The Secret of Spring (34 page)

"We can't just leave her here," Herb insisted. "Zygote is too old for her. And besides, he's evil. Look at everything he did to you."

"I'm not forgetting, Herb. I have no love for Zygote. True, he didn't kill my father, but he caused that death. Zygote's failure has been a small punishment. But, I do owe Lily, and crazy as it is, if she wants to stay with Zygote, I won't deny her that choice. I have to go on. I want my life back."

"Why do you think she retained all those memories? It shouldn't have been possible. It's not-not scientific," Herb muttered.

"I don't have an answer, but this is a magical realm. If anyone deserves to live happily ever after, it's Lily,"
Spring
said.

"Yes, but-"

"Shh,"
Spring
said silencing him with a kiss. "Love casts its own spell. That's all we need to know."

"I think I feel some of that magic now," Herb said, kissing her again. And again. And again.

The noise of a throat being cleared sounded behind them. Cling Ling had returned. He had rounded up a sleek spaceship with a robot pilot at the modern, private port behind Zygote's castle. The magician might have preferred days of old, but he wasn't a fool when it came to modem comfort and convenience.

The new ship was nothing close to the bucket of bolts they had travelled in with the
Txnghc
. It had luxurious accommodations with good food from well stocked nutrition units, and even separate sleeping compartments.

Cling Ling sat in the front of the ship with the metallic pilot while
Spring
and Herb shut their compartment door for long awaited privacy.

"What did your father say when you called to tell him you were bringing home a bride?" Spring asked. "Was he disappointed it wasn't Lily? Does he know I'm not-green?"

"My family loves Lily, but they understand. They are happy for us, so don't be afraid. Cross-pollination is not unknown on my planet, after all. You are beautiful, and they will love you as much as I do." He took her in his arms and squeezed to make this point. And also because he enjoyed it.

Spring snuggled close on the small bunk, and reminisced. "Lily was a beautiful bride. I'm glad she came after us. I never thought I'd be married in a double ceremony. Especially with Zygote as one of the grooms."

"Love conquers all," Herb said.

"Did you just make that up?" Spring teased. "So much talk. What kind of honeymoon is this, anyway?"

"This kind," Herb said, with an immediate demonstration. Spring heartily endorsed the suggestion. This time around there were no giants pounding on the
walls.
There was no need to rush, so they went slowly, getting to know each other as lovers, as well as friends. "But you know
,
it was almost better when we were pretending, there on
Kamalot
."

"Who was pretending?" she demanded with a mock frown.

He laughed. "When we pretended we were pretending."

At the wonderful moment of union,
Spring
cried out her deep love for Herb. As Herb reciprocated the sentiment, he felt a tremendous wave of-knowledge.

"Spring! Oh, Spring!" he cried. "It's working!" he gasped as his mind was filled with-practically everything.

"Is it ever,"
Spring
sighed, misunderstanding his meaning.

"No. I mean the transference. The secret. Don't you see? The first time, we held back our true feelings. We pretended it was just sex. But now it's love. No pretense. Love is the answer!"

"It always was, darling,"
Spring
said, covering his face with kisses. She relaxed in the afterglow, feeling truly happy for the first time since the loss of her father. She wanted to stay in Herb's strong arms forever.

"You don't understand," Herb said gently. "I have all the information now. All of it. And Lily was only partially right about your father and why he did this. This secret is your legacy. You see," he continued, assimilating this aspect, "your father loved you very much
Spring
, but he-he was dying. Of an incurable malady."

"Dying? No!"

"This was the only way he knew to be sure you would have this knowledge, in the arms of someone you loved. He knew you would need someone."

"I never-" She swallowed, still in shock. "I never even suspected that anything was wrong. He would have left me anyway." She tried to remember if there had been any signs, but there hadn't been. He had spared her even that. "Then, it wasn't Zygote at all? It would have ended the same way, even if he hadn't taken the poison. I've been so wrong about so much! Lily-somehow she sensed it."

"I feel better about Lily, knowing this. Perhaps now it will be easier for you to-to let go, Spring," Herb said, knowing how close she had been to her father. It was still a lot to ask.

Spring looked at Herb and realized that he was right. The old life was over. It was time to move on. Her father had been a wonderful man, but now she had another. "Kiss me Herb," she implored as if they had never done it before. "Kiss me."

Herb gladly complied, and another shock wave of information rocked his brain. "Spring! Every time we kiss, I learn something new. You wouldn't believe some of the things I know how to do now."

"And I can't wait to find out," she said mischievously. "Tell me, is it true what they say about plant men?" She cupped her hands and whispered in his ear.

Herb
blushed
a bright lizard green but smiled broadly. Some secrets were better when shared. As for the rest, it would take time to learn, but he was an eager student.

AUTHORS'
  
NOTES

Piers Anthony I have known Jo Anne
Taeusch
since 1987, when we met at the World Fantasy Convention in Nashville, Tennessee. She really didn't make much of an impression on me then. As I recall, she was a tiny figure under a mass of orange hair
who
came to one of my
autographings
and to my reading. It wasn't until she started sending me cute letters that I delved into the recesses of my cranium to reconstruct the lost memory. She also sent me cards for holidays, always clever, and sometimes little gifts.

I should clarify that I try to discourage too many letters from readers, as I have been answering an average of 150 a month for several years, and it strains my time. I especially try to discourage gifts, because I really have everything I need, and feel that my contact with readers should be via the printed pages of my novels. I seldom give gifts, other than the words in my fiction, to any of my readers, as part of a similar principle. But Jo Anne was one of three who would not be gainsaid in such respects. I am not the fastest study in such matters, but eventually I realized that something more than mere generosity was motivating these three, all married women, in this respect, and concluded that it was best to let the matter be. So I have a growing collection of gifts in my study, some of significant value, and they do remind me of their donors. I have met each of them, at some event. And I do use the novel solar calculator Jo Anne sent (it had blue fluid saturating its works; eventually that evaporated, leaving it empty, but it still works nicely), and the Samurai sword letter opener on those hundreds of other letters that pile in. This year it was a toy computer that blinks MERRY CHRISTMAS.

So I was there, as it were, during Jo Anne's ups and downs, watching somewhat helplessly from the sidelines as her marriage failed, debts she hadn't incurred bankrupted her (our legal system is at times an ass), and illness led to depletion and surgery. But her cute outlook remained. Once she remarked that she had just turned forty, and was still mad about it. I watched as she slowly put her life together again, though it was clearly no joyous existence. I hear from many whose lives are, as I put it, subdivisions of Hell, and many more
who
seem to be skidding on thinning ice over a threatening abyss. I'm depressive; I felt that my own life was not a pleasant one, until success came by luck and tenacity and drove the wolf from my door. But it has become clear that I never faced the trials some of my readers endure.

When Jo Anne asked whether I would critique her failed fantasy novel, I knew it was payback time. I don't claim to know a lot about much, but I do know something about commercial fantasy. So I gave her my usual warning about the likelihood of having to tell her all the ways she was going wrong-maybe there are those who enjoy that, but I don't-and agreed to read it. Thus came
The Secret of
Spring
.
Therein I found all the cute cleverness formerly evident in her letters, plus a pretty good entertainment science fantasy novel. It did need work, and I told her what I felt it needed. But I also advised her that I was doing an experimental series of collaborative novels, and could do the work I recommended myself, if she wished. I'm not eager to get into more collaborations, as I have more than enough of my own writing to do, but I judge each case on its merits, and I felt
Spring
deserved her chance.

Thus this volume, my 21st collaborative
novel,
and 104th overall book. I've done two collaborative anthologies, too, but on reconsideration I decided that they don't count, because they represent the work of other writers. This will be Jo Anne's first published novel, but perhaps not her last. I think there is a place in Parnassus for cute, clever stories like this one.

So why am I talking about Jo Anne, instead of myself? Well, my life is dull; all I do is sit in front of a red screen with yellow print and type fiction. But perhaps one interesting thing is happening to me now: I'm being sued. No, it's frivolous; someone is trying to get the commissions I paid my literary agent. But the legalistic vilification in the suit is something to appreciate. There must be a fiction writer in the works.

Remember, those interested in more of my works can call the troll-free 1-800 HI PIERS for a sample Newsletter. And no, they won't give you Jo Anne's phone number.

Jo Anne
Taeusch

I had a lot of fun writing this story, which was one reason why I did it; there hasn't been nearly enough of that in my recent history. But that aside, I believe, like most folk who do this, I wrote because I had to. There's still a soft callous on my middle finger from holding a pencil so often as a child.

Due to family illness and other circumstances I was encouraged to be quiet and entertain myself. Thus began a lifelong love affair with books; even the means of earning my living has revolved around them, as I've been in library services for more than thirty years.

The Secret of Spring
is my first published work, but not my first effort. Over the years I've penned poetry, written short stories and even puppet plays, but when going through an especially difficult period around the time I met Piers Anthony (no connection) it was time to tackle "The Book."

It served me well as therapy and although not published, has proved profitable, since it was from a minor character came the notion for the plant people. So while I'd love to claim a green thumb and say inspiration came naturally from my great storehouse of knowledge about plants, the truth is that grass turns brown where I walk. I also wanted to explore communication differences between the sexes without losing the humor, and this story seemed a natural vehicle.

Some have said the pun is the lowest form of humor, but I've always enjoyed them; the worse, the better. I truly believe that Piers Anthony's
Xanths
are the highest form of pun-
ishment
. Whenever I've needed a lift, his wonderful books have been there to turn to, and he has been my favorite author for many years. In spite of the pest (I read his Author's Note) I've made of myself, when I asked for an opinion of my story he was kind enough to look it over.

The result has been an opportunity beyond any I could have hoped for or expected.
Spring
is here!