She tried, but the ring stayed dull. “Maybe it only had enough power for just one sighting,” she said, flicking her fingernail against the gem in a futile attempt to revive it. “When Aunt Sybil gives a person a magic mirror, you can only use it three times. Probably this already got used twice. I’ll just take it home and—” She had been going to say that she would take it home and see if her aunt could recharge it for her, but, as if one of the lightning bolts had jumped out of the ring to strike her, she suddenly realized that the scene she had just seen was the continuation of Bronwyn’s vision—Bronwyn’s true vision, since for two magic things to show related false visions to two different people was virtually impossible.
If they failed to find the pomegranate… but why be morbid? Someone around here had to show some initiative. Stripping off her finery while she talked she said, “Great flying fur fish, Bronwyn, why didn’t you tell us about this?”
“Well, I s-suppose I must have wanted to s-spare you!” Bronwyn sputtered with exasperation. Great flying fur fish, indeed! Why didn’t Carole listen when someone did tell her something?
“You shouldn’t have, you know. We have an important task to perform here. Now, if you two will be so kind as to step out of the way, perhaps I can make enough of a path for that hope chest of Anastasia’s to surface.”
Slow as the going had seemed to Bronwyn, the three of them had nevertheless managed to cart outdoors a great quantity of the contents of the keep, though an even greater quantity still remained, it was true.
Carole hummed, using only one strain of melody at a time, parting aisles in the be-gemmed heaps as a peasant mother uses a single finger to part a child’s hair, searching for beasties. The valuables moved slowly at first, but as the tune moved faster the treasures shifted accordingly. The light was so thin and shadow-pocked now that she could see very little, despite the additional space the morning’s work had provided.
Now seemed as good a time as any to try to call to the chest. A wedding march seemed appropriate, and she hummed one. At first there was no response, and then, very faintly, there was a tiny clattering from a far corner, near the rolled end of a tapestry half-hidden under the curtains of an upended bed. She raised her voice and a small chest, not much larger than Bronwyn’s buckler, thumped around the corner of the tapestry. She sighed partially with relief and partially with weariness, for if she hadn’t extended herself physically earlier, she felt she’d more than made up for it once she started using her magic. Never did she recall needing so much energy to exercise her talent! Bumbling over to the box, she unlatched the lid. It was empty except for some miniature furniture, too tiny for any doll’s house, in the bottom. But this had to be it. Her hum would not have called anything else. To make sure, she hummed at the tapestry. It raised itself on end and unrolled, feeding a corner of itself into the box and rapidly shrinking to handkerchief size, then to the size of a hole in the mesh of the finest lace.
“Found it,” she called through the junk and carried the chest to the door, meanwhile calling to the other objects. From the largest to the smallest, they rose into the air, minuetted or reeled, each according to its nature, across the room, and threaded themselves into the bottomless space inside the little hope chest.
All afternoon Carole hummed and filled the box. Bronwyn and Jack first looked on with wonder, but at last grew bored and began to play stones-scissors- paper together, using real gemstones, leaving her, this time, to do all the work.
By the time she had magicked into the hope chest everything she didn’t wish to use in furnishing the room, and had sent a battalion of velvet polishing rags—remnants of unsalvageable garments—jigging vigorously over each piece remaining, the day had grown short.
She wearily surveyed the results. A swan-shaped four-poster bed filled one corner, a tapestry with fewer mouseholes than most she had uncovered hung on the wall, Loefric’s worn throne and three of the more comfortable looking chairs surrounded the freshly dusted table. She hadn’t washed his repulsive dishes but had stashed them in the hope chest and replaced them with freshly wiped ones from the piles, storing them in a cabinet opposite the table. Enough chests, chairs, shields and bits of armor were located about to give the room a suitably rich look. Unfortunately, if the pomegranate had been hidden in any of the items she had either stored or used to furnish the room, she had overlooked it.
Bronwyn saw her worried look and patted her shoulder, having completely forgiven her earlier lapse. Carole had cared after all, she simply hadn’t truly been aware of the situation. “Don’t fret, cousin. As soon as the Prince sees what a bang-up job you’ve done, I’m sure he’ll hand over the pomegranate immediately and send us off to Argonia with his blessings.”
Jack snorted. “More likely the charming Prince will accuse us of stealing the items he cannot see,” he said with an air of wounded dignity not entirely appropriate to one whose pockets were so perilously and feloniously full.
“Nonsense,” Carole said, collapsing into a chair, “I’ll simply tell him they’re in storage, which is perfectly true.”
When Loefric disinterred himself from the depths sometime later, he hardly seemed to notice any difference. He was busy nursing his hand. All he said, when he deigned to notice, was “Hmph. I could have sworn there was more trash here than this.”
“Not at all, sir,” Bronwyn said with a smile. “It just needed a woman’s touch.”
“Is that so?” Loefric demanded, and shook his torn and bloody hand at her. “I just had a woman’s touch--right here. The bitch nearly took off my hand. I can tell you, I gave her more than a touch of my boot for her trouble, that I did. Worthless hound. Just because I kicked that pup of hers back downstairs where it belonged. What does she suppose a master is for?”
“Not for kicking her puppy, apparently,” Jack said, his eyes flashing with indignation not directed at the dogs.
“Damned dogs don’t know their place,” Loefric muttered, but he seemed to be enjoying being angry, for his watery eyes lit up in their dim fashion and he didn’t stop grouching to himself all through the preparation and consumption of his gruel. He didn’t even notice that the task had been facilitated for him by Carole’s labors.
When he finished, he gazed accusingly at his hand and asked them with what he apparently thought was a crafty air, “So, did you find your precious pomegranate?”
Bronwyn started to say that they had, but had remained around the keep for love of its wholesome, invigorating atmosphere and in anticipation of his stimulating companionship, but thought better of it. She might convince him she could tell nothing but the truth while telling many lies, but a whopper of that magnitude would never pass.
Jack and Carole shook their heads.
Any hope they might have cherished that the old wretch would simply hand them the fruit in exchange for services rendered was squelched by the titter with which he greeted their admission of failure.
“Well, then, perhaps you need help,” he said sweetly. “You, young man. You seem to be an animal lover. Perhaps you could gain the aid of my hunting hounds in helping you hunt for your quarry, eh? They should be glad of the chance. They haven’t hunted anything but vermin in years. Besides,” he added not-so-sweetly, “you’ll need to get past them to search the second level, won’t you? That’s settled then. I’m going to take a little nap before supper, so see that you don’t wake me up with your screams while you’re getting acquainted. And boy?”
“Yes, old man?” Jack managed to reply, though he was staring with gruesome fascination at the bits of bone and tendon protruding from the jagged tear in Loefric’s hand.
“Have a fine time digging through the dogshit while you’re looking for the pomegranate. Seems to me the kind of job that should suit you.” And with that the noble prince’s chin dropped to his chest and he slept, smiling to himself.
The light and warmth of the day were fading and a little snow had begun sifting through the hole in the roof by that time, but clearly another co
nsultation with Anastasia was in order. So out they all went, Bronwyn lighting the new swan feather from her torch. In a short time they heard wings beating back the wind and in another moment Anastasia was among them.
The swan fluffed her feathers and twitched them energetically, shaking out the snowflakes. The children pulled their new cloaks tightly around them and everybody huddled close together for warmth.
“Well?” the swan asked. “How have you fared? Was my hope chest of service to you?”
“Oh Princess, it was,” Jack said. “But not quite enough, since we failed to find the pomegranate. Now both we and the King will be lost unless you can think of some way we can keep from being devoured by the old goblin’s hounds when we go below to search among them for the accursed fruit.”
Anastasia preened for a moment. “Below, that would be—let me think, now—ah yes, the upper level of the addition to the additions to the keep, now sunken, as they are, to form a second level, or a top subterranean level.”
“Which means there is another level below?” Jack asked, feeling rather sunken himself. So. If he survived the dogs, he would have to brave yet another dimension of the Prince’s reprehensible idea of housekeeping. How ghastly! Perhaps the dogs could be induced to swallow him up in one relatively painless gulp.
“If it is still intact,” Anastasia said, answering his question. “The stables used to be just West of the keep, in what was the central courtyard, and the kennels were on the other side. What a degenerate knave that man must be to house dogs where the bedchambers once were!”
“Stables and kennels? I wonder what became of all the animals,” Carole said.
“They perished of being overfed,” Bronwyn told her.
“Not likely around raisin-face,” Jack remarked. “But that gives me an idea. If we feed the hounds, they will know we are friendly and—”
“What do you propose we feed them?” Carole asked.
“Bread and cheese,” Bronwyn said dismally. “Hounds are very fond of bread and cheese. They also like onions very much.”
“No, Bronwyn,” Jack said glumly. “Dogs do not like onions. They like meat. And bone.”
“I should be able to find that easily enough,” Anastasia said nonchalantly.
“You can? Where? How?” The other three were all ears.
“I shall simply fly to the woods and gather some of the bits and pieces from the monsters’ marauding. I believe they prey on each other.”
“Well,” Carole said, “Monsters don’t make the best meat I’ve ever eaten, but it’s no doubt an improvement on rat and snake.”
“Will one of you provide me with a garment which has pockets or something to wrap my findings in so I may carry them conveniently?”
“Bronwyn or Carole will have to do that,” Jack said. “I can’t give you mine. My pockets are all full.”
“You’d best keep them thus,” Bronwyn agreed. “Those hounds will want the stones you carry to add roughage to their meal when they gobble you up in two bites. And I shan’t protect you, either.”
“Oh, Bronwyn.”
Anastasia returned with her gory baggage a short time later and Jack distributed the bones throughout his pockets, dislodging as few of his treasures as possible. Then bidding the swan farewell, the trio marched purposefully past Loefric, their footsteps vindictively loud. The only sign the old man gave of noticing was to twitch one grizzled eyebrow and mutter, as if in sleep, “Lotta animal lovers around here.”
Bronwyn preceded the other two, her shield in front of her and sword drawn beneath her cloak.
Jack held the torch in one hand and a bone in the other and tried to remember every animal training trick he had ever learned, and also the Pan-elvin Mistress Raspberry had been teaching him.
Carole trailed behind him, rubbing her eyes and shuffling a little. Jack feared they could not count on her to teach dogs to dance, if necessary. She seemed completely spent.
Down and down they went, until the stairs ended in a tunnel, crudely supported by posts made from small trees, their bark still intact. The yapping and howling began before they were halfway through the low corridor, which was fit only for trolls. Jack wondered if Loefric had built it himself or if the dogs had simply dug it out. It could not have been part of the original structure. But he kept his speculation to himself. Ahead of him, Bronwyn was taut as a drawn bowstring. Again he thought what a fine shield her tall figure made. It was perhaps not glorious for him to walk behind his chosen love, but then, someone had to hold the torch, did he not?
Yapping, howling, baying, and growling filled the tunnel and rang through their ears, and the clicking of claws on stone, click, click, click, click—a multitudinous mob of clicking, picking up speed as it increased in volume, prancing, trotting, and finally charging toward them.
Bronwyn’s sword, now naked, trembled in the torchlight that, as a matter of fact, also trembled. “N-nice doggie?” she greeted the first glittering pair of red eyes to charge them.
“RRRRR-RIP!” the dog said, which, if Jack remembered his Pan-elvin, and was interpreting it correctly, meant, euphemistically speaking, “Stop patronizing me!” and also, “Prepare to die like the two-legged insect you are,” or something to that effect.
“We—we are friends,” Jack said in Pan-elvin, and hurriedly tossed his first bone among them. It served its purpose of delaying their immediate demise, becoming a literal bone of contention among the pack, which had gathered in a fire-eyed, shadow-backed snarling solidarity that had every intention of eating them.
“So are we—man’s best friend,” growled the lead dog around a mouth full of the bone it had succeeded in winning from the others. “Man—hah! He doesn’t deserve a best friend.”
“That is not entirely fair,” Jack argued—but diplomatically. Very diplomatically. “Everybody needs friends. I have the Princess here, and the witch, and you have your—” he interrupted himself hurriedly to toss another bone, “pack. And we come bringing you gifts.”
“Gifts? Nah! You were throwing things at us! You aren’t trying to claim you knew they were tasty, are you?”
“But of course,” Jack said, trying to look longingly companionable as he fixed the dog with his most melting wide-eyed gaze. “I am very fond of bones myself. But these I chose to share with you, because—”
“Yip! Yip! Grr-yip!” A small furry missile hurtled beyond the pack leader and clamped tiny teeth into Jack’s trouser leg, which it began to worry with puppyish abandon. The pup was promptly followed by three others of roughly the same size, all yipping and growling fiercely and earnestly gnawing the cloth of his pants. Jack took a deep breath and started to bend his knees in a careful stoop. He wanted to pull the pups off and pet them into a gentler frame of mind, for he was afraid their innocent aggressiveness might start a trend.
Bronwyn glanced from him to the little dogs and back again, her sword poised, but he shook his head imperceptibly. From behind the lead dog, a bitch slunk forward, her lips writhing back from her bared yellow teeth, snarling, “I’ll tear his throat out.”
The leader stepped back, acknowledging her claim.
One of the pups, still yipping happily, bounded from Jack to the bitch, squirmed and wagged around her for a moment, and frolicked back to Jack’s ankles. Quietly, Jack relieved his pockets of several more bones, letting them drop to his feet. The puppies pounced on them.
Withdrawing another bone, Jack held it out to the bitch. “For you, my beauty,” he said coaxingly.
She strained her head forward, sniffing. “What’s that?”
“A bone.”
“They’re wonderful bones, Mama,” the pups yipped. “And he has good smells—not like the other one.
“Assuredly, little doggie, I am not like the other one,” Jack said in his fondest and most beguiling tone, holding the torch up so she could more clearly see his sweet, good-smelling, boyish face. “I love animals. Why, my own grandfather was once a bear.”
“We used to hunt bears
,” the bitch growled, but she slunk a bit closer. Behind her, the others whined uncertainly, or at least those others without a bone did. “Long ago, my mother’s littermate told of her mother, who hunted with tame men, not like that one who harmed my pup. Are you tame, boy?”
Jack wanted to stammer and delay and find some way around the question. What did she mean was he tame? Animals were wild or tame, good or bad, trainable or stupid, not men, and certainly not he. But her tusk-sized teeth glistened in the dark and he said quickly, “I—yes, I am.”
“Then come here, boy. Fetch me that bone you have there. Fetch it here.” Jack hesitated and she whimpered cajolingly. “Come on, I won’t bite you—yet. Let me sniff your hand for you. Good boy. Stick it out now,” she sniffed and whimpered again and wagged her bristling tail encouragingly. “Good good boy. You may pat me now and give me that bone.”
This was not how Jack had envisioned making friends with the hounds, but it did seem to be one way. When the bitch had enjoyed her bone for a few moments she asked, “Have you others?”
“Uh—yes. And—and there are more outside, only tell me, are we—um—are we friends now?” He was shaking and sweating despite the chill in the tunnel.
“Oh, yes. I understand men can be quite loyal once they have been taught to accept one.”
“Then, will you help us? We seek a certain pomegranate.”
The word was apparently unfamiliar to the dog, for she pricked her ears and whined and the others shook their own ears uncertainly and lolled their red tongues and slitted their red eyes, listening.
“It is a fruit,” Jack explained. “It may be buried here, on this level. Could you sniff about, do you think, and use your paws that are—that are so superior to our weak soft hands, and help us hunt this thing? We would show our loyalty, naturally, by bringing more bones.”
She growled, whined and yipped in fast succession. “Tell us more what this pomegranate is like and we shall try. But remember, more bones. These are a start but some with meat would be better.”
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