Song of the Gargoyle

by Zilpha Keatley Snyder

  But to stay? Where could he hide in Austerneve and stay hidden perhaps for many days or weeks? He thought of the hiding places that he and Lonfar had discovered within the castle grounds. Cubbyholes in crooked corners of stables and granaries, nooks and crannies in attics and cellars.

  He could indeed hide in such a place. And at one time he could have counted on Lonfar to help him, bringing him food and warning him of impending danger. But not anymore. He could no longer count on Lonfar for anything, and without a source of food he could not stay hidden for long. And when he came out to seek it he would be caught, and then... What was it Black Helmet had said he would do to Komus if he found that he was lying about Tymmon’s whereabouts? No. He must go. For Komus’s sake, as much as for his own.

  Suddenly, without even arriving at a decision to do so, he found himself sliding over the edge of the window ledge and making his way slowly down to the floor.

  The descent was not easy, complicated by trembling fingers and quivering knees, and once he missed a foothold and almost fell. But at last he reached the floor and groped his way to the hearth, stubbing his toes against overturned chairs and tripping over other fallen and scattered objects. When he reached the fireplace he took a candle from the mantel, held its wick to the embers, and when it finally flamed, turned to see a scene of ruin and destruction.

  In the dim light of the candle the entire room was a confused chaos. Open trunks spilled their contents upon the floor, overturned cupboards lay in the midst of broken crockery and spilled flagons. Even the wine barrel had been upended, so that much of the floor was covered by a dark red flood.

  Somehow it was the wine barrel that was the most frightening—the shallow red sea more heart-stopping than all the rest of the destruction. For a moment Tymmon didn’t know why, but then he understood. The trunks and cupboards might only have been raided in the search for Tymmon, but the intruders could not have expected to find a boy in a barrel of wine. So the spilling of the wine had been an act of needless violence, without cause or reason. Which made all of it, the armed men, the search, and the taking of Komus, seem an act of meaningless cruelty. Not a joke or a mistake or a misunderstanding, but something brutal and savage beyond reason or purpose.

  It was an understanding that shook Tymmon like a deep chill and made his hands tremble so that it was hard for him even to settle the candle into a holder and place it on the mantel. He whispered a prayer to the Blessed Mother and then forced himself to stop and gather his wits and prepare to follow his father’s advice—to leave Austerneve Castle before the light of morning.

  He dressed hastily, pulling on breeches, boots, doublet, jerkin, and his warm winter cloak. A sheet of heavy linen spilling out of an overturned trunk caught his eye and he spread it out on his bed and then began to search through the debris for provisions for his journey. Wading through the wine he located a loaf of bread, a small chunk of salted beef, and a round of cheese.

  What else? It was of the greatest importance that he choose wisely. He must not carry so much that he would be unable to move swiftly, and yet he must not forget those things that would be necessary to survival alone in the fields and forests.

  Choose wisely. But how, when his mind jittered and jumped with fear and continually interrupted his attempts to think clearly by imagining sounds—the scuff of heavy footsteps on the stairs and the clink and rattle of armor.

  But even in his haste and fear he managed to remember a tinderbox, a knife, and a small ax. A few more articles of clothing, chosen almost at random, a blanket, a length of rope—all good useful choices.

  Remembering his rosary, a gift from his old nurse, he was lifting it down from a peg above his bed, when his fingers touched another object that hung there. His old flute. And although he had not played in many months, his fingers curled longingly around the familiar shape and held on until it, too, was added to the pack. Then he tied the ends of the sheet together with a stout cord and slung it over his back.

  At the door he turned and looked back. The candle was still burning on the mantel. He was on his way back to blow it out when something round and hard rolled beneath his foot, and looking down, he saw that it was a bell. One of three bells attached to the three horns that adorned the cap of a court jester. And without plan or purpose he picked up the belled cap and shoved it, too, into his pack. Then he snuffed out the candle and left the room that had been his home since before his earliest memory, and started down the twisting staircase into a darkness that seemed deeper than any he had ever known.

  Groping his way on the worn stones of the tower staircase, he came at last to ground level, and the broad oaken door that gave onto the alley. It was unbarred. Of course, it must have been or the armed men could not have entered. But how had it come to be so? Komus always slid the heavy bolts home before darkness fell. Could he have forgotten on this one fateful night?

  But the mystery was soon solved when, as Tymmon pushed against the door, it gave way, but not by swinging outward. Instead it quivered and then fell out into the alley with a thunderous crash. The intruders had gained entry by removing it from its hinges. While the shattering din still echoed back from the castle’s stone walls, Tymmon, his heart thudding in his throat, dashed out the door and away.

  Running almost blindly in the near darkness, and burdened by his heavy bundle, Tymmon staggered down the alley between workshops and stables, turned the corner at the northern tower, and went on running. Only his familiarity with this passageway, where he had played since earliest childhood, and where every cobblestone was known to him, made it possible for him to keep from falling or dashing headlong into walls or doorposts.

  Nearing the church, he remembered a crevice behind a flying buttress and darted into it. He crouched low, listening. Had the intruders heard the crash of the falling door? Minutes passed as he huddled in the hiding place, straining his ears for the sound of approaching footsteps over the thunder of his own heart.

  “Go,” an inner voice seemed to be telling him. “Go-forward. There is no time to waste. Go now.”

  But his legs refused to obey him, and precious moments passed. Peering out from his hiding place, he suddenly realized that what had seemed only a dark tunnel a few minutes before was now taking on form and substance. Doorways appeared out of the shadows; a bench took shape, and above it a high window. Dawn was approaching. Tymmon glanced upward toward the sky—and suddenly dropped to his knees, cowering in terror.

  Lit by the dim light of early day, a face was peering down at him from directly above his head. A terrible face with bulging eyes, a grinning mouth from which protruded a lolling tongue, and ears like small twisted wings. Tymmon had sprung up and begun to run before he suddenly knew what it was that he had seen.

  It was only a gargoyle. Only one of the stone monsters that served as drainpipes, tunneling water out and away from the church’s walls. He had seen the grotesque grinning faces a thousand times—but not in this strange half-light and on so terrible a night.

  His pace slowed, but now that he had been jarred loose from his hiding place he continued on, crossing the church’s dooryard and then, by a narrow passageway, on to the edge of the inner courtyard. There he paused again, overtaken once more by panic.

  Until now he had been in narrow alleys between the walls of stables and storehouses, but now it was necessary to cross an open space, a small courtyard bordered by wings of the palace, elegant buildings used to house King Austern’s guests. And it was now the hour that early-rising servants might well be up and about, fetching water from the well, or sweeping the steps and entryways. Crossing the courtyard would be dangerous, but every moment that he paused would make it even more so. Biting his lip to keep his teeth from chattering, Tymmon went out into the square.

  He forced himself to walk, for a running figure would be more apt to arouse interest and suspicion. Bowing his back under the burden of his bundle, he tried to look like a peasant delivering fresh produce—although today was not market day and cou
ntry folk were not normally allowed in this particular courtyard on any day of the week. But he went on slowly, although at every step the imagined sound of a voice that would command him to stop became louder and clearer in his mind’s ear. So loud and clear that when he finally reached the other side, he stopped for a moment in confusion, uncertain what to do next.

  On his right now was the fosse, the narrow inner moat that surrounded the castle keep, and to his left, a warehouse and granary. And just beyond the granary was the passageway that led steeply down a cobblestoned ramp to the postern gate. Tymmon ran again now, but softly, trying to make no sound. Everything depended on whether the watchmen were awake or asleep, and if he could pass them and open the small but heavy gate without being seen.

  A few yards from the guardhouse he slowed again to a walk and then went forward on tiptoe, clenching his teeth against the fearful ragged sound of his own breathing. He drew even with the guardhouse wall and crept on, afraid even to turn his head to look over his shoulder to where the guards would be sleeping—or watching him with angry suspicion. But when he was almost past and no one had called to him to stop, he glanced over his shoulder, and there they were, just as Komus had said they would be, sprawled forward across the stone table. As he watched, one of them, old Topad it was, snorted and stirred in his sleep, lifted his head slightly, turned it to face directly toward Tymmon—and went on sleeping.

  Two heavy crossbars held the gate, and he was forced to put down his bundle and use all his strength to lift them one by one and slide them back. At his push the gate swung heavily with a muted groan, and he darted out. It wasn’t until he had pushed it back into place and started down the path that he remembered his precious bundle. For a moment he wavered, taking two steps forward and two back. But surely no fate could be worse than to be a fugitive trying to live off the land—with nothing but empty hands.

  Running back frantically, he pulled the gate open a tiny crack and peeked through, to see both of the watchmen now on their feet and staring—but not at him. Standing in the doorway of the guardhouse the two old men were looking up the ramp in the direction from which Tymmon had come. And from beyond them something that had not yet come into Tymmon’s range of vision was approaching, clanking and thudding as it came.

  He seized his bundle and shoved the gate to. For a moment he leaned against it, gasping with fear. The pathway that led down from the postern gate was long and narrow and zigzagged steeply down the face of the cliff on which Austerneve Castle was built. As it twisted and turned it passed again and again under the turrets and ramparts from which boiling oil had once been poured down upon would-be invaders. And it also passed, again and again, in full view of anyone standing outside the postern entry.

  If they opened the gate and came out he was doomed—or would have been if this pathway down to the village of Qweasle had not been, for many years, a favorite playground for Tymmon and Lonfar. Only a few yards away a stunted, wind-twisted tree grew up out of the cliff face just below the surface of the path. Below the leaning tree the cliff fell away sharply, a sheer drop to the next crossing of the path almost fifty feet below. But if one was agile and daring enough one could drop down onto the thick trunk and then swing beneath it into a shallow depression beneath a network of exposed roots.

  Tymmon was crouching in the Troll’s Lair, as he and Lonfar had named the shallow cave, when the two guards, and others—unseen, but surely the same men who had taken Komus—came through the gate and stood almost directly above him. There was the squeak and clank of armor, the thud of heavy footsteps, and the mutter of muffled voices. And then the voice of Black Helmet, hollow and gonglike, rang out clearly.

  “Then tell me, old man. If, as you say, no one has passed through this gate since yesterday, why were the bars not in place? Is it not part of your duty to see that the bars are set at nightfall and remain so until dawn?”

  Another familiar voice, that of old Topad, spoke then. “It is indeed, good sir. But the Qweasle stonemasons are expected soon, and I had just opened the bars in preparation for their early arrival when your lordships came upon us. But no one has yet passed through the gate this morning. If your lordships are looking for someone in particular, we will be glad to watch for such a person and send him to your lordships when he arrives.”

  “Very good.” A new voice was speaking now, high-pitched and youthful. “You should be on the lookout for...

  But at that point Black Helmet spoke again, his voice blurring into a meaningless roar. A long pause followed and then the sound of heavy clanking footsteps began again and gradually faded into nothing. When the sound had completely died away, Swiffer, the other watchman, spoke accusingly.

  “You lied about the bars, Topad.”

  “Yes, I lied, Swiffer. To protect your worthless hide. Was it not your turn to bar the gate last night?”

  “It was. And I did. I particularly remember the barring last night because it was then that I caught my third finger behind the bar and mashed it badly. See how bruised it is. Do you not remember how I remarked about it?”

  Old Topad laughed. “Remarked, indeed. Cursed might better describe your comments, as I recall. But that was two days ago. Your mind is playing tricks on you again.”

  “Or yours on you. I am certain ‘twas but last night.”

  For a moment the watchmen’s voices gave way to silence, and then Swiffer spoke again. “Seems strange,” he said.

  “What seems strange to you now, old friend?”

  “That our recent visitors hid their faces behind lowered visors, although they were not under attack or even the threat of it.”

  “That is so. And that their leader seemed not to want us to know the object of their search. Did you notice how he stopped the one who would have told us?”

  “So he did.”

  There was another pause, and then Topad said, “Ah, well, it is not for the likes of us to try to understand the behavior of noble men-at-arms.”

  Then the gate’s hinges groaned again and silence fell. And in the small cave beneath the bent tree Tymmon crouched low over his bundle and prayed for the strength and courage to continue his journey.

  THREE

  IT COULD NOT HAVE been long that Tymmon waited in the temporary safety of the tiny cave before he made ready to continue his journey. Only long enough for his heartbeat to slow slightly and for his shaking hands to become steady enough to lift his bundle and tie it back across his shoulders. But by then it was already too late.

  He was just beginning the dangerous climb up to the pathway when he stopped suddenly and scrambled back into the hollow behind the hanging roots. The sound of voices was drifting up the steep hillside from somewhere far below.

  Safely back in his hiding place, he inched forward and peered down. On a stretch of path several turnings below the cave a half dozen workmen were trudging upward, laden with the heavy tools of their trade. Clearly there had been some truth in Topad’s excuse for the unbarred postern gate. The stonemasons of Qweasle were indeed arriving early for work in the castle grounds.

  The workmen, dressed in homespun smocks and tattered leggings, wound their way slowly up the zigzag path, chatting and laughing as they came. The sound grew louder as they crossed above Tymmon’s hiding place and then faded as they reached the gateway and rang the bell for entrance.

  But the stonemasons’ voices had scarcely died away when others took their place and three old women, village seamstresses on their way to work in the castle’s sewing rooms, began the long climb. They were moving even more slowly, and before they finally reached their destination, the sun was well up and, at the foot of Austerneve Tor, the village of Qweasle was up and stirring.

  There was little chance now that Tymmon could make his way through the scattering of shops and homes, past the central square with its fountain where there was a constant throng of water carriers and washerwomen, and across the church courtyard with its usual gatherings of old men, without being seen by someone he knew.
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  If Black Helmet and his men had already visited the village offering rewards for his capture he would possibly be stopped and held prisoner. And even if the villagers let him pass he could not stop their tongues from wagging. When Komus’s captors did arrive they would soon learn, not only that Tymmon, son of Komus the jester, had passed that way, but also exactly when. And then Black Helmet would punish Komus for lying about when his son had left Austerneve.

  They would punish Komus. How would they punish him? Horrible possibilities pushed their way into Tymmon’s mind. He had himself witnessed punishments meted out to commoners by angry nobles. Even under the rule of kindly old King Austern there had been public beatings, imprisonment in tiny cages, and once, long ago, a beheading. And he had heard of even more terrible tortures in other kingdoms.

  No, he could not be seen today in Qweasle. It was a risk that, for Komus’s sake, could not be taken. And there was only one way to avoid it. Arranging his lumpy bundle into a makeshift pillow, Tymmon prepared to stay where he was, in the cold, damp hollow beneath the twisted tree, until the day ended and darkness returned.

  The weather continued cold and gray, and the wind, sweeping up the face of the cliff, curled in and out of the shallow cave like a current of icy water. Wrapped in his long cape and blanket, Tymmon tried to still his chattering teeth and keep his mind on other things.

  He thought first and longest about what had happened and what it could all mean. There were so many unanswered questions: Who was the man in the helmet that looked like the grotesque face of some shiny black beast? And who had sent him? And why?

  Of one thing he was certain. Black Helmet and his men, although they wore the armor and carried the arms of noblemen, were not members of King Austern’s court. In a castle community as small as Austerneve, every permanent resident knew every other at least by sight. And Tymmon, to whom men-at-arms were objects of passionate interest, knew the armor and bearings of all of Austerneve’s noble knights. He would quickly recognize, for instance, Lonfar’s father, Sir Hildar, by the azure orle and eagle fess point emblazoned on his shield and breastplate. And even if his armorial bearings were not visible, Tymmon would certainly recognize him by his old flat-topped helmet.