Authors: Piers Anthony

Knot Gneiss

C
ontents

M
OOD
S
WING

Wenda Woodwife Charming was horribly distressed. She knew that a good part of the reason Prince Charming had gone on a royal business trip far, far away was to get away from her. Oh, he still loved her; she knew that. She still loved him, too, and longed to be with him. But lately her moods had become violently changeable, making her unfit to live with. She knew it, but somehow couldn’t stop it.

Distressed, she went to the private courtyard and sat on the swing there. It had become her place to think about things, because none of the servants ever went to this particular alcove; she could be alone. The swing was next to a round court called the Social Circle, where people became highly social. Unfortunately this too was isolated; no one visited it.

She pushed her legs forward and leaned back, getting it started. Then she leaned forward, tucking her feet below her, reversing the motion. Soon she was swinging back and forth across the court, so high that she could almost peek over the top of the wall into the next yard. It was exhilarating.

But it didn’t solve her problem. What was she to do to save her marriage from her own difficult nature? She had thought that once she found true love, and married, and became a real woman instead of the half woman she had been, everything would be perfect. And for a while it had seemed so. She and the prince had shared so much delight that sometimes she had feared the stones would melt around them. They had surely given the storks a headache from overlapping signals.

Then she had started suffering the moods. One day she would be utterly sweet. Then unutterably sad. Then so cheerful she couldn’t stop smiling and laughing, even when there were serious matters afoot. Then unreasonably angry. Or impossibly analytical. She was constantly changing, seemingly at random. Why? She couldn’t say. That was frustrating.

In fact it made her angry. So angry she could hardly see straight. “Bleep!” she screamed at the top of the swing and her voice. The dread word bounced off the wall and fragmented, leaving acrid smoke and dropping cinders.

That appalled her. She had never been a person to swear. She liked to think of herself as a nice person, in all the ways feasible.

That was it. She definitely had to do something about it. But what?

What else? She would go ask the Good Magician Humfrey. He would know how to fix it. True, it would cost her a year’s service or the equivalent. But if it fixed the problem, it would be worth it. After all, she had been to the Good Magician’s Castle before, and knew the way.

She stopped the swing, got off, and hurried to the bedroom, where she quickly penned a note for the prince and left it on the pillow where he would be sure to find it when he sought to kiss her.

Dearest beloved bold handsome prince husband—I have gone to see the Good Magician about my moods. I’ll bee back when I can. Dinner is in the kitchen; dew knot go hungry. I wood knot dew that to yew. Hugs, kisses, & unmentionable passion. I love yew, Wenda.

She hesitated, concerned that she was making it too cold and distant. She wanted him to be sure that her feeling for him had not changed. Well, it would have to do. Still, she felt almost unbearable nostalgia and pity for the prince when he returned. He did so like his passion! Sometimes she feared his enthusiasm would break the bed. How would he ever cope with her absence? Tears of regret coursed down her face. But of course this was yet another mood, in her ever-shifting kaleidoscope of emotions. She simply
had
to deal with it.

She left the castle, crossed the moat, and hesitated again. Something had bothered her about the moat ever since she came here, and suddenly she realized what it was: there was no moat monster. A castle just wasn’t authentic without a decently horrendous moat monster. She would have to look for one. But now was not the time; she had moods to nullify.

She followed the winding path into the forest. Trees were her second love, after the prince. After all, she had until reasonably recently been crafted of wood herself. As a woodwife she had been in effect an animated carving resembling a shapely nymph—that was a pleonasm, because
shapely
and
nymph
pretty well defined each other—from the front, while she had no back. In fact she had been hollow from behind, showing the outlines of her shapeliness in reverse, inverted. So that when a man clasped her, he felt everything against his front, but his questing hands found nothing behind. That was said to be disconcerting.

Prince Charming had especially delighted in taking handfuls of her rear aspect, when she turned real. Just to be sure it was truly there, he said. She might have thought that after a year he would have developed some confidence about it, but he still insisted on those handfuls. It surely showed how much he valued her, needing constantly to be certain that none of her was missing. Maybe he thought that it could not be lost as long as he kept a firm hold on it. He was certainly conscientious in that respect. He was just so devoted!

She came to the key tree. The forest all around her was perfectly manicured, every tree being large, tall, and without blemish. That was because Prince Charming’s castle was the setting for more than one fairy tale, and artists could come at any time to paint scenes from it. It would be humiliating to have it be weedy or otherwise imperfect, ruining the pictures.

The tree marked the boundary between fairyland and Xanth, though the perfect forest extended well beyond it. The path passed by it without pausing, so that strangers would not know. But Wenda knew.

She looked around, just to be sure that no painter was in the area at the moment. Because she was about to climb, and if a painter happened to glance up under her skirt and see her panties he would freak out. That would be embarrassing, because the prince was the only one allowed to freak out on
her
panties. If a painter painted a painting in that condition, the picture might freak out all male viewers—and a few females too. That would never do for a children’s story.

She put her small hands on the bark and drew herself up. She could climb very well, because of her wooden legacy. She related perfectly to trees, and they knew it. She shinnied up the trunk until she reached the first major branch. Then she circled the tree to the opposite branch, and shinnied back down the trunk until she touched the ground.

She turned away from the trunk and looked around. The forest had become a jungle that entirely surrounded the tree. There was a palmetto hand, which was a giant palm of a hand with splayed fingers. There were milkweed plants with bottles of milk. She was now in the Land of Xanth, where things tended to be literal, and puns abounded. Her native country.

She saw something and paused. There was a stray goblin frozen in place like a statue, his eyeballs crystallized. Oops! She had forgotten to look around before she descended, and he had seen her panties and freaked out. Fortunately goblins hardly counted; the males were normally ugly and crude to the point of disgust, while the females were pretty, sweet, and nice. There was no risk of him painting a picture.

She walked behind the goblin, snapped her fingers, and faded instantly into the anonymous brush. The goblin came back to life, bits of crystal flaking off his eyes. He didn’t even know what had happened. Had he caught on that there was a nymph in the vicinity, he would be chasing after her with lascivious intent.

Meanwhile Wenda was making her way to the nearest enchanted path. It wasn’t that she needed it for safety, because she was a natural creature of the forest who had no fear of its aspects. It was that the path was the quickest and surest route to the Good Magician’s Castle, and she was in a hurry. If she was lucky, she might even find a bicycle.

Yes! There was a Playing Card stand with several bicycles for travelers to use. A bicycle magically tripled a person’s traveling efficiency. She selected a nice wooden one with balloon tires, flowery petals, and a banana seat. The balloons were bulky, but they made the bike lighter. The banana could be peeled and eaten if it got too battered. Bicycles were supremely practical.

There was another woman there Wenda hadn’t noticed in her focus on the bicycle. She was dressed conservatively, but there was something odd about her. Wenda couldn’t quite place it.

“Oh, hello,” the woman said, startled. “I was just trying to make sense of these devices. Do you happen to know what they are for?”

“Yes. They are bicycles. They triple yewr walking efficiency.”

“Oh, good! I need to go see the Good Magician, and this will help.” She paused. “I should introduce myself. I am Freja, often nicknamed Freka.”

“I am Wenda Woodwife. I am going to see the Good Magician too, because I have such violent moods.” She hesitated. “If I may ask—”

“My talent—my curse—is to freak out men when I dress normally. That’s why the nickname. I have to show my underwear to snap them out of it. I hate that. I am a modest person.”

“I wonder whether a chip of reverse wood wood fix that,” Wenda said.

“No it wouldn’t. I tried a chip to change my hair color, but it didn’t work.”

Wenda got an idea. “What did yew dew with the chip?”

“I left it in my hair. It’s been there for years. I am still hoping it will work.”

“That may bee yewr problem,” Wenda said. “Yew never can tell how reverse wood will reverse. It may bee affecting yewr clothes instead of yewr hair.”

“Oh!” Freja put her hand to her hair and removed the chip, dropping it to the ground. “That never occurred to me.”

“We can test it,” Wenda said. “A man is approaching.” Actually it wasn’t a man so much as a male gnome, but the principle would apply. “Hello, gnome!” Wenda called.

The squat little man paused. “What do you want, woodwife?”

“Please take a good look at Freja here. Is there anything about her?”

“I am Gene Gnome,” the gnome said. “My talent is to change living things as they are. But this woman looks perfectly ordinary. She doesn’t need any change.”

“Pick up the chip,” Wenda whispered.

Freja stooped to pick up the chip.

Gene glanced at her, and froze, his eyes fixed on her flexed skirt where it was tightest. He had freaked out.

“Oh, bleep!” Freja swore. She quickly lifted her skirt to show her panties. The gnome returned to animation.

“Drop the chip,” Wenda whispered.

Freja did, along with her skirt.

“If that is all, I will be moving on,” Gene said, evidently bored. He did so without delay.