It worked faster than I had expected; even while I was still singing, the "lad" showed up, his head poking above the wall of greenery not too far from the bower. Then his whole body appeared, climbing up a tree; he swung out along a branch and dropped to the ground. He was just a little shorter than Thyme, if you didn't count the horns - short goat horns, and goat's legs with cloven hooves on the end. Of course, with that shaggy hair from the waist down, he didn't need any clothes - which was just as well, since he wasn't wearing any. He was wearing a syrinx, though - a set of panpipes, hung around his neck by a cord.
Thyme glanced at him, then glanced again.
I wondered if I really needed the second verse, but I sang it anyway.
"The willow, symbol of lovers' sadness?" Thyme sighed. "All, well could it be mine!
"What! Do I see the trace of melancholy on thy features?" The faun hopped up to her. "It must be erased - for a face so fair must not be careworn!"
She glanced his way, her gloom lessened by the flattery; but she said "Why, what are you to speak so? Consider with care, foolish boy, for you are but a kid!"
"Mayhap, but I am a goat withal." A mischievous grin touched his lips. "Be mindful, sweet wanton-I will grow on you."
"Not if I can prevent it." She made a shooing gesture, irritated.
"Begone, irksome child!"
"Alack-a-day!" The faun looked up at me. "Can you not aid, Wizard?
"Could be," I said.
"What nonsense do you rhyme?" Thyme demanded, nettled, but the faun lifted the panpipes to his lips and began to blow. It was a melody amazingly sweet, but also sad, weighted with a longing beyond his apparent years, and it conjured up words to match it, not quite clearly enough to voice, hovering just on the verge of consciousness, telling a tale of unrequited desire and aching yearning. Thyme looked up, staring in surprise.
The faun began to weave from side to side, then to move his hooves in a slow dance.
Thyme followed him with her gaze, mesmerized. The lines of sadness disappeared from her face, and she began to sway in time to the music.
I reached out and grabbed one of the tree trunks that made up the bower. That music was getting to me, working its way inside and initiating its own ache in me, from heart to loins.
Thyme's swaying grew broader; she began to move her feet, following the pattern of the faun's dance. The music thrilled with hope, and the faun's movements grew more suggestive. Thyme followed, hips swaying more broadly, body curving and retreating, her eyelids growing heavy, a knowing smile curving her lips.
Behind me, somebody moaned; I recognized Frisson's voice. Now the two were as close as dancers in a ballroom, weaving and swaying, advancing and retreating. All signs of care were gone from Thyme's face, and a musky scent was beginning to tinge the air. The dancers moved in unison, as if a single mind animated both bodies. out of the corner of my eye, I saw Frisson staring with eyes so wide that the whites showed all around, his face one instant from madness.
Thyme reached up to the brooch that held her dress fastened.
"Time to go." I grabbed Frisson and tugged, but he was rooted to the spot. I cried, "Gilbert! Help me!"
The squire shook himself, coming out of his trance. He flushed deep red, nodded, and took Frisson's other arm.
"Lift," I told him, and together we hoisted the poet's frozen form and moved toward the door. An agonized sound started in his throat, slid up to his mouth, and out his lips: "Noooooo!"
"Keep going," I said through clenched teeth.
"Nymph, keep me!" Frisson begged. "Use me, debase me - but keep me!"
She didn't even glance his way; her gaze was transfixed on the faun, her face glowing, her fingers fumbling with the brooch.
"Sweet nymph, farewell!" the monk murmured, and ducked out the door.
Frisson gave a horrible groan as we pulled him through the portal and away, struggling in our hands. Gilbert held fast, his back resolutely turned to the scene behind him. That meant I was facing it; I saw the dress slip, saw a flash of pearly pink skin, before the glare of the noonday sun washed out all sight of the interior. We turned frontward and stumbled away, dragging Frisson with us.
Behind us, the music grew slower, even more heavily sensual, setting up a rocking rhythm.
Frisson went slack in our arms, sobbing, and Friar Ignatius let out a long and shuddering breath. "I thank you, Wizard. Of all the assaults my virtue has suffered on this isle, this was the greatest." His mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. "Though I must confess, 'tis cause for chagrin, to find I am so easily forgotten."
"Just think of it as proof that she was only using you," I suggested, "or wanted to."
"Yes. Well put." He nodded. "In that fashion, I am glad to know I was right to resist - glad in worldly terms as well as spiritual, for I was but a toy to her."
"Don't worry," I said. "She isn't interested in any of us any more."
"Praise Heaven!" Gilbert shuddered. "And I thank you, Wizard! I was almost ensnared!"
Privately, I thought it would have done him a world of good, but I didn't say so.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Frisson didn't manage to start working his legs again until we came in sight of the ocean. Even then, it was all he could do to stagger across the beach to the boat and collapse into it, sobbing. The rest of us heaved and pushed, driving it over the sand and back into the ocean, though I don't think we could have done it without that huge boost from Gruesome.
"In." I looked up at him, pointing to the inside of the boat.
"I'll finish pushing off this time."
The shark mouth grinned; he was glad to be leaving. He clambered in and sat huddled in the bows, moaning in anticipation of seasickness.
"Get in," I told Gilbert and Friar Ignatius. They clambered over the sides. Gilbert sat down facing aft, took up an oar, and fitted it between the pegs that passed for an oarlock - and to my amazement, Friar Ignatius did the same. They pulled together, I shoved, and the boat's bottom grated free of the last of the shingle. I vaulted up and over the stern, and the two men of different cloths threw their backs into it, rowing hard.
The last echo of music died away. I wondered what was going on back in the bower, then thought frantically about apples - it doesn't do any good to try not to think about something; you have to think about something else instead.
When the island was only a thin green line on the horizon, Friar Ignatius panted, "Hold." He and Gilbert leaned on their oars, drawing deep gasps. When he'd caught his breath, Friar Ignatius said, "I thank you, Wizard. I'd have never won free by myself." I knew why, too - he hadn't really wanted to. I couldn't blame him.
"Glad to do it - but I had an ulterior motive."
"Aye." Friar Ignatius nodded. "You said you had need of my aid."
"That's right. You see, we're trying to stage a bit of a revolution overthrowing the queen of Allustria."
For a minute or so, the only sounds I heard were the surf, and Frisson's last miserable sobs.
Then Friar Ignatius said, "Well." And, "Are you, indeed."