Songs of the Dancing Gods

how much time passed. Joe, whom I saw as a Kauri, would be a much better woman than I will ever be a man.”

Marge said nothing.

“I agree,” he said. “And since nobody voluntarily wishes to be a slave—I’m hoping, with some of the damage done in the quake making us a wee bit short on living souls, that we can eliminate restoring the slave bodies—you want the McMahon body, then.”

“I do,” he said, “but you and I know full well that in spite of all this I am going to remain just as I am.”

Marge was so shocked she fell off her stool. “What?”

“Ruddygore said it. My return, now, as this, would stabilize first Marquewood and then the other regions. With my authority, I could insure that poor, suffering Valisandra and even Hypboreya gets the aid and assistance they need from the south to rebuild more stable and perhaps kinder governments. It is difficult to explain, Marge, but I was born of royal blood, and raised with a sense of duty and obligation. As a witch, I would be just another witch, counting for little, able to do very little. I would be happy within myself, but miserable at the things I would see that needed doing, that I could have done had I led instead of quit. I would honestly have been content to have remained Mia, slave to Joe, had that been an option, but it is not. Joe’s sacrifice made victory possible. Now I, too, must sacrifice, in the name and interest of all those people who have no choices, and perhaps also to be an example and help those poor unfortunates who are going to revive as strangers, in the wrong bodies, perhaps the wrong sex, possibly the wrong age. I have to do it. It is my duty, and it is a big job I know I can do.” Ruddygore nodded. “I understand perfectly. For all these long years I have been looking for the one to whom I could hand over this heavy burden of mine, which I inherited but did not foresee, and pass on. I am quite weary of this life, I assure you. But look at what has arisen instead—the Boquillases and Sugastos and that hollow-souled Council.”

Marge stared at him. “Were you really around when mat battle was fought, as that creature said?”

“I am that old, anyway,” he admitted. “I was much too young then, though, for such things; a mere junior adept. My master, the sorcerer Gastorix, whose power was so great that mine is but a pale shadow in comparison, was one of the guardians of the Eden Trees, which were placed here after that unpleasantness long before. I was way junior; he despaired that I would ever make sorcerer at all! His own prize pupil, whose name I will not even mention this close to the event, rebelled against him as well, and assembled a great multitude to seize first this tree, then the others, and become gods themselves. To gain allies to stop him, Gastorix had to promise many fairy and human chiefs that they would get to taste of the fruit. They marched off, and we never heard the details, although I always suspected that this place was the result. Since then, the Hypboreyans moved in and worshiped the tree as the one giving knowledge of good and evil, the source of torment and the strength of the devil, which is why they wound up such an unpleasant folk with even less pleasant gods. And now only we knew what it really is.”

“Boquillas knew,” Tiana commented. “She boasted of it.”

Ruddygore nodded. “Yes, he would. He was the only other one who could have known. Back then, he wasn’t even an adept, still trying to decide if he would go the royal line or attempt to become a sorcerer, being one of the most rare ones with both lines in his veins. So long as he worked for Hell, though, he was forbidden anywhere near here. When he betrayed Hell as well, he felt free to move.”

The sorcerer looked over at Macore. “And what of you?”

The little thief shrugged. “I don’t know. Nothing’s much fun anymore. Stealing’s too easy, I already got a fortune, and the thrill is gone. I been thinking maybe I oughta pack it in.” Seeing their suddenly stricken looks he added, “No! No! I’m not gonna kill myself or anything like that! Relax! I mean take my money and go down south. Find somebody who loves little guys and looks like Mary Ann, or maybe Mahalo McMahon or somebody equally nice, and enjoy life for a change. With my money, even with my looks, attracting the girls won’t be a problem, but attracting the right one will.”

“And what will you do otherwise?” Tiana asked him.

“I thought maybe I’d have myself a big boat. Go out in the southern ocean, fish, laze around. Maybe give tours of the islands if I get bored.”

Marge looked over at him. “Uh-huh. And how long an island tour?”

He smiled sheepishly. “Oh, maybe three hours.”

Marge and Ruddygore walked across the central courtyard in the darkness. The crater was refilling nicely, already up to perhaps ninety percent of its old level, and things were calming down, both there and out in the region of the Devastation.

Sitting on the crater wall, idly swinging a leg back and forth, was the figure of a nymph, four feet tall with dark green hair and exaggeratedly endowed as were all nymphs.

“Hello, Joe,” Ruddygore said. “How are you doing?”

“About as well as can be expected,” the nymph replied in that soft, sexy voice they all had variations of. “It’s still just sinking in, really. It’s hard enough to accept that all my old enemies are dead, even if I did have a hand in it. Accepting this will be a lot harder. Right now it’s okay—I mean, I’ve been a fairy before as a were and kept all my senses and personality and all that and adjusted pretty well, so it’s been good training— but when the sun’s up and it doesn’t go away, or when it’s a new moon and I’m still this way, well, after a while, it’s gonna be hard.”

“Oh, maybe not as hard as you think,” the sorcerer consoled. “You have few physical needs, and you have powers that will come to you over time and will help you when needed. You have your wisdom and your experience. Not only are you unique in having your full self to call upon, you’re also unique in a different way. Your first true tree was the lava tree. It accepted you, probably because of the genuineness of your sacrifice before it. You’re not limited to it or stuck up here, but you are now, with me, a guardian of it, and of its secret. Because you mated with it first, its juices flow within you. It’s as if you ate of it. You’re invulnerable, Joe. Even iron will not hurt you. That’s why the sword could be used and why you could throw it back. You can survive anything, just like this tree.”

The nymph frowned. “You mean I could have picked up Irving and swung it?”

“You could if you could have picked it up, which I doubt. It weighed pretty much the same if not more than you do.”

“There’s that. But that means I’m stuck this way forever.”

He nodded. “In a sense, you’re sort of a minor deity. Other nymphs will sense that, by the way. You can heal them and their trees and groves and lend them power. I think that’s a far better occupation in general than going around slicing people up.” “I never sliced anybody that didn’t deserve slicing!” Joe protested. “But, yeah, it was kinda getting old. But this will get old even faster. I mean, I grew up tough, in a culture where the women had the kids and the guys worked three jobs to support ’em, fought hard, drank hard, drove hard. It’s not just the sex. It might be a kick to be an Amazon. But I’m a four-foot-tall, automatically sexy, pale green bimbo!”

Ruddygore thought a moment, scratching his chin through his beard. “Well, there are minor true deities that rule each of the races of faerie, like Marge’s Earth Mother. They have certain discretionary powers within their realm. Everyone’s a little male and female, opposites in one. The yin and yang, the Oriental philosophers call it. If I asked politely, I might get you shifted over into the male side.”

She looked up at him. “And what’s a male nymph?”

“A satyr.”

“Little guys with goat’s legs and horns who dance around playing these big wide flutes?”

“That’s them. Don’t knock those flutes. We had a real artist among satyrs a few years back. We fed him a lot of Earth tunes, had him record them, got a fellow on Earth to front for him, and sold two million copies of pan flute records on late night television.”

“No.” She sighed. “Maybe I’ll get desperate enough sooner or later to give it a try, but me dancing around with the chipmunks on goat’s feet is an even wilder wrongness than this. At least I look like something here that wasn’t put together by a committee.”

“Your real problem,” Ruddygore said, “isn’t your form or nature, it’s the fact that what you were destined to do is done; it’s over, and while you’re weary of all this and crave some stability, you also have suddenly been deprived of anything left to do.”