A harpy, according to his old nurse, was a horrible creature, disgustingly filthy and terrible to look upon. In shape they were half bird and half woman, winged and feathered, with huge clawlike feet whose talons were sharper than any razor. Their faces were those of lovely young maidens except for their wild, cruel eyes and the blood that continually smeared their mouths and dripped from their small, sharp teeth. They lived deep in the forest in groves of dead trees, for their evil was so poisonous that the very trees where they nested soon withered and died.
Everyone who spoke of harpies described them so, and such tales were much on Tymmon’s mind as he left his resting place at the edge of the forest. He had gone only a few yards down the first faint trail when he came upon the dry, leafless skeleton of a long-dead tree. Turning, he fled in panic back to the edge of the clearing.
Wet, cold, terribly tired from a lack of rest and sleep, and more miserable than he had ever been before or dreamed of being, Tymmon crouched again in the same spot where he had spent the night, and tried to think and plan.
To go out again into the open farmlands of the valley would put him in almost certain danger from Black Helmet and his men. But the dangers of the forest, no matter how unseen and uncertain, seemed at the moment more terrible. At last he rose, and pulling the sodden hood of his cape close around his face, he ventured out across the open fields in a southerly direction, into the valley but away from Qweasle and Austerneve Tor.
The day continued dark and damp with a thin, steady drizzle of rain, and Tymmon’s long cape and even the bundle on his back soon became heavy with water. Crossing the open meadow, he slogged through marshy places that smeared his shoes and gaiters with thick mud. At the edge of a wheat field he came upon a large dirty gray mound, the remains of an old haystack. There, after digging below its wet and moldering exterior, he was able to make himself a cave that was cold and musty but comparatively dry. Unlashing his bundle and finding that his blanket was somewhat drier than his sodden cloak, he wrapped himself in it and quickly fell asleep.
On waking some hours later, he found that the rain had stopped and a weak sun was waning and he would have to hurry on, to put as much distance as possible between himself and Austerneve before nightfall. After crossing several more fields planted to rye and flax he came at last to a road. At the moment it was deserted—a wide, bare ribbon of muddy earth stretching out to the horizon. He would, he decided, follow the road, as it would undoubtedly lead to other villages or farms where he might find food and shelter, perhaps in exchange for labor.
He started off along the roadway, but he had not gone far when the jingle of harness and the thud of hooves warned him that horsemen were approaching. Scurrying to hide behind a clump of brambles that grew beside the road, he crouched low as a party of horsemen approached from the north and rode by at a smart trot.
There were nine or ten riders in all. Apparently three or four knights accompanied by their squires, pages, and other attendants. They were not Austerneve men-at-arms, nor did any of them wear a snouted helmet of black metal, of that much he was certain. However, squinting through the tangle of brambles, he was not able to see clearly enough to make out such details as the devices on their shields and breastplates. But they had come from the north, where they might well have met and spoken with Black Helmet and his followers. So Tymmon remained hidden and waited until the whole troop had disappeared far down the road before he ventured out and continued on his journey.
Tired and hungry, wet and smeared with mud, he trudged on and on, placing one cold, numb foot ahead of the other in weary desperation. Beside the road, cultivated fields alternated with rough unfilled pasture land, but there was no sign of farm or village.
It was some hours later, and to the west over the now distant forest the sky was turning to shades of orange and red, before he saw the first sign of human habitation, a column of smoke twisting up into the sunset sky. Turning in that direction, Tymmon was soon able to see the thatched roofs of a cluster of farm buildings. It seemed to be a well-kept and prosperous farm. Surely at such a place there would be some task that a willing worker might do in exchange for food and shelter.
At first the farmyard seemed deserted, but as Tymmon drew nearer he noticed someone working in a kitchen garden behind the cottage. A sturdy, broad-backed woman, dressed in gray homespun, her head covered by veil and wimple, continued to swing her short-handled garden hoe as Tymmon made his way, hopefully, toward her. Hopefully, because a woman—perhaps a mother—surely would be more compassionate toward a homeless wanderer, a poor, pitiful, starving lad who...
But there was also a dog. An angry one, by the sound of it, and as Tymmon cleared the corner of the farmhouse he saw it, chained to a post in the dooryard. A short, squat creature, it raved and slobbered as it strained against its collar in its eagerness to attack. Tymmon stopped, hoping desperately that the chain would hold and that the woman would notice and quiet her watchdog. But she only shouted something and went on hoeing, and then a man appeared who was almost as threatening as the dog.
Coming out from behind a stable, so bearded and bushy-haired as to arouse fearful thoughts of monsters and werewolves, the man strode toward the chained animal shaking a heavy spade over his head.
“Quiet, Wolf! Hush, you demented creature. Quiet, before I give you something to howl about.” The dog stopped barking and cowered in the dirt, and the man changed directions.
“You there,” he shouted. “Who are you? What are you doing on my land?”
Tymmon’s knees threatened to betray him and send him, like the dog, cowering to the earth. But he managed to stand his ground, and when the farmer came to a stop only a few feet away, he pushed back his hood, held his head erect, and tried to smile.
“Greetings, kind sir,” he said. “My name is Tymmon, son of Komus, and I am traveling in search of my fortune. I would only like ...
A large hand grasped his shoulder roughly and the farmer’s deep-set eyes glared into his. “Komus?” the deep voice said. “That is a good northland name, but you look like no northlander I have seen. A gypsy you are or I mistake myself. And I’ll have no gypsies on my land. Now get you out of here before I set Wolf loose on you.”
“Wait, Arl.” It was the woman from the garden, who was now hurrying toward them. “Wait. Let the boy stay. Go to the dooryard, boy, and wait for us by the well. I must speak with my husband. Go now!”
“What are you saying, woman,” the farmer shouted. “The gypsy leaves. I’ll have no...
Tymmon had started toward the well when he heard something that made him stop in midstep and strain his ears to listen. The conversation went on, and although he could not make out the whispered words of the woman, he heard clearly enough her husband’s answering bellow.
“What horsemen? I saw no horsemen today.” And then after a pause in which his wife again whispered urgently, “An escaped fugitive? Three silver pieces? A reward of three silver pieces for a half-grown boy? You are dreaming, woman.” There was more whispering and then the man whirled around, bellowing more loudly still. “Boy. Where are you? Come back here, lad.”
But Tymmon was already off and running, around the corner of the cottage, across the stableyard, over a rail fence and out across the pasture toward the west. Toward the west, where the Sombrous was now a silhouette of black velvet domes and spires against a bloodred sky.
He reached the edge of the forest at twilight and stumbled in among the first tall trees, shaking with fear and exhaustion. He had been running in panic for what seemed an eternity, running and falling, leaping up to run again, stopping only from time to time to listen desperately for the sound of pursuit—for the shouts of the farmer and the baying of his ferocious dog. But each time the painful rasp of his own breathing drowned out all other sound. And so he had run again and again until at last he reached the forest.
Beneath the light-blocking canopy, he moved more slowly, working his way around tree trunks and clumps of yew and elderberry, tel
ling himself the farmer would not follow him here—at least not until daylight. No one would risk the blinding darkness and the demons that haunted... A whimper interrupted Tymmon’s musings, a pitiful, timorous sound that had somehow arisen from his own throat. Clamping his teeth against another such unmanly utterance, he sank to a crouch and began to creep backwards. He had retreated for several yards before he stopped—overtaken by a sudden promising idea.
A fire. He would build a fire. It was said that a bright blaze would frighten away wild beasts. And perhaps its revealing light might even hold at bay other, more dreadful, things. Or at least make it possible to see what was approaching before its teeth were fastened in his throat. But it would have to be done quickly before the dim red-tinged twilight died away to complete darkness.
Back among the tall trees he cast about until he found a small clearing, where he quickly collected a large heap of fallen branches. After preparing a pile of leaves and twigs, he opened the tinderbox and began to strike the flint and steel. A spark flew into the waiting tinder and flared into a flame, which he hastily fed with twigs. Next came branches, and soon Tymmon was sitting beside a roaring fire.
Warmth. The first since he had fled Austerneve. In the comforting glow Tymmon found that he was able, at least for brief moments, to forget that outside the range of his firelight the dark forest night was all around him. Taking off his soggy shoes and clammy cloak, he hung them on a drying rack fashioned from a broken branch. Then he opened his pack and arranged its contents, too, around the fire.
His food was almost gone. Having eaten a few crumbs of bread, a sliver of dried meat, and the last of the cheese, he fed the fire once more before he wrapped himself in his blanket and curled up as near to the flames as he dared. He would not sleep, he told himself, and he did not, or at least not deeply nor for long.
Lying motionless, swaddled in his blanket like a moth in a cocoon, he began to make an astonishing discovery. His body and everything connected to it, the pain of hunger and tired, chilled muscles, seemed to have faded away into a dreamlike distance—still there, but without real significance. Much more urgent and important realities seemed to be taking place elsewhere. But in an elsewhere that he could somehow see and experience.
He could see Castle Austerneve with people coming and going, stopping to talk to each other, or hurrying on about their business. He could see himself and Lonfar wading in the fosse as they used to do on hot days, splashing each other and laughing wildly.
And then, in a vision even more clear and distinct—he was home. He was once again in the round room in the northwest tower, with Komus working at his desk, copying a manuscript and looking up, laughing, to say “Tymmon. Listen to this.” And then his smile fading and his face, also. But still repeating softly, as if from a far distance, “Listen, Tymmon. Listen.”
Tymmon sat up. The fire had burned low, the darkness pressed nearer, and the silence was deep and absolute. But as he threw back his blanket there was a tinkling chime of small bells. The bells of Komus’s cap. For a moment of wild joy he thought his vision was true and he was somehow back in the tower, in their old room, and Komus... But then he moved his foot and the bell rang again. Reaching out, he found it lying near his feet—the jester’s cap that had been the last thing he added to his pack as he began his flight from Austerneve.
The joy fled. Sadly, Tymmon turned the cap in his hand, running his fingers along the three pointed horns and listening to the tinkling of the bells, a sound he could remember hearing from his earliest childhood. A sound that somehow brought back the strange comfort of the dreamlike visions.
Smiling, he put the cap on his head and sat staring into the fire, now and then shaking his head gently to hear the familiar chiming of the belled cap—and to bring back the peaceful calm.
The dreamy distance had returned and his thoughts were flying far and free, when a small sharp sound, perhaps the click of claws on pebbles, brought him back to reality. To the reality of the forest clearing, the dying fire, and just beyond it, a hideous inhuman face.
FIVE
THE FACE WAS GRINNING, its loose lips stretched wide to reveal sharp white teeth, its long red tongue lolling to one side. Frozen with fear, Tymmon gasped, “God help me,” and sat motionless, waiting for death. Waiting for the cruel grip of sharp fangs...
But then suddenly he knew—and almost laughed out loud. It was only a gargoyle. Once again he had let himself be fooled by a gargoyle. He smiled sheepishly, excusing his foolish reaction by blaming it on the strange trancelike state he had been experiencing. A condition caused no doubt by hunger and exhaustion. But it was still more than a little embarrassing to give oneself up to die because of a harmless stone image of...
The bulging eyes blinked, the grin disappeared, and the tongue flapped up to lick the sagging jowls. Not stone. Not of stone and, he belatedly realized, certainly not where gargoyles were usually to be found—on the eaves of church or castle. But what then? A monster certainly. A monster so ugly that the mere sight of it might well, like the evil Medusa, turn the viewer to stone.
Tymmon’s hand crept up to test his cheek for evidence of hardening. Still soft and warm. He swallowed hard. Swallowed again and tried to speak.
“What—what are you? What do you want of me?”
The monster cocked its head, its jagged bat-wing ears flopping. It certainly looked very like a gargoyle. A new thought occurred. Perhaps it was. Perhaps a magical gargoyle conjured into life by some powerful enchantment.
“Are you an enchanted creature?” he asked. “A gargoyle brought to life?”
The creature cocked its head again, to the other side, and then made a short stiff-legged jump in Tymmon’s direction. “Troff,” it said.
Tymmon shrank back, expecting its next leap to take it over the fire and...
“Troff,” it said again with what seemed to be a nod.
A living gargoyle. A gargoyle—perhaps called Troff? “Troff?” Tymmon asked, and moving forward immediately as if it had been summoned, it trotted toward him around the fire. It did not stop until it was standing over where Tymmon cowered back on one elbow, whispering frantic Hail Marys and trying to protect his throat with his free hand. With its enormous head only inches from his face, its rank breath hot on his cheeks, it stared down at Tymmon and licked its chops.
Hungry. It was hungry, and its next meal might well be... Groping desperately behind his back, Tymmon grasped the parcel that held the last of his food, a small piece of salt-cured meat. “Here,” he said. “Here, gargoyle. Would you like this good beef? Here, take it. It’s yours.”
The disappearance of the salted meat occurred in an instant, accompanied by a variety of disgusting chomping and slobbering noises. When the last morsel had disappeared, the monster sat down in front of Tymmon and stared at him with eager expectancy, as if waiting for more. And staring back, Tymmon could only think that he himself was being considered as the next course.
But the creature made no immediate move in his direction, and for the first time Tymmon’s terror diminished enough to allow him to study it more closely.
Thick-bodied and long-legged, the gargoyle when on all fours would stand somewhat taller than Tymmon’s waist. Its face was a ghostly gray that shaded around the eyes and muzzle to almost black, while its body seemed to be closely covered with a short gray-brown fur. The feet were large and rounded like the paws of lions, and the long tail ended, like a lion’s, in a short tuft of black hair. Lionlike it was indeed except for its face, which was a thousand times uglier than any lion. Snub-snouted, fisheyed, with great flapping jowls, it had a mouth that became an upside-down U when closed, and when open, a terrifying cavern filled with long white teeth.
Tymmon shuddered and drew away, and the monster closed its mouth, tipped its head to one side, and regarded him more intently.
“Why?” it seemed to be asking.
“Why am I afraid of you?” Tymmon smiled ruefully and then went on. “I meet a living gargoyle in the
middle of the forest on a dark night, and you wonder why I am afraid? It would seem that gargoyles know very little about humankind.”
The gargoyle raised its head and, with what almost seemed to be a grin, asked what Tymmon knew about gargoyles.
“Well.” Tymmon considered the question. “Not a great deal, I suppose. Just that they are usually carved from stone and extend from the roofs of buildings.”
The gargoyle blinked its bulging eyes and twitched its tail and again asked why.
“To serve as water spouts. And some say to frighten away evil spirits. That’s why they are all so ug—” Tymmon paused. “So frightening to look upon.”
The creature’s mouth dropped open into its evil, tongue-lolling grin. Reaching out, it placed one of its great paws firmly on Tymmon’s foot, regarded him sternly, and said that, yes, he was frightening—when he wanted to be. But not always. Then it lay down on its belly, and slowly lowered its great head onto its front paws.
Tymmon watched it with unblinking attention while it yawned, snorted, and mumbled, rolled its eyes, and then closed them firmly. It was not until then that Tymmon crept back under his blanket and pulled it up to his nose. Peering out over the top, he watched the sleeping monster intently for a long time—and then intermittently for several shorter periods in between violent struggles to keep his heavy eyelids from falling shut. But he soon lost the battle and fell asleep—and slept more soundly than he had since leaving Austerneve.
Some hours later Tymmon awoke with a frightened start. Something had made an evil sound, a snuffling snort that was clearly that of some inhuman creature. For a moment he cowered under his blanket until, suddenly remembering the events of the night before, he thrust it aside and peered out. The gargoyle was still there, its great gray-brown body sprawled out near the dead ashes of the fire. Tymmon pushed the blanket to one side and leaped to his feet, forgetting that Komus’s cap was still on his head. At the ringing of the bells the creature was instantly alert and staring with that eager expectancy that once again made Tymmon uneasy.
Song of the Gargoyle Page 4
