears. Then her hunger broke through with a rush that swept away
his own equilibrium ... and perhaps his conscience. He kissed her lips, her neck, her hair, and a
soft fire ran through his body as her little hands pulled him down beside her, so warm. Suddenly
he held an angel in his arms, and mere was nothing else on earth so wonderful.
How could he explain it? He had thought he was experienced. He could only repeat the words of that
song on the mountain: "Never did I know till the other day what love, oh love could do..."
Yes, she was blind and mute and only thirteen, and he had known her so very briefly. In that
instant of excitement and rapture these considerations were less than nothing; he loved her.
Sanity returned quickly enough after his passion of the moment was sated. She did not try to hold
him now. He got up, put himself together, and stumbled out to the car.
He drove, cursing himself for missing the girl beside him, for looking guiltily at the empty seat.
He scarcely noticed the teeming magnificence of the Green Mountains, preternaturally brilliant in
16 Piers Anthony and Philip Jose Farmer
the closing evening. His brain was working now, and it was not a pleasant experience.
What was he running from? He knew he couldn't simply drive away and leave her there. He certainly
couldn't undo what had passed. He was guilty of statutory rape.
He brought the car to an abrupt halt. There was a lovely miniature waterfall barely visible beside
the road, splashing a column of water into a great wooden barrel for roadside use. Its artistic
ingenuity was wasted on him tonight.
He had brought this calamity upon himself. He had deviated from the route. He had kept her with
him instead of delivering her promptly to the clinic. He had forced his unwitting attentions on
her until she had to respond.
Why? Was it because he suspected that he was taking her to no clinic, but to some correctional
institution for unwanted burdens, where she would never receive any genuine kindness? Was he
trying to shield her from that horror?
Or had he secretly intended to seduce her?
What did a man want widi a woman? Beauty, capability, independence, personality? Or did he really
desire, more than anything else, total dependence?
Jack thought about the ways that society crippled women, keeping them out of business and sport
and in the house, bound by a pervasive economic and social double standard. A wife had to be
smaller than her husband, weaker, less intelligent.
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file:///F|/rah/Piers%20Anthony/Anthony,%20Piers%20-%20The%20Caterpillar'\s%20Question.txtChapterTHEYhadtoldJacktheythoughtitwaspsychosomaticShecouldtalkifs\hewantedto,andmightevenrecoverthesightofoneeyeButithadtakensevenyearstoobtain\thegrantfromthefoundation,andnowshewasthirteenHeglancedather,sitti...

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