message, a prophecy, how could he apply it? If it were merely a random dream or vision, a construct of his overtired and meandering mind, he should ignore it. But such things were seldom random in Xanth.
Troubled, Dor drifted to sleep again. What he had experienced could not have been a nightmare, for it hadn’t scared him, and of course the mares could not run across the water. Maybe it would return and clarify itself.
But the dream did not repeat, and he could not evoke it by looking at the stars. Clouds had sifted across the night sky.
Dor woke again as dawn came. The sun had somehow gotten around to the east, where the land was, and dried off so that it could shine again. Dor wondered what perilous route it employed. Maybe it had a tunnel to roll along. If it ever figured out a way to get down without taking a dunking in the ocean, it would really have it made!
Maybe he should suggest that to it sometime. After all, some mornings the sun was up several hours before drying out enough to shine with full brilliance; obviously some nights were worse than others.
But he would not make the suggestion right now; he didn’t want the sun heading off to explore new routes, leaving Xanth dark for days at a time. Dor needed the fight to see his way to Centaur Isle. Jewel’s midnight sunstone was not enough.
Centaur Isle-was that where he was supposed to find King Trent?
No, the centaurs wouldn’t imprison the King, and anyway, Trent was in Mundania. But maybe something at Centaur Isle related. If only he could figure out how!
Dor sat up. “Where are we now, Chet?” he inquired.
There was no answer. The centaur had fallen asleep, too, Irene in repose against his side. Smash and Grundy snored at the rear of the raft.
Everyone had slept! No one was guiding the craft or watching the course! The bulrushes had rushed wherever they wanted to go, which could be anywhere!
The raft was in the middle of the ocean. Bare sea lay on all sides.
It was sheer luck that no sea monster had spied them and gobbled them down while they slept. In fact, there was one now!
But as the monster forged hungrily toward the craft, Dor saw that the velocity of the rushes was such that the serpent could not overtake the craft. They were safe because of their speed. Since they were, heading south, they should be near Centaur Isle now.
No, that did not necessarily follow. Dor had done better in Cherie’s logic classes than in spelling. He always looked for alternatives to the obvious. The craft could have been doing loops all night, or traveling north, and then turned south coincidentally as dawn came. They could be anywhere at all.
“Where are we?” Dor asked the nearest water.
“Longitude 83, Latitude 26, or vise versa,” the water said. “I always confuse parallels with meridians.”
“That doesn’t tell me anything!” Dor snapped.
“It tells me, though,” Chet said, waking. “We are well out to sea, but also well on the way to our destination. We should be there tonight.”
“But suppose a monster catches us way out here in the sea?” Irene asked, also waking. “I’d rather be near land.”
Chet shrugged. “We can veer in to land. Meanwhile, why don’t you grow us some food and fresh-water plants so we can eat and drink?”
“And a parasol plant, to shield us from the sun,” she said. “And a privacy hedge, for you-know.”
She got on it. Soon they were drinking scented water from a pitcher plant and eating bunlike masses from puffball plants. The new hedge closed off the rear of the craft, where the expended pitchers were used for another purpose. Several parasols shaded them nicely. It was all becoming quite comfortable.
The bulrush craft, responsive to Chet’s tug on the string tied to the ring in its nose, veered toward the east, where the distant land was supposed to be.
Smash the Ogre sniffed the air and peered about. Then he pointed.
“Me see the form of a mean ol’ storm,” be announced.
Oh, no! Dor spied the roiling clouds coming up over the southern horizon. Smash’s keen ogre senses had detected it first, but in moments it was all too readily apparent to them all.
“We’re in trouble,” Grundy said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“What can you do?” Irene asked witheringly. “Are you going to wave your tiny little dumb hand and conjure us all instantly to safety?”
Grundy ignored her. He spoke to the ocean in whatever language its creatures used. In a moment he said: “I think I have it. The fish are taking word to an eclectic eel.”
“A what?” Irene demanded. “Do you mean one of those shocking creatures?”
“An eclectic eel, dummy. It chooses things from all over. It does nothing original; it puts it all together in bits and pieces that others have made.”
“How can something like that possibly help us?”
“Better ask it why it will help us.”
“All right, woodenhead. Why?”
“Because I promised it half your seeds.”
“Half my seeds!” she exploded. “You can’t do that!”
“If I don’t, the storm will send us all to the depths.”
“He’s right, Irene,” Chet said. “We’re over a barrel, figuratively speaking.”
“I’ll put the confounded golem in a barrel and glue the cork in!” she cried. “A barrel of white-hot sneeze- pepper! He has no right to promise my property.”
“Okay,” Grundy said. “Tell the eel no. Give it a shock.”
A narrow snout poked out of the roughening water. A cold gust of wind ruffled Irene’s hair and flattened her clothing against her body, making her look extraordinarily pretty. The sky darkened.
“It says, figuratively speaking, your figure isn’t bad,” Grundy reported with a smirk.
This incongruous compliment put her off her pace. It was hard to tell off someone who made a remark like that. “Oh, all right,” she said, sulking. “Half the seeds. But I choose which half.”
“Well, toss them in, stupid,” Grundy said, clinging to the side of the craft as it pitched in the swells.
“But they’ll sprout!”
“That’s the idea. Make them all grow. Use your magic. The eclectic eel demands payment in advance.”
Irene looked rebellious, but the first drop of rain struck her on the nose and she decided to carry through. “This will come out of your string hide, golem,” she muttered. She tossed the seeds into the heaving water one by one, invoking each in turn. “Grow, like a golem’s ego. Grow, like Grundy’s swelled head. Grow, like the vengeance I owe the twerp . . .”
Strange things developed in the water. Pink-leaved turnips sprouted, fuming in place, and tan tomatoes, and yellow cabbages and blue beets. Snap beans snapped merrily and artichokes choked.
Then the flowers started, as she came to another section of her supply. White blossoms sprang up in great clusters, decorating the entire ocean near the raft. Then they moved away in herds, making faint baa-aa-aas.
“What’s that?” Grundy asked.
“Phlox, ninny,” Irene said.
Oh, flocks, Dor thought. Of course. The white sheep of flowers.
Firecracker flowers popped redly, tiger lilies snarled, honeybells tinkled, and bleeding hearts stained the water with their sad life essence. Irises that Irene’s mother had given her flowered prettily in blue and purple. Gladiolas stretched up happily; begonias bloomed and departed even before they could be ordered to begone. Periwinkles opened their orbs to wink; crocuses parted their white lips to utter scandalous imprecations.
Grundy leaned over the edge of the raft to sniff some pretty multicolored little flowers that were vining upward. Then something happened. “Hey!” he cried suddenly, outraged, wiping golden moisture off his head. “What did they do that for?”
Irene glanced across. “Dummy,” she said with satisfaction, “what do you expect sweet peas to do? You better stay away from the pansies.”
On Dor’s side there was an especially rapid development, the red, orange, and white flowers bursting forth almost before the buds formed. “My, these are in a hurry,” he commented.
