The Stone Giant Page 5

  ‘Whitewashing is it?’ he said cheerfully.

  The old man gave him an up and down look. ‘If I’ve got any left after I finish here I’ll give you a coat of it too. But don’t count too heavily on success, sir, for it’ll take a bucketful at least to hide the grime that covers the likes of you.’

  Escargot hadn’t been prepared to be insulted. His imaginary conversations that morning had involved his insulting Stover, and Stover wringing his hands and politely apologizing. He forced himself to stretch his grin. ‘Leta still renting the room upstairs then?’

  Stover stared at him and shook his head – not by way of answering, but as if Escargot’s question were so foolish that no answer would work.

  ‘I’m not at all surprised, actually,’ said Escargot. ‘I suppose she’s had her fill of Stover’s Tavern. But I rather fancy it, myself. I’ve been thinking that a man like me might elevate himself if he was to study a man like you, a pillar, as they say, of the village.’

  ‘Go away,’ said Stover.

  ‘I’m very serious. If Leta’s moved out, I’ll take her room.’

  ‘I haven’t any room to rent, not in the tavern I don’t. I do, however, have the power to let you into a room in Monmouth Prison very cheap. And they’d give you a fresh set of clothes along with it. Abandonment, sir, is worth a year under the law. Civil disruption, of course, is worth a month of two more. And if you’re inclined toward violence, which I haven’t any doubt you are, then we can make it a round five and have you hung into the bargain. My advice to you is to pack your bag and go.’

  The conversation had gone awry. Perhaps the uncle hadn’t yet spoken to Stover. ‘My agent, I assume, hasn’t contacted you yet?’

  ‘What in the world are you talking about?’

  ‘You haven’t spoken, this morning, to Mr Abner Helstrom, my attorney?’

  ‘Damn Mr Abner Helstrom. I’ve spoken to no one. It’s inconceivable that anyone with such a name as that could exist. And it’s late to think of hiring attorneys, even imaginary attorneys. They can’t save you. Nothing can save you now. Your life is a ruin and you’ve only your own sloth to thank. Mr Abner Helstrom! Why not Mr Abner Maelstrom? If you’re going to invent names, brigand, invent good ones. Get away from me now! Slink off and leave me to my work.’

  ‘I’ll buy a pint of ale first,’ said Escargot through his teeth. It was just eleven o’clock. He’d have a pint of ale out of Stover or wring his neck. He’d have a pint of ale and then wring his neck.

  The old man looked at him, his face suddenly saddened. ‘I fear that the price of a pint of ale is rather dear this morning,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I’ve been forced to steepen things just a bit – far beyond your means, if I’m any judge of a man’s means.’

  ‘You’re not.’ Escargot dug the gold out of his pocket, a dozen coins in all, and scattered them at Stover’s feet. They lay glinting in the sunlight in a very satisfying way. Then, strangely and slowly, they began to shift and shudder, for all the world as if they were waking up and setting in to walk away. The golden glow dimmed, and Escargot could see the planks of the boardwalk through the coins. In another instant they were gone and a dozen black beetles scrabbled roundabout Stover’s feet, the old man hopping and dancing and crushing bugs. Escargot stood astonished, watching the display, unable to summon up the precious last laugh that he’d anticipated all morning long. ‘Goblin gold,’ he muttered.

  ‘What!’ cried Stover, ‘Get out of here, I tell you! Your money is worth as much as your miserable soul, apparently. Now be gone, or by heaven I’ll thrash you with this brush and have you jailed.’

  Escargot backed away, not out of fear but out of lingering astonishment. The gold was gone. The bugs were crushed on the planks of the boardwalk. Who was this Uncle Helstrom? He turned and set out slowly, back the way he’d come, his rage having suddenly abandoned the shouting Stover and settled on the dwarf uncle. Goblin gold, was it? Truth charms. Vital experiments. He’d show someone a vital experiment with a club.

  ‘Wait!’ shouted Stover, stepping off into the street.

  Escargot turned, glaring, his face set like stone. Stover stepped back onto the boardwalk as if ready to bolt into the tavern and shut the door.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said the old man triumphantly. ‘You can come round to Mr Smeggles’ office on Pine Street. You’ll be paid for a third of the house and property, less money for repairs and for the child’s education, of course. You deserve nothing. But the woman you abandoned insists –as long, that is, as you agree to have nothing more to do with the child. Not a thing.’

  Escargot stared at him. ‘We’ll see who agrees to what.’

  ‘You’ll see the inside of a jail cell!’ Stover shouted after him as Escargot trudged back toward the meadow, his plans all gone to smash, his marbles gone. First goblins, then goblin gold. It made sense, didn’t it? Abner Helstrom! Stover was right. Escargot had made a fool of himself. He hadn’t any doubt that half the village had been watching just now – gaping out of windows, cupping hands to their ears. And what of Leta? That had been the worst bit of foolery of all. Had the entire thing been layed out weeks ago, from before the first time he’d seen her at Wurzle’s? Stover would say, if he knew anything about it, that the entire mess was the consequence of sin, of Escargot’s roving eye, of his watery soul. And maybe Stover would be right.

  It took about a minute and a half for Escargot to decide otherwise. Whatever the truth was, Stover didn’t have it. Stover was a shriveled toad, a bug, a viper, an officious, petty, and bent man who, unfortunately, could have Escargot pitched into Monmouth Prison. Never see his child again! They’d pay him off, would they? He kicked a clump of meadow grass, and the effort of it dislodged the blanket full of books. Copies of G. Smithers sailed out all over the meadow, bumping down with pages fluttering, scattered atop what was left of the pine-needle bed.

  Escargot set in to give the clump of grass another kick, just for good measure. If the books had been anything but Smithers, he would have danced on them and kicked them to bits, then dumped the lot of them into the river, just for having betrayed him. Why, he wondered, hadn’t he gone into Beezle’s store first and spent his gold on a suit of clothes and a pair of shoes. It was the sunlight that had turned the goblin gold back into the stuff it was made out of. Inside the store it would have remained gold. Then it would have been Beezle’s problem. He’d been too anxious to see Stover squirm; that was the truth of it. Fine adventurer he’d make – fleeced by a dwarf in a slouch hat, taken in by a pretty face, chased from town by a tavern keeper, and tossed, for goodness sake, out of his own house by a wife who had driven him mad with pies for two solid years.

  He bent to pick up the fallen books, laying them once again atop the blanket. When he stood up, the leather sack with the truth charm in it bumped against his chest. He bundled up the blanket and books and hurried into the windmill, pulling the door shut behind him. Magic or not magic, he’d have a go at the charm. It was probably worthless. Of course it was worthless. It couldn’t be anything else. It probably was a set of clacking teeth. Leta and her false uncle were quite likely gasping with laughter at that very moment. He wiggled loose the thong that tied the bag and dumped the heavy charm out into his hand. It was a rock – a round, grayish lump of stone shot through with lines of amethyst and quartz crystal and with a lidded eye carved into the top as if it were about to wink at him.

  It certainly looked like a charm; there was no denying that. There was the possibility, of course, that it was some sort of goblin charm, made up simply as a lark. It might even be dangerous. But why, he wondered, would either Leta or the dwarf want to harm him? What they wanted, it seemed, was to steal his marbles, for purposes he couldn’t fathom. At least he hadn’t had any nightmares the previous night, only the remnants of the face. The dwarf – that’s whose face it had been. The curious Uncle Helstrom. Of course it had. The thought was just a little bit frightening. What was this uncle, some sort of magician, perhaps, with his waterwe
ed tobacco and his metal-shod staff that struck sparks out of dirt? His signed Smithers! Damnation! Leta had made away with his signed Smithers, and he’d been left with a carved rock.

  He set the charm on the sill of the little window in the wall that faced the river. Outside, the vanes of the windmill revolved slowly in the breeze, one by one going past. Tell me, truth charm, whether the books of G. Smithers are truth or lies.’ The truth charm sat there, washed in sunlight. Escargot tried again. ‘What is Abner Helstrom’s true name?’ Nothing happened. ‘What is the color of my shirt?’ asked Escargot. It’s right in front of you, truth charm.’ The charm was silent. ‘I’m a worthless fool,’ said Escargot to the charm, ‘I’ve lost everything I’ve owned and wanted, and if you want to know the truth, half of it can be laid to vanity. More than half. That’s where the fault lies.’

  He picked the charm up and slipped it back into the bag. He’d been left with a worthless, dead piece of rock. He would carry it around his neck forever, he decided, in order to remind himself of the fruits of vanity. He would become a holy man, wandering the river road, getting thin, living on grubs, heaping burning trash on his head. The picture of it struck him suddenly as funny. Even the tongues of his shoes were hilarious, waggling out like that, giving him the raspberry. Shambling old Stover and his prayer meetings, his wife and her precious pies, Wurzle and his salamanders – the lot of them, himself included, were evidently born into the world to cut ridiculous capers for the amusement of the gods. Or, Escargot thought grimly, of the Uncle Helstroms. Well he’d cut no more. He’d be off downriver is where he’d be, just as soon as he got the money from Smeggles the lawyer. Perhaps he’d take Annie with him, fly in the face of the law. They could chase him if they chose, but they’d find it a warm chase indeed. And if he ran into Uncle Helstrom, magician or no magician, he’d tweak the dwarf’s nose.

  He hung the sack round his neck, buttoned his shirt over it, and set out toward the forest after fresh pine needles. Halfway there he abandoned the plan. He wouldn’t bother with sleep tonight. He’d spend the night planning. Then tomorrow he’d have the money out of Smeggles, buy a horse and supplies, and ride down the river road toward Hightower Village and put up at an inn. If anyone had heard of Abner Helstrom in Hightower, then Escargot would have a go at the dwarf straightaway. If not, then the whole business was a lesson well learned, wasn’t it. He dug out The Stone Giants and headed for the river.

  The weather that evening wasn’t all it might have been. The sun, which had set out so gloriously that morning, had become thin and distant, and once again before dusk the fog rose off the river and the evening grew watchful. When Escargot found himself squinting to see, and cocking the book this way and that to catch the feeble light, he gave up. Once again he could feel something in the air. Maybe it was just autumn; maybe it was Halloween drifting nigh. The moon crept up over the tree line, appearing and then disappearing through breaks in the fog. And once, when Escargot chanced to look into the sky, something sailed across the face of the moon – a bat, perhaps. But it hadn’t looked much like a bat; it looked more like a witch aloft.

  Escargot wondered about it for a moment, but his mind drifted back to the problem of little Annie. He could slip into the house and bundle her away. Damn his wife’s padlocks. She would be nothing to carry along downriver, and she was fond enough of his cooking to stay plump. Escargot smiled to think of how she hadn’t cared a rap when there’d been lumps in the oatmeal. And she’d grow up with calluses on her feet and an eye sharp as a hawk’s eye. She’d be able to tell time by the wind and understand elfin tongues and make sense of the gabbled laughter of goblins. What would come of her if she grew up in Twombly Town under the watchful eye of Stover the high and the mighty? Escargot didn’t want to think about it. He’d have to steal her. There were no two ways about it.

  Of course it mightn’t be easy on her at first, little as she was. Some rough roads lay ahead of him, after all, and danger – no little bit of it. What would he do if halfway to Hightower Village he ran headlong into the dwarf, or perhaps into the same party of goblins that had set upon him a week past? He’d have to move quickly, and with a child in his arms it was quite likely that he wouldn’t move quickly enough. What would he do, stow her under a bush like a hedgehog? What if she fell into the hands of goblins while her father lay bleeding on the road? What then?

  Escargot couldn’t fathom it. There were too many whats. He sat with his chin in his hand, looking out over the dark river. The water still flowed along toward the sea, oblivious to him, caring nothing for the troubles of the people along the bank. It was out in midstream that he ought to be, floating along with it. It was his destiny, perhaps, to be alone. A quick, breeze, cool and sharp, blew across the back of his neck. He shrugged his coat tighter around him, but the cool air seemed to pass right through it, as if it weren’t a breeze at all but the presence of something – or of someone – standing behind him in silence. He sat frozen, half expecting a touch on his shoulder, the wisp of cold breath on his cheek. ‘Aah!’ he shouted, whirling around and leaping from the log onto the slippery bank. He slid toward the river, grasping at a branch, falling down onto one knee in the mud of the bank. There was nothing there – no old milk-eyed woman with a stick. Whatever it was that had thickened the atmosphere a moment ago had disappeared.

  He found that he was shaking, and when he grabbed at his cap to pull it down tighter over his forehead, he succeeded only in batting it off into the weeds. What, he wondered grimly, would have happened if there had been someone there – worse yet, if he’d had Annie along. In his fright, he would have pitched her into the river.

  Through the fog appeared the glow of lantern light, out on the meadow. Escargot blinked, thinking at first that a fogfish had wandered over the bank. But it wasn’t a fogfish. It was bright as Christmas and coming from the Widow’s windmill, and yet no one, as far as he knew, used the abandoned windmill except himself. He watched the light for a moment, waiting for it to waver or move. Maybe it was someone walking on the meadow, looking into the windmill – looking, perhaps, for him. Could it be Uncle Helstrom, he wondered, narrowing his eyes. All things considered, Escargot hadn’t any real enthusiasm for running into the dwarf on a foggy night.

  But he’d have to see, wouldn’t he? If it was a band of robbers, say, or marauding goblins, then he’d have to alert the village. He crawled across his log and crept up the grassy slope toward the windmill, hunkered down and squinting through the mist. He could hear the slow creak of the latticework windmill vanes turning aimlessly in the breeze, disconnected from the gear mechanism that had rusted and fallen to bits years earlier. The light seemed to flicker and dance, as if the lanterns had no shades, or as if it weren’t lantern light at all but was the light of about a hundred candles all guttering in the breeze blowing through the broken window.

  A gust of wind scoured across the meadow, blowing the fog clear for an instant. Escargot dropped to his chest on the wet grass, partly hidden by the rise of the hill. He could see just for a moment the eastern sky, paled to morning purple, a scattering of stars winking out with the coming dawn. Slowly, before the mists settled back in and obscured the mill, he pushed himself up on his hands to have a look. There was a good chance he’s see someone through the window. If it was Uncle Helstrom, he’d ... Well, he didn’t quite know what he’d do. But the only thing visible in the window was the broad, glowing face of a lit jack-o’-lantern, grinning out at him through the hovering fog. The long vanes swished across in front of it, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, so that the candlelight glowing through the mouth and eyes seemed chopped to bits. Why it faced the meadow was a puzzle. Unless it was meant to attract someone. Was it a beacon, a signal? Escargot decided to keep a sharp eye out for things lurking in the night. He crept toward it, masked again by fog.

  A low murmur issued from within the mill. A cackle of laughter erupted, then was hushed and the murmuring continued, now rising in volume, now falling away into silence. It was impossible
to tell how many voices in all were murmuring and laughing – at least three or four. And just when Escargot was sure they were the voices of men, low and throaty and rough, he’d change his mind and decide they were the voices of women – witches, perhaps. One voice, though, was a bit higher. It was a familiar voice – very pretty, actually.

  Escargot stiffened. He knew whose voice it was. He’d have to take a look through the window. There was another window higher up on the second floor, but there was no way to climb the slippery, shingled sides of the mill – no handholds or footholds unless he clambered up one of the vanes. The noise of it, though, would give him away. They’d catch him at it, halfway up and utterly defenseless. At least if he was discovered on the ground he could make a run for it.

  He crept forward, thankful that the grass and leaves on the meadow were heavy and silent with fog. He cupped an ear to the wall below the windowsill, but all was silent save for a low and rhythmic chanting in a guttural language he had no desire to understand. When he turned up toward the window, there on the sill, next to the glowing pumpkin, a black cat sat peering out into the night. Escargot crouched below, staring up at it. It wouldn’t do to frighten it. Perhaps it wouldn’t do to be seen by it. The cat seemed to be watching the vanes turn in the breeze, fascinated with it as it might be fascinated by a bit of dancing yarn.

  Then it leaped across the four feet that separated it from the revolving vanes, lit against the ragged lattice and scrabbled its paws through, holding on as the blade swept upward into the mist. Escargot watched the vanes whoosh back down – one, two, three, four, five, and then he was counting the same vanes over again. The cat was gone –perhaps searching the upper story for mice.