The Maelstrom t-4

by Henry H. Neff

  “How much for one of those?”

  “Ten,” grunted the woman, staring into the oven.

  “Coppers or silver?” asked Max, sorting the coins in his palm.

  “Where’d you find this one, David?” Marta cackled. “It’s ten coppers, Your Highness.”

  Gulping down his coffee, Max plunked the coins onto the table. “If you let me borrow that basket, I’ll take all of them.”

  Marta hurried over to sweep up the coins, laughing as she held up a silver lune. “You can keep the bloody basket.”

  David leaned back, bemused. “Where are you going with a dozen loaves of bread?”

  “Crofter’s Hill. And you’re going, too.”

  It was a forty-minute walk to Crofter’s Hill—a tall, sparsely covered knoll that rose above the Sanctuary plains. It was a peculiar place to build a house, for the hill was unusually steep and exposed, its rocky soil apparently incapable of sustaining much more than a few fenced tomato vines and a billy goat that eyed the boys suspiciously as they reached its windswept summit.

  The lone house atop Crofter’s Hill was a large, heavy-timbered cottage built with wattle and daub and supporting a steep roof of gray thatch. Several steps led up to a broad porch where ceramic planters flanked a twelve-foot door made of knotted pine planks. Only two windows were visible. They were set on either side of the door and hidden by rough wooden shutters that banged and creaked with every whistling gust.

  Max knocked hard on the door and waited for an answer. When none came, he knocked again while David shivered and gazed far down at the Warming Lodge, where reflected clouds drifted across the surface of its placid lagoon. When Max knocked a third time, David wrapped his cloak tighter.

  “Maybe he isn’t home.” He shivered.

  Max pointed toward a pair of muddy boots sitting by a planter and knocked again.

  “Leave it!” boomed a deep voice with a Russian accent. “Your money is by the rosemary.”

  Puzzled, Max turned and spied a worn envelope tucked beneath a nearby planter where the herb was growing, tall and fragrant. Pressing his ear against the door, Max knocked louder.

  “Bob, open the door. It’s Max and David.”

  Silence, and then at last a heavy shuffling. Bolts slid back and the door cracked open. From the dark interior, Bob stared down at them, an elderly ogre whose ten-foot frame had grown thin, almost spare. He had not shaved in days. Bristly white stubble covered a sunken, toothless jaw whose lips were drawn in a hard line.

  “Max,” he croaked, peering closer and fumbling for the monocle dangling from a chain behind his ear. His nostrils quivered, as if taking in their scent. “Is that really you? And David, too. I thought you were the deliveryman.”

  “Can we come in?” asked Max.

  “Why?”

  The question simply hung in the air. There was no suspicion or malice in the ogre’s tone, but Max almost wished there was. Their absence was heartbreaking, as though Bob could not conceive why anyone would want to visit.

  “Because … we want to see you,” replied Max hesitantly. “We brought you some bread.”

  The ogre glanced down at the basket. “You boys should save your money. I have enough to eat.”

  “Okay,” said Max. “But can we still come in?”

  “Very well,” Bob sighed, opening the door wider to admit them.

  The cottage was dark and musty inside, lit only by a pair of oil lamps. In the corner was an enormous bed heaped with blankets and furs, but there was little other furniture and only a small kitchen where coals glowed through the grate of a cast-iron stove. Setting the basket on a counter, Max peered around until he spied a pair of crates that would serve as chairs for him and David. He dragged them near the enormous kitchen stool that Bob had brought with him from the Manse.

  “Can I open the shutters?” asked David.

  “If you like,” the ogre murmured, shambling to the kitchen sink where dirty plates and bowls were heaped three feet high. Max’s heart sank as he watched Bob fumble about in search for clean mugs or cups.

  “We just ate,” said Max. “Down at the Hanged Man. That’s where we got the bread.”

  “I see,” Bob muttered. Pulling up his suspenders, he eased onto his stool and rested his elbows upon his knees. A tremor began in one of his gnarled hands. He glowered at it a moment, before covering it with the other and setting them on his lap.

  “So,” said Max, breaking the silence. “I just returned from Zenuvia.”

  “Welcome home,” said Bob as David opened the shutters. Sun streamed into the cottage, dusty bands of daylight that made the ogre blink. “How was your trip?”

  Bob listened dutifully as Max shared tales from the distant kingdom. Max focused on the fantastic things and strange foods he’d eaten rather than the grim news of Prusias’s ultimatum, the Atropos, or the looming threat of war. The ogre did not seem to be in any condition to hear of such things. When Max had finished, Bob simply sat passively by and waited for more.

  “It’s good to be back,” Max concluded. “But I was surprised to hear that you retired and moved up here. I thought you liked working in the kitchens.…” He hoped this would cue a response, but none was forthcoming. The ogre merely turned his attention to David.

  “And what of you?”

  “Oh,” said David, sitting up. “Well, I’ve been busy tutoring Mina. Have you met her yet?”

  Bob shook his craggy head.

  “We’ll have to bring her by for a visit,” said David. “She’s very talented. And I’ve been assisting the Director. Looking after my mother. Those kinds of things, I guess.”

  “That is good,” said Bob distractedly.

  An uncomfortable silence ensued. David craned his head about to study the cottage, but Max stared at Bob. The ogre wilted and finally rocked up from the stool to putter about the kitchen.

  “You boys will want something sweet,” he mumbled, rummaging through various tins.

  “We don’t want anything sweet,” said Max. “We want to know how you’re doing. We want to know what’s new with you.”

  This last sentence seemed to irritate the ogre. Veering away from the kitchen, he paced like a caged animal and fought to control the tremor in his hand. Glancing down at his stained shirttail, he stuffed it into his gray trousers and stalked to one of the windows.

  “Bob is tired,” he rumbled. “You should go now.”

  “No,” said Max firmly. “Not until you talk to us.”

  “BOB IS FINE!” the ogre roared, wrenching the door open. “He has no sweets. He has no news to share. He has nothing to say!”

  The windows were still humming when David finally spoke. “We should leave,” he said quietly. “I have a lesson with Mina this afternoon.”

  “You go ahead,” said Max. “I’ll see you later.”

  Walking to the door, David looked up at Bob, who towered above him, breathing heavily.

  “I really do think you’d like to meet Mina,” he said.

  Bob’s shame over his outburst was painfully apparent. Closing his eyes, he shook his head in self-reproach and collected himself. “Bring her by,” he sighed. “Just give Bob notice. It is hard to meet new people without … without being ready.”

  The door closed and the ogre turned to face Max. “What is it you want?” he asked softly.

  “I want you to talk to me,” said Max plainly. “What’s wrong?”

  Shuffling back to his stool, the ogre sat and stared at his trembling hand. “You don’t know what it is to be old, malyenki,” he rumbled. “Bob does not see so well. His hand won’t stay still. Every day things get harder. People visit. Nice people. You. Ms. Richter. Others. Everyone wants to know how Bob is doing. He does not want to disappoint them, but he has nothing to say. Bob has no news to share. He does not want to be a burden.”

  “You’re not a burden,” insisted Max. “You’ve been looking after people for so long. It’s okay to let others look after you.”

  “Bob d
oesn’t like visits,” the ogre sighed. “He always feels worse after.”

  “I don’t think retiring was such a good idea. Why did you leave the kitchens?”

  “Bob said it was his hand,” he explained. “But that was little fib. In truth, it was Mum. Bob worked with her for a long time. When more potatoes or roasts were needed, he would call out for his little Mum or peek in her cupboard. But she was gone. It was no good. The other cooks became frightened. They thought your Bob was getting … confused.”

  “Have you tried to write her?” Max asked.

  The ogre shook his head. “If Bob had not made her confess, she would still be at Rowan. It is Bob’s fault that his Mum went away.”

  “You can’t really believe that,” replied Max. “Mum’s confession is what saved her at the trial. It was Bellagrog who made her leave Rowan. Not you.”

  Bob could only shrug. Max’s mind raced for solutions.

  “Hey!” he exclaimed. “If you don’t want to be in the Manse’s kitchens, why don’t you open a restaurant in the township? You could still cook, but in a different setting. I bet you’d be a hit!”

  “Twenty years ago perhaps,” mused the ogre, rubbing his stubble. “But not now.”

  “I see,” said Max, rising to pace about the melancholy room and gaze up at the roof’s timbers. “So this isn’t really a house. It’s a coffin—a nice roomy coffin where you can sit in the dark and wait to die. Is that the plan?”

  The ogre glowered at Max. A nearly subsonic rumbling emanated from deep in his chest.

  “Don’t tell Bob his business.”

  Max walked out the front door and seized up an enormous spade that was propped against the porch railing. Sinking it into the hilltop, he scooped up a shovelful of dirt and squeezed past Bob, who had followed and now stood by the door.

  “What are you doing?” the ogre asked.

  Max ignored him. Swinging the spade, he let the dirt fly. It landed with a cloud of dust on the hardwood, scattering dirt and pebbles. Turning, Max marched past Bob and went outside to fill the spade again. The ogre watched silently as Max heaped more dirt upon the cottage floor. But on the fourth trip, Bob blocked his way.

  “Stop it,” he growled. The rumble resumed in his chest.

  “No,” said Max, swinging the spade back. “You were good enough to bury my parents. I’m returning the favor. Shut up and get out of the way. Dead ogres don’t talk.”

  When Bob wouldn’t move, Max emptied the shovel anyway. The dirt thudded against the ogre’s broad chest, spilling down his shirtfront.

  Bob’s face contorted. Snatching the spade, the ogre abruptly snapped it in two and seized Max by the collar. In a blink, Max’s feet were dangling five feet above the porch. Tears brimmed in the ogre’s bright blue eyes; his nostrils flared like those of an angry bull. Max put up no resistance but merely patted his friend’s trembling hand.

  “For a dead ogre, you’re pretty lively.”

  Bob blinked. Exhaling slowly, he lowered Max down to the porch and released him.

  “You’re not dead, Bob, and you’re not dying,” said Max gently. “Dark days are coming and Rowan needs you. It needs your wisdom and strength. Don’t push everyone away.”

  Placing his great hand on Max’s shoulder, the ogre bowed his head as though in silent prayer. From far off, Old Tom’s chimes sounded. The notes were barely audible above the wind, but when they’d finished, the ogre opened his eyes. His hand stopped trembling.

  “Bob will not let you down.”

  ~ 4 ~

  Dregs and Driftwood

  Three days later, the cottage on Crofter’s Hill was filled to capacity. Its doors were propped open, a cool breeze skimming across as dozens of children sat silent as church mice, their attention fixed upon the ogre’s pale eyes and knuckled skull. Hunched upon his stool, Bob recited a poem in a voice that rumbled like old millstones:

  “We know not the MakerBut we know his worksWe smell the badger in his burrow and see old troll on his mountainWe fear the giants on their isles, wild as the stormWe envy men and their warm firesWe scorn the goblins and their low housesWarm blood our wine; winter’s heart our homeWhere stones crack and rivers freeze and woods grow quietYou will find the ogreAnd when all is dust and the lands bled dryYou will find him still”When his slow verse was finished, the ogre blinked as though waking from a dream. Tapping his chin, he frowned. “There is more, I think, but Bob remembers not.”

  “Tell us another, then,” pleaded Claudia, a thickset twelve-year-old with shiny black braids. Among the orphans Max had met in Blys, Claudia was the natural leader—a bold and gregarious child who was always inventing new games and activities. Following his previous visit to Bob, Max had sought her out and asked if she might like to meet a real ogre. The girl had nearly fainted with excitement. Within the hour, she had recruited an entire troop of fellow refugees eager to make the trek up Crofter’s Hill.

  Bob smiled as Claudia clambered onto his knee across from a toddler who was busy drooling on the ogre’s flannel shirt. “You can tell us a story about Max!” she proclaimed.

  “It is almost suppertime,” the ogre observed, his eyes tracing the hazy sunlight that streamed through the windows. “And Bob knows not the verse for him.”

  “But Max should have a song,” she insisted. “We can sing about the time he fought Skeedle’s troll on Broadbrim Mountain.”

  “Or when he saved Mina from the monster,” suggested a skinny youth named Paolo.

  “How about when he rode off with a demon in a fiery carriage?” chimed a cheerful lump nicknamed Porcellino. “We could write a verse about that!”

  “Bob believes you could,” replied the ogre solemnly. “But it is unwise to sing songs of the living. The Fates might think their tale is finished. And our Max’s tale is not finished yet, is it, malyenki?”

  “Not yet.” Max smiled, giving Mina’s hand a squeeze. Scooting her off his lap, Max stood and stretched. “In fact, I’m running late to train with Sarah. Would you mind walking them back to Wainwright Lane? It’s by the dunes.”

  Bob nodded and turned to Isabella, a dark-haired woman knitting by the hearth.

  “Would you like to stay for supper?” he inquired. “Bob can cook and after he can see you and the little ones safe to your doors. He would not mind.”

  At this, the children erupted in such howls of delight that Isabella had no choice but to accept. Bidding Max farewell, Bob turned his attention to the matter of supper, lumbering about the kitchen and issuing slow, patient orders to his many eager helpers. Within minutes, they were boiling water, emptying the pantry, mixing dough, and picking tomatoes off the vine. When Porcellino dropped a sack of flour, Max skirted the mess to slip outside. Mina followed.

  “Don’t you want to stay and cook?” he asked. Shaking her head, she stopped to pet the billy goat, which bleated amiably and lay down on the grass.

  “I have lessons with David.”

  “Ah. Are you enjoying them?”

  “Oh yes,” she replied, leaving the goat to go trotting down the hill, jumping from rock to rock. Max trotted after. “David’s a very good teacher,” she chattered. “So patient and wicked. I should not care to cross words with him.”

  “Cross swords,” Max clarified.

  “Words,” she laughed. “I should not cross words with patient, wicked David. He’s as patient and even wickeder than Uncle ’Lias.”

  “Speaking of words,” Max reflected. “I don’t believe wickeder is one of them.”

  “It is within the circles,” she remarked, “and if it’s not, it should be.”

  “What circles?” asked Max.

  “You know the ones I mean,” she said knowingly. The girl chased after a butterfly at the base of the hill. It flew to Mina’s finger as though obeying a silent command. She stared at its golden brilliance, her eyes shining like opals.

  “Mina, are you talking about summoning circles?” asked Max, his smile fading as he came up beside her. Astaroth had forbidde
n summoning spirits and demons. Even if one was willing to risk such a transgression, it was a profoundly hazardous exercise—one that had cost David Menlo his hand. David had been thirteen when he attempted such dangerous activities; Mina was but seven. Ignoring Max’s question, she merely blew the butterfly a kiss and watched it flutter away.

  “Mina,” pressed Max. “What have they been teaching you?”

  “Rules.” Mina shrugged, squatting to investigate a chipmunk hole. “How some spirits fear iron and running streams and others special words. They have to answer David when he calls, but they want to see me.”

  Max’s mouth went dry.

  “Who does?” he croaked. “Who wants to see you?”

  “Outsiders,” she replied, peering down the hole. “Scary ones with fiery crowns and faceless ones made of blue smoke and faerie queens so pretty you could stare at them for days! There are others, too—others who call out from places only I can see. Not even Uncle ’Lias can see them.”

  “So he’s there, too,” Max remarked. “The Archmage is showing you these things?”

  But Mina didn’t appear to have heard him.

  “You have to look deep in the circle’s center,” she continued dreamily, taking his fingers once again. “And you can’t look too hard or you won’t see it. I try to picture the skinniest space between the chalk and the floor and then—oh, Max! There are so many places! Some are like a forest of shimmering towers so tall they make Old Tom look like a toadstool. Others are smaller than my thumb and close like a flower as soon as I look at them. But they’re not flowers—they’re little worlds made of water and mist and light. When I look deep down in the circle, everything’s bending and moving and overlapping. It’s like seeing all the places at once through a curvy glass that won’t stay still. It makes my head ache, but they’re so very pretty and thin and far, far away. And everyone in them wants to see me, Max. They all hurry out to see little Mina!”