then rolled forward with such impetus that it spilled into the channel, filling it.
“It’s swamping the boat!” Dor cried. “Abandon ship!”
“Some gratitude!” the boat complained. “I carry you loyally all over Xanth, risking my keel, and the moment things get rough, you abandon me!”
The boat had a case, but they couldn’t afford to argue it. Heedless of its objection, they all piled out as the sand piled in. They ran across the remaining section of grass-anchorage while the boat disappeared into the dune. The sand was unable to follow them here; its limit had been reached, and already the blades of grass were creeping up through the new mound, nailing it down. The main body of the dune had to retreat and concentrate on the thrashing dragon that bid fair to escape by coiling out of the vanished channel and writhing back toward the sea.
The party stood at the edge of the bay. “We lost our boat,” Irene said.
“And the flying carpet, and escape hoop, and food.”
“And my bow and arrows,” Chet said mournfully. “All I salvaged was the gourd. We played it too close; those monsters are stronger and smarter than we thought. We learn from experience.”
Dor was silent. He was the nominal leader of this party; the responsibility was his. If he could not manage a single trip south without disaster, how could he hope to handle the situation when he got to Centaur Isle? How could he handle the job of being King, if it came to that?
But they couldn’t remain here long, whether in thought or in despair.
Already the natives of the region were becoming aware of them. Carnivorous grass picked up where the freshly planted sea grass left off, and the former was sending its hungry shoots toward them. Vines trembled, bright droplets of sap-saliva oozing from their surfaces. There was a buzzing of wings; something airborne would soon show up.
But now at last the sunfish dimmed out, and night returned; the day creatures retreated in confusion, and the night creatures stirred.
“If there’s one thing worse than day in the wilderness,” Irene said, shivering, “it’s night. What do we do now?”
Dor wished he had an answer.
“Your plants have saved us once,” Chet told her. “Do you have another plant that could protect us or transport us?”
“Let me see.” In the dark she put her hand in her bag of seeds and felt around. “Mostly food plants, and special effects . . . a beerbarrel tree-how did that get in here? . . . water locust . . . bulrush-“
“Bulrushes!” Chet said. “Aren’t those the kinds that are always in a hurry?”
“They rush everywhere,” she agreed.
“Suppose we wove them into a boat or raft-could we control its motion?”
“Yes, I suppose, if you put a ring in the craft’s nose. But-“
“Let’s do it,” the centaur said. “Anything will be better than waiting here for whatever is creeping up on us.”
“I’ll start the bulrushes growing,” she agreed. “We can weave them before they’re mature. But you’ll have to find a ring before we can finish.”
“Dor and Grundy-please question your contacts and see if you can locate a ring,” the centaur said.
They started in, Dor questioning the nonliving, Grundy the living. Neither could find a ring in the vicinity. The weaving of the growing bulrushes proceeded apace; it seemed Chet and Irene were familiar with the technique and worked well together. But already the rushes were thrashing about, trying to free themselves to travel. The mass of the mat-raft was burgeoning; soon it would be too strong to restrain.
“Bring ring,” Smash said.
“We’re trying to!” Dor snapped, clinging to a corner of the struggling mat. The thing was hideously strong.
“Germ worm,” the ogre said insistently. His huge hairy paw pushed something at Dor. The object seemed to be a loop of fur.
A loop? “A ring!” Dor exclaimed. “Where did you get it?”
“Me grow on toe,” Smash explained. “Which itch.”
“You grew the ring on your toe-and it itched?” Dor was having trouble assimilating this.
“Let me check,” Grundy said. He made a funny sizzle, talking with something, then laughed. “You know what that is? A ring worm!”
“A ringworm!” Dor cried in dismay, dropping the hideous thing.
“If it’s a ring, we need it,” Chet said. “Before this mat gets away.”
Chagrined, Dor felt on the ground and picked up the ringworm.
He passed it gingerly to the centaur. “Here.”
Chet wove it into the nose of the craft, then jerked several long hairs from his beautiful tail and twined them into a string that he passed through the ring. Suddenly the bulrush craft settled down. “The nose is sensitive,” Chet explained. “The ring makes it hurt when jerked, so even this powerful entity can be controlled.”
“Some come!” Smash warned.
Rather than wait to discover what it was that could make an ogre nervous, the others hastened to lead the now-docile bulrush boat to the water. Once it was floating, they boarded carefully and pushed off from the shore. The craft was not watertight, but the individual rushes were buoyant, so the whole business floated.
Something growled in the dark on the shore-a deep, low, throbbing, powerful, and ugly sound. Then, frustrated, it moved away, the ground shuddering. A blast of odor passed them, dank and choking. No one inquired what it might be.
Now Chet gave the bulrushes some play. The raft surged forward, churning up a faintly phosphorescent wake. Wind rushed past their faces.
“Can you see where we’re going?” Irene asked, her voice thin.
“No,” Chet said. “But the bulrushes travel best in open water. They won’t run aground or crash into any monsters.”
“You trust them more than I do,” she said. “And I grew them.”
“Elementary calculation of vegetable nature,” the centaur said.
“May I lean against your side?” she asked. “I didn’t sleep today, and your coat is so soft-“
“Go ahead,” Chet said graciously. He was lying down again, as the woven fabric of the raft could not support his weight afoot. The rushes had swelled in the water, and Dor had succeeded in bailing it out; they were no longer sitting in sea water. Dor had not slept either, but he didn’t feel like leaning against Chet’s furry side.
The stars moved by. Dor lay on his back and determined the direction of travel of the raft by the stars’ apparent travel. It wasn’t even; the bulrushes were maneuvering to find the course along which they could rush most freely. They did seem to know where they were going, and that sufficed for now.
Gradually the constellations appeared, patterns in the sky, formations of stars that shifted from randomness to the suggestion of significance. There seemed to be pictures shaping, representations of creatures and objects and notions. Some resembled faces; he thought he saw King Trent peering down at him, giving him a straight, intelligent look.
Where are you now? Dor asked wordlessly.
The face frowned. I am being held captive in a medieval Mundane castle, it said. I have no magic power here. You must bring me magic.
But I can’t do that! Dor protested. Magic isn’t something a person can carry, especially not into Mundania!
You must use the aisle to rescue me.
What aisle? Dor asked, excited.
The centaur aisle, Trent answered.
Then a wait of ocean spray struck Dor’s face, and he woke. The stellar face was gone; it had been a dream.
Yet the message remained with him. Center Isle? His spelling disability made him uncertain, now, of the meaning. How could he use an island to seek King Trent? The center of what? If it was centaur, did that mean Chet had something essential to do with it? If it was an aisle, an aisle between what and what? If this were really a
