Zombie Lover (55 page)

You know, life is funny. Jenny Elf got hit by a car, sent to the hospital, and put in your books. Other people who get hit by cars aren't put in novels, but that doesn't lessen the pain of their families any more. Unfortunately, I had a Jenny Elf experience lately. Not me, a friend of mine. Patricia Foley has been my baby-sitter since my earliest childhood, mine and my sister's. When my sister would ignore me, I would talk to Miss Pat, as I called her. We'd play board games, and we became close friends. But on February 8, she was crossing the street on her way to a doctor's appointment and got hit by a car, like Jenny. But unlike Jenny, there was nothing the doctors could do for her, so [they] disconnected the machines that kept her alive. I attended the funeral of my thirty-nine-year-old friend on Monday night. But they never caught the driver who

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hit her; he just drove on. Most likely he was drunk. Why do people drink and then try to drive? It only results in pain and sometimes death. It's not fair. She didn't need to die. Please, Mr. Anthony, why?

It's really the wrong question. Drunk or reckless drivers do it because they can get away with it, because our legal system doesn't take the matter seriously. The drunk who took out Jenny Elf never paid any penalty. They don't give half a darn for the welfare of anyone else. The right question, as I see it. is why does our society allow this pointless mayhem to continue? Freedom is great, but what about the freedom of innocent folk to live in peace without being targets for any idiot with a bottle and a car?

Meanwhile my own dull mundane life continued during the writing of this novel. Last year I bought a right-handed compound bow and learned to fire it reasonably accurately. This time a reader, Dee Lahr (I suspect she's related to the nice demonesses, such as D. Light or D. Lirium) sold me her composite left-handed bow, and now 1 am slowly learning to fire it, considerably less accurately. A compound bow is always strung, and has pulley-cams that perform the seemingly magic trick of allowing you to hold the string with only, say. twenty pounds of pull—but when you release it, it assumes the force of fifty five pounds of pull, and propels the arrow viciously forward. Once I developed the muscle to draw that fifty five pounds, so as to reach the twenty-pound let-off, it was great. In fact I have now cranked it up to sixty pounds, because I'm doing this for exercise rather than entertainment. But the composite bow is simpler; it must be strung each time, which is tricky if you don't know how, and there is no let-off. So 1 work harder to shoot the arrows with considerably less force. But it's all good experience.

Last year, also, I bought a recumbent bicycle, that resembles a deck chair with wheels. You lean back and peddle out front, and the handlebars are under your seat. It's weird at first, but a superior machine and a great ride, because there's no stress on your arms, and no crotch-binding saddle. That set me up for the cycle I bought during this novel, not long after the left-handed bow: the RowBike. It's actually an exercise machine, but it can be ridden around the neighborhood. You row it, the seat sliding back and forth while you draw

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the oars, which are the handlebars, and move forward. But it's awful to balance, at first. You need lots of room to maneuver, but I don't have room, just a long narrow drive. So I went constantly off the sides and had to slam to a stop. But I'm making progress, and now can make the whole three-quarter-mile trip to the gate in one haul, though I do make constant involuntary S-curves.

So my adventure of life has not ended in my '60s. But it's not all good. Also in this period I developed a pain in my left upper jaw, together with pressure and cold sensitivity. When it got so bad that I had to take heavy-duty pain pills so as to get to sleep, I went to my dentist. By the day's end, I had had a root canal job done on a lower left tooth. They call it transferred pain; where I felt it wasn't where it really was. The discomfort faded, but I had to chew on my right side—which had some similar symptoms in the upper jaw, now that 1 couldn't avoid it. I returned in two weeks for a routine followup check—and got another root canal in my lower right jaw, to take care of the referred pain there. My mouth felt better, but in another two weeks I had a third root canal, in the upper right jaw, to clear up the smaller remaining sensitivity. The endodontist seemed to be getting quite cheerful with all that business I brought him. Each one means a reworked crown to follow, too. O joy! That will make my regular dentist happy too. No, I take care of my teeth. It seems that the weak point in the sixteen onlays (partial crowns) I had two decades ago— the experience translated into my dental science fiction novel, Prostho Plus—is the cement. Saliva breaks it down and the germs wedge in. and take out the nerve. So about half of those onlays have been replaced following root canals. Teeth are expensive to maintain. My advice, based on solid experience, is to choose parents with naturally perfect teeth, so that your tooth genes are better than mine.

As I set up to edit this novel, I was letting our ninety-one-pound dog Obsidian out into our fenced yard—we live on a tree farm, but the dog does not roam that, because there are alligators and rattlesnakes and other creatures we don't want hurt—when I spied an owl in our pool enclosure. Our pool has long since gone natural, somewhat in the manner of my teeth; frogs live in it, dragonflies hatch from it, and a tree poked a branch through its wire-net ceiling. We had a flap, catching dog before dog caught owl. Then the problem: how to get owl out of enclosure? I call her Jean Owl; she's a barred owl, a foot

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and a half long, a huge bird. No, not quite as big as Roxanne Roc. She's been around for years, and uses the trees in our yard for snoozing in daytime. Evidently she got in through the ceiling hole, and couldn't find her way out. So we propped open the doors, but though she would fly up and sit on the door-sill, she didn't catch on that it was a way out. Then her offspring, Junior, arrived. Instead of Jean flying out to join him, he flew in to join her. So now we had two owls perched on the pool railing by the door, not knowing the way out. Finally 1 took tools and ripped out the netting above the door. Then I circled around, sort of herding them toward it, and this time when the owls perched there, they hopped to the top of the open door, and thence back into the wilderness. So I was an hour late starting work, but Jean and Junior were free. All part of the fun of living in the forest, and we wouldn't be here if we didn't like nature. We have gopher tortoises living in their burrows against the north and south sides of the house; "Tortle" comes out to watch me practice my archery. Wrens try to nest in my bicycle bags; that's awkward, because I don't think they want their eggs to travel up to our gate and back each day. So I covered the back of the bicycle with plastic wrapping material—and they started building their nest in that. So I moved the bike and hung the plastic on an iron ring used for storing wood, and that worked; Carrol and Lina Wren are using it. As I edit this novel, there are perhaps five eggs in the nest. I suspect that in due course they will hatch into Wrenny and Gwenny and their siblings. We like wrens; they are brave little birds, and go after bad bugs. We just have to compromise a bit to make them feel at home. Some readers may not be aware of the story of Jenny Elf, so I'll give a brief reprise. She started as Jenny Gildwarg in Mundania, age twelve, crossing the street on a school route, when a drunk driver cruised by the stopped cars and carried her away on his bumper. Fast help got her smashed body to the hospital, but she was given only a fifteen percent chance to survive. But she hung on, and was upgraded to fifty percent after emergency surgery. But she remained in a coma for months, until her mother, in desperation, wrote to her favorite author, in the hope that a letter from him might rouse her. So I wrote to Jenny early in 1989, and they read my letter to her, and the ploy was successful; she did come out of the coma. That was when it became apparent that she was almost totally paralyzed, being able

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only to wiggle one toe, move her right hand some, and her head some. She couldn't talk. Her mind was there, but not most of the connections to her body. So began a major one-way correspondence; 1 still write to her every week, eight years later, and the first year's letters were published as Letters to Jenny. Now she is twenty, and by the time this novel is published she will be twenty one. The character based on her, Jenny Elf, appeared in Isle of View, has made incidental appearances since, and now is married. I thought it was time. But Jenny in Mundania remains mostly paralyzed, though her computer is a big help. She can speak a few words, and with the aid of leg braces and a wraparound walker and nervous nurses ready to catch her if she falls, can walk a few steps. She has continued her schooling, and hopes to attend college, if the system can handle a person this physically limited.

And what of Breanna? Is there a real life analog? I thought not, but again, as I edited, I saw a page ad in the Sunday supplement Parade for an "In The Limelight Barbie" doll, patterned after the famous white Barbie, but black. She wears a snugly fitting chocolate brown gown, and a metallic cape with a lime-green inner lining, and is described as "boldly stylish." I have my doubts about coincidence; I think that's Breanna manifesting in Mundania. Sort of having her fling before settling down to her life's work.

Suggestions have continued to pile in from readers at a rate faster than I can use them, so some notions I received in 1992 are still waiting for their spot. I try to use the oldest ones first, but they have to fit into the story, and some require special stories. So some old ideas wait, while some new ones get used. So the span of notions used this time date from 1992 to 1997, with most from 1995-96. The most recent is Happy Bed Monster, found orphaned by Sharon Ellis. so she sent Happy to me, and she arrived in FeBlueberry 1997. Happy's so young she still wears mittens on her six little hands, and hides under my keyboard. She didn't quite make it into Xanth proper, because nobody much was using beds this time, but she is with me as I type. Maybe she'll be in the next, Xone of Contention, the novel that will, as the Muse of History remarked, have a special irrelevant significance.

Some readers have commented on my relation to Xanth. Eugene Laubert spoke of Peer Xanth on Knee. Robert White says I am like

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the Demon X(A/N)TH. Sure; a mule-headed dragon. But it is true that despite the humorous mythology, 1 do write these novels, and pretty much control what goes into them. Though I identify to a degree with all my characters, I am mainly the ogre. Ogres are justifiably proud of their stupidity.

Some notions were used indirectly. Pedro Leon de la Barra suggested that Xavier and Zora be given an adventure. That didn't happen, but their son Xeth does have an adventure in this novel. Each character seems to have his/her/its following, and readers are constantly suggesting that old characters be brought back to prominence. For example, Wayne Murphy asked for Dolph, and Dolph does have his chapters in this novel. But normally I don't list credits for such suggestions. I use both new and renovated characters as the story

warrants.

Suggestions continue to pour in from readers. I counted 181 noted but not yet used, and some are ones I had expected to use here, but didn't. I have used around two hundred here, which is about the limit. Many readers like puns, but others don't. Some seem to be ambiguous; one told me I used too many, then finished his letter with a page of his own suggested puns. The fact is that I reject as many reader notions as I accept, because they duplicate ones already used or just don't work well for me. A number of readers want their names used as characters; I limit that, but do use some intriguing names on occasion. Each novel is a kind of balancing act, trying to make the best story compatible with reader satisfaction. Each novel will have some reader who believes it is the best yet, and some other who says it is the worst yet. The cri-tics, of course, think the series should be abolished. What I don't understand is why they think that no one else should be allowed to read novels that the critics personally dislike; why don't they just go read something else and leave Xanth alone? Assuming that the critics' agenda is not simply to make everyone else as miserable as they are.

Here, then, are the credits, listed approximately in order of use, except when several belong to one person: Breanna of the Black Wave—Rachel Browne; Ability to see only mundane things in Xanth—Gavin Lambert; Chewing gum, bananas drive folk crazy— Chris Swanson; barrister/bare aster flower—Rose Blaylock; Banana boat, catamaran for cats, doghouse/puptent—Katie Leonard; Fray D.

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Cat—Brandy
 
Stark; Perch—Chris Conary; Latchkey kids—Jennie Takata; Keyboard unlocks Writer's Block—Bryce Weinert/Kristina Courtnage;
  
Xeth
  
Zombie—Angella
  
Castellano;
  
Sleeping
  
bag— Jennifer Walker; Zombie corps d'esprit—Bruce Morton; Penta-gone— Sarah Rushakoff; Hippo-crit—Katrina Brooks; Shortening, largen-ing—Gordon Johnson; Mun Danish, Sapphire Fly; Midas Well— Robert Cobb; Glare of the sun—Megan Thorne; igNore folk—Jenny Wilson; Ayitym, who absorbs one property of what he touches—Nat J. Silva; Tyler, with a different talent each day—Tyler Hudon; William Henry Taylor—Addy Taylor; Ricky Golem—Katelyn Bundrick; Sea Attle—Shelley Robichard; Sea Mint—Michelle Detwiler; Cross Walk, VirginiTree—Andrew Crawford; Back Village should spread out—Dorcas Bethel; Sickly sycamore—Sarah Bennett; Night Foal for Night Mare, Flame Vine—Nicole Adkins; Ability to conjure any kind of seed—Catherine Coleman and Emily Waddy; Choose the breed of one's
  
future
 
children;
  
fancy
  
spot-on-wall
 
picture
 
talent—Eugene Laubert; Hearing from a distance—lan Rhoad; Power to create a small void—Michael Tesfay; Conjure a geyser at any spot—Jeremy and Cameron Gray; C puns—George Kummerer; Transformation of the inanimate—Jeremy Schenefield; Alarmed Clock—Sasha Skinner; Time Fly, spasmo tic, irrelev ant, ench ant—Robin Tang; Fish Tank— Ben Chambers; Fish bowl with pin and needle fish, Miss Conception, Interpret, Givings, skeleton carrying boot rear, pair o" docks—Gwy-neth Posno; Hair spray, cat scan—Heather Oglevie; Hare comb. Karla Winged Centaur—Karla Sussman; Mr. E—Stephen Stringer; Hack-berry Tree, mud, suds, and hush puppies, sand witch, Che/Cynthia's foal should have a separate magic talent—Monica Ramirez; Cindy Centaur—John Newton; Root beer with roots—Stephen Vandiver; Jackpot—Brian Baurmash; Currant jelly—Michael J. Kaer; Mouse pad—Kelly Brown; Seymour Bones and Rick R. Mortis—Andrew van der Raadt; Smart Alec, winged goblins should have separate talents—Stephen Monteith; Magic Dust to Mundania—A very Campbell;
 
De
 
Censor Ship—Meghan
 
Jones;
 
Liquidation—Brian
 
Visel; Time line, chorus vine—Donovan Beeson; Clap hands for reports— Miguel Ettema; Seal of Approval—Nissa Cannon. Miguel Ettema; Reverse wood with lethe = memory enhancer, Toy Let, rain bow— Chris Efta; Forest of Forgetfulness, Chelle—Michelle Crim; Winged humans/birds—Billy Banks; Lady Bug—Abby Everdell; Mega bites—