The Monsters of Stephen Enchanter

by Natelson, D. J.

  “You can’t eat money,” muttered Whimsy, who apparently had the same idea. Stephen shot him a sideways look. He had never paid much attention to Whimsy before—and it was still so cold that all he could see of him was thick brown material and a long red scarf around his face. It occurred to Stephen that he had seen the faces of almost none of the company, and the only face he had seen clearly had been Deadman’s, while he had been cutting the eyes out.

  The eyes were still in his pocket. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to do with them—or whether he wanted to do anything with them, other than throw them as far away as he could. But the Jolly Executioner would notice, and ask, and he would know Stephen had disobeyed his orders.

  Stephen was struck with unexpected shame. He had been excusing all his actions by telling himself that he was following orders. He had all but told the ferryman that he had gone rogue. Was that what he was—really? Was he willing to do anything, so long as he had an excuse? Had he obeyed the law all these years not because he thought it was right, but because he was afraid not to? Had he no standards at all? Sure, the Jolly Executioner might be annoyed if Stephen threw the eyeballs away, but—what if it was the right thing to do? Was Stephen willing to do something wrong, because the Jolly Executioner had wanted him to?

  Was there no going back from the slaughter in Crying? He didn’t have to be a criminal just because people thought he was.

  Had he gone rogue without realizing it?

  Stephen took his hand out of his pocket. The eyes stayed where they were, along with shame.

  It didn’t matter, he told himself. It’s what Deadman would have wanted. That’s what his friends had said.

  Was Banananose a friend of Deadman? Stephen had no idea. He hadn’t seemed very sad, but then, Stephen had been able to see no more of his face than the bulge his nose made under his facemask.

  “There,” said Granite, pointing. “There’s your inn.”

  The inn was nothing like Stephen would have expected for such a town. He had seldom seen a more welcoming sight. The Dry Juicer was a large inn, a full two stories tall with additional attached stables for their horses. The inn was large enough that it might actually have beds for all of them—glorious, warm beds with soft mattresses and blankets and actual food, not endless supplies of wolf meat and venison and ancient scones.

  And maybe, if he was very, very lucky, a hot bath.

  The Jolly Executioner pushed open the door and several of the company—Stephen included—crowded in.

  It was warm. Stephen unwrapped his scarf and let warm air touch his face for the first time in weeks. He turned his face toward the fire and basked in its distant heat.

  An ancient, hunched man sat in a rocking chair near the hearth. He looked up as the company came in, and caught Stephen’s eye. “Who are you?” he asked feebly. “I don’t know you. What are you doing in my house? You’ve come to rob us! You’ll murder us in our sleep!”

  “Oh, hush, Pops—can’t you see they’re customers? Actual paying customers! Come in, come in—goodness, how many of you are there?” The innkeeper, a tall, painfully thin woman, bustled over. “Don’t you fellows mind my old Pops for one moment now, you hear? He’s getting old and his eyesight is going—age is such a bother, don’t you think? But he doesn’t mean any harm; there’s not a bad bone in his body. I suppose you’ll stay the night, my dears? Oh, my, what an interesting hood that is. Do you always wear it? I wouldn’t think it was warm enough.” Stephen was fascinated. He had never seen anyone dare speak over the Jolly Executioner like this. “No, no—don’t you mind me; I’m an old busybody at heart doing the work of a busy young body. You wouldn’t think my daughter was only fifteen years old, would you? They got her father, though—oh, my, I’m spinning off again. That’s the problem with living in a tiny place like this; you talk to fill the silence. How many of you did you say there were? And horses to boot! You are hardy travelers. Well, we ought to take care of them right away, oughtn’t we? Pet, get over here and help these gentlemen settle their horses. Don’t be shy; I’m sure they’re perfectly nice. Go and show them to the stables.”

  “I’ll go,” Tinkerfingers volunteered. “Come on, Youngster.”

  Pet seemed relieved that Tinkerfingers and Youngster—who, now that they had removed their scarves, looked much younger and nicer than she had expected, unlike some of the others—had volunteered, and she scurried off to show them the way.

  She looked younger than fifteen, but she did not look precisely unhealthy. She might be thin, but she wasn’t starving—just.

  Stephen despaired of getting decent food.

  “Good, good. Supper at six—I’m afraid it’s not much, but it’ll keep you fed—and oh, my, I think baths are in order, don’t you? What’s this—is that man injured? Bring him in here right away and we’ll put him in bed. Goodness, what happened to him—he looks burnt to a crisp! Good thing it’s so cold, eh? Oh, thank you sir, thank you—that’s very generous of you, sir, it’ll cover your stay easily. All the rooms are at your disposal. Right this way, sir, right this way . . .”

  The innkeeper, never breaking her stream of conversation, led them around the rooms. The Jolly Executioner took the best for himself and gave the second best to Miss Ironfist at the innkeeper’s insistence—it wasn’t right, the innkeeper said, for a lady to sleep in the same room as men when there were other options. Miss Ironfist agreed heartily. The rest of the company was allowed to distribute themselves as they would.

  Unexpectedly large though the inn was, there were still far fewer than nineteen rooms. The company split up into groups of three and four, unconsciously dividing to leave one spare room for the Enchanter.

  It was one thing to work with an enchanter and travel with him in a large group. It was quite another to voluntarily sleep near one without anybody keeping watch.

  Stephen didn’t care in the least. It was worth it; he had a private room, a private bath, and room to examine his—as Weakstomach put it—trophies, and to think about what he would make with them. He was sitting on his bed, thinking about going down to breakfast, when someone knocked on the door.

  “It’s me, dear,” said the innkeeper. “Are you decent?”

  “Most people don’t think so,” said Stephen to himself. Then, out loud, “Yes. Come in.”

  The innkeeper opened the door and her personality filled the room. “I’ve come to ask if you need a bath,” she said. “No, that’s not right—I can smell you from here. I’ll have it right up.” She glanced surreptitiously from side to side and stepped quickly in, closing the door behind her. “You’re an enchanter, aren’t you?”

  Stephen recognized the sort of hushed, secretive voice she was using. He’d heard it often enough, when someone was in desperate need of his services, but didn’t want anyone to know he’d consulted an enchanter. It was amazing the things people asked him—some of which were either immensely embarrassing or outright impossible, and which he had to gently explain were not really in an enchanter’s purview, he was so sorry, no, there was no need to blush, he understood perfectly—but most of which he could accommodate.

  He nodded.

  “Are you any good?”

  “Excellent.”

  “I was sure you must be, or that hooded man would never have let you travel with him. He’s a hard man, that one; gives me the shivers. We don’t get a lot of folks coming through here—not anymore, not for years—and enchanters avoid us like the plague, so as you can imagine, I’m mighty glad to see you.”

  “Are you?” asked Stephen. “Why’s that?”

  “I need something enchanted, obviously—a spot of warding around the inn, nothing an enchanter of your caliber would find difficult. I don’t think it’s complicated, what I want—not that I know anything about magic; I’m afraid I’m nothing but a humble innkeeper. If you’re interested—and I’m begging you kindly—I’ll make you a deal.”

  “I do have set rates for all enchantments . . .” Stephen began. He remembered the po
verty of the village and trailed off. “What kind of deal?”

  “I thought that might get your attention, but don’t get your hopes up—it’s only a bit of advice . . . but advice you’ll be mighty glad to have heard, come morning.”

  “What—”

  “That would be telling, wouldn’t it? You just think about what I said, sir, and I’ll go bring up your bath.” She left and reappeared after several minutes with a tin bathtub in her hands and a steaming bowl balanced on her head.

  “Is that—porridge?”

  “I thought you might want to eat away from your group. You seem to me like a strong, solitary type . . . and they don’t look to me like the kind of people who properly appreciate your abilities.”

  That was for sure. He deserved far more adulation than he’d ever gotten. The innkeeper was definitely growing on him.

  And the porridge smelled wonderful.

  “I’ve thought about what you said,” said Stephen, “and I’m willing to accept your offer. Tell me your advice and if, as you predict, I am grateful come morning, I will enchant and ward to the best of my abilities.”

  “That’s the spirit. Here you go.” The innkeeper bent her knees a little, and Stephen removed the bowl from her head. “It’s a pleasure to work with someone so agreeable—you may have noticed that the villagers around here aren’t the friendliest sort.”

  Stephen had noticed.

  “Anyway, do you have any iron with you?”

  “Why?” Stephen asked, instantly suspicious.

  “Because if not, I’ll give you some. You’ll want to hold on to some tonight—hold it against your bare skin and, whatever you do, don’t let it go. Don’t give me that look; I know your kind dislike iron, but there’s nothing to be done about that.”

  Except, thought Stephen, that if something magical did happen, he wouldn’t know. “I have iron,” he said. “What would happen if I didn’t hold onto it?”

  “Hard to say. I’d better go fetch you your bathwater—it’ll be hot by now. You’d better give me those robes, too; they could use a good wash. I’ll hang them by the fire, and they’ll be dry by morning. I’ll bring you up a nightshirt.”

  “That’s all right,” said Stephen. “I have clothes on under my robes.”

  “Then an extra layer won’t hurt anything.” The innkeeper shot him a conspiratorial smile and bustled off. Stephen began in on his porridge.

  There was nowhere to conceal the contents of his many pockets. Stephen hesitated only a moment before laying them out on the floor: handkerchiefs (clean; he had seen to that little bit of washing soon after joining the company), manacles (under the blankets; he wasn’t about to tempt Fate), wolf snout and ears, Deadman’s eyes, the Beast of Quag’s tongue, chunks of bark, large quantities of ash (badly wrapped in a handkerchief), and a handful of dead beetles he had found under a rock.

  The innkeeper returned several times with steaming water to fill the tub, and spoke a great deal about her poor knees, but never once mentioned Stephen’s bizarre assortment of materials.

  “Aren’t you, ah—” Stephen said, interrupted her recital. “Aren’t you curious about why I’m carrying body parts around?”

  “We all have secrets, dear. I suppose you use them in your enchantments—grind them up and put them in corners, or something. This deep enough, do you think? You’d better hurry before it goes cold; I keep saying we need fireplaces in all the rooms, but it’s too expensive. Still, I’ve given you plenty of blankets.”

  “This will be wonderful,” Stephen said, ushering her out. “Thank you.” He shut the door, found someone had put the lock on the wrong way round, shrugged, and took a gloriously long, hot bath.

  Stephen did not forget the innkeeper’s words and, although he hated the touch of silver and iron, he tied one of the manacles to his wrist with a spare handkerchief, careful to keep the metal snug against his skin.

  Fifteen minutes later, he sneezed. But by that time, he was deeply asleep.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  Groggy and annoyed, Stephen rolled and buried his head under his blankets.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  Maybe if he ignored it, it’d go away.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  Or not. Stephen pulled his blankets down and opened his eyes. The room was pitch dark.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  Stephen sat up, twisted, and felt the wall behind him. It seemed normal.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  The sound was regular, dull, and irritating. It was a hollow, woody noise that made Stephen think of a soft mallet beating itself against the wall.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  Stephen was entirely and unhappily awake. He hit the wall with his open hand. “Be quiet, can’t you?”

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  What on earth were they doing—playing a game? It was the middle of the night! Why couldn’t they play against some other wall . . . or sleep, like ordinary people? He was the Enchanter—he was supposed to be the weird one.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  Stephen swung his feet over the edge of his bed. It wasn’t quite as dark as he had thought; he thought he could make it to the door without killing himself. Stephen stood, took a step, and felt something cold and soft squelch under his foot. He leapt back, squawking, and fell against the bed, knocking his elbow.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  “Oh, shut up!”

  “It’s I,” the innkeeper said. Stephen’s door swung open, and the innkeeper stood beyond, her face eerily lit by the light of a candle. She was still dressed in her day clothes, and bore no signs of having been asleep. “I thought I might find you awake,” she said. “You have a good grip on that iron?”

  Stephen held his arm aloft to show off the manacle.

  “I thought you did. Don’t let it go for a moment.”

  “Is this about the thumping?” Stephen asked. “Because that’s not I; it woke me up.”

  The innkeeper smiled faintly. “I know. Come downstairs; I want to show you something.”

  “Just a second.” Stephen stuffed his feet in boots and pulled a blanket from the bed to act as dressing gown. The innkeeper watched him, uncharacteristically quiet. Probably, Stephen thought, she didn’t want to wake the others.

  The innkeeper led Stephen downstairs into the common room. The fire had burned low in the hearth, and threw demonic crimson light over the two figures that hunched over it. The figures stood and Stephen took a step back, but they were only Pet and Pops.

  “This is the Enchanter,” said the innkeeper. “He has agreed to work for us.”

  “On condition.”

  “On condition, of course.”

  Pet sniffed. “He is wearing iron. Your doing, Mother?”

  “My suggestion.”

  “That was well done. He’ll work the better for it, come morning.” Pet nodded gravely at Stephen, a strange motion for a fifteen-year-old . . . but then, Stephen was beginning to suspect that there was far more strangeness in this inn alone than in all the Fairwoods.

  “Why have you brought me here?” he asked.

  “To show you something.”

  “You don’t expect me to work while touching iron, I hope. What would happen if I took it off?”

  “Don’t,” said the innkeeper.

  “Impossible to say,” said Pet. “It’s different for everyone.”

  “Come and look out the window,” said the innkeeper, “and you’ll begin to understand.”

  There were several windows in that room, all of them shielded by heavy curtains. Stephen went to the nearest, pushed aside the thick material, and peered out. He drew back almost immediately, tugging the curtains so he could see out, but no one outside could see in.

  The night was lit by a sliver moon and a thousand stars, all of which bathed the town in gentle light and gave it the illusion of cleanliness. Gusts of wind tore across the ground, whirling snow dust in the air, whipping the hair of the townsfolk.

 
The street, barren by daylight, was bursting with people. They stood unmoving, pale faces turned toward the inn. Their eyes glinted, but there was nothing behind those eyes: no joy, no sorrow, no hope. There was something soulless in those eyes, those faces, those still figures, and Stephen found himself deeply uncomfortable. As he stood there, he thought the blank eyes turned to him, watched them—but not one of the townsfolk made any move, and not one of them spoke.

  “The entire town’s out there,” Stephen observed—but as he did so, he knew he was mistaken; there was one face missing: that of the ferryman’s wife. “Won’t they freeze to death out there? What are they doing?”

  “Who can say?” replied the innkeeper. “They are there every night: they arrive after midnight and depart before dawn. They do nothing but stand and watch. They never do anything else. Once in a while, one will freeze to death and topple—but no one moves to help. They stand and, before dawn, they take the dead away with them. They are mad, all of them.”