Song of the Gargoyle

by Zilpha Keatley Snyder

  “No,” Tymmon said. “Why should I throw it away, too? It’s far too valuable and too beautiful. And what if we are again attacked by brigands? We may well have need of such a weapon. And besides, it is not as if I were unworthy to be armed in such a manner, like that lowborn rascal we took it from. It is entirely suitable that I should own it, since I am, as I have told you, of noble birth. And besides, you are already forgetting that you are naught but a dog. A dog is a humble and obedient creature and not given to strong opinions.”

  Troff turned away then, pretending to have lost interest in the discussion, as he was wont to do when he was losing an argument. So Tymmon hung the dagger in his belt and shouldered his pack, and they set off southward along the riverbank.

  As they made their way along sandy beaches and then among scattered boulders, Tymmon explained his plans for their journey. “At first I was thinking of trying to retrace our path back to the place where I entered the forest. But I am not at all certain that we could find our way, even now that you are with me. And even if we were able to find the place where we entered the forest, my troubles would not be over. We would come out into the valley not far from Qweasle, where everyone is sure to know of the reward offered by Black Helmet.”

  Tymmon paused as they scrambled up and over a small boulder that blocked their path and then, once more back on level land, continued. “But if we follow the river southward, we should come out of the forest near the city of Montreff. I have not been there, but I have heard that it is a journey of many days from Austerneve, and perhaps Black Helmet will not have traveled so far in his search for me.” He did not go on to mention that Nordencor also lay to the south, and that at Montreff he would be well on the way to the city of his birth. Instead he only repeated that the large city of Montreff should be their first destination. “Do you not agree, Troff?” he asked.

  There was no answer. Troff, who was staring toward the forest and sniffing the air, seemed to be preoccupied with other things. And as the day wore on he seemed, more and more often, to be tense and distant.

  They walked all that day, through forest and meadow, keeping always within sight or sound of the river. Late in the day the land became more rugged and the river narrower and more rapid as it flowed through a gorge between rocky highlands. They paused only once at a likely fishing spot, where Tymmon managed to spear a small trout, and then pressed on until sunset, before they stopped to gather a large stack of driftwood, build a fire, and cook their meal. And although Troff’s portion was surely not enough to satisfy his huge appetite, he showed no interest in leaving the campsite on a hunting expedition.

  Twilight was deepening as Tymmon chose a sandy spot between two boulders near the river’s edge, stacked a supply of firewood close at hand, spread his blanket, and then stretched out with Troff beside him, and the Spanish dagger near at hand. He was still hungry as well as being deeply, achingly weary, and sleep did not come easily.

  It was a strange place. Around their camping spot, rugged boulder-strewn land sloped upward from the water’s edge to heavily wooded hills. Here and there among the great gray stones dead trees leaned and tilted at crazy angles. Across the river a steep cliff of sheer rock rose straight up for many feet to a high plateau covered with stunted trees. The air was still and silent except for the liquid murmur of the deep running river, but the silence brought no feeling of peace and calm. Instead it seemed to be only a breathless hush, the tense and quiet wait before the storm, or perhaps the stillness that spreads across the land just before a hidden enemy launches a surprise attack.

  Tymmon moved closer to Troff. Tonight, in this weird place where towering rock and skeleton tree cast ghostly shadows, he was glad—extremely glad—for Troff’s large warm presence beside him. And just for tonight he would not think about what might happen when the two of them reached the valley and civilization. About what would happen if the people they met refused to believe that Troff was only a dog. There would be time enough to think of that later when other fears were less pressing.

  Vague fears at first, that only drifted invisibly in the strange silence, but later, in the depths of the night, were transformed into dark shadows with great red eyes.

  The cries came first, long pitiful wails that throbbed up and down the scale and then faded away to nothing. Then the silence returned and it was not until later, when the fire had burned low, and Tymmon had finally fallen asleep, that the dark shadows gathered.

  Tymmon woke suddenly to the realization that Troff was on his feet and growling deep in his throat. Throwing back his blanket, he sat up and stared out into the surrounding darkness. And then he saw them, silhouetted against the starlit river. Shadows, strange humpbacked blobs of darkness that circled stealthily on silent feet.

  With shaking hands Tymmon seized the dagger and waved it threateningly, but the shadowy circling continued without pause or change of pace. But then, realizing that the fire was very low, he dropped the weapon, in order to throw a log of firewood onto the glowing coals. Sparks flew upward and the shadows stopped pacing and turned to stare at him with great red eyes. For a moment he froze, unable to move hand or foot. Even his heart seemed to have stopped beating.

  Only his racing mind seemed unaffected. “Demons,” his mind told him. “They are demons from the depths of hell. Your breath has stopped and your heartbeat. They have turned you to stone.”

  But then his heart throbbed again with a great rib-shaking thud. He gasped for breath, and leaning forward, he added another log and then a handful of dead leaves to the fire.

  The flames shot upward, Troff’s growl broke out into a thunderous roar, and the shadows retreated back into the darkness.

  “What are they?” Tymmon asked Troff. “What creatures are they?” But Troff’s growling answer was not for him.

  Stay away, the growl said. Stay away. There is no helpless prey here.

  For another hour, or perhaps two, Troff sat stiffly, staring out into the darkness. Beside him, Tymmon also watched and waited, and kept the fire high and bright. The shadows did not return, but even so there was no more sleep that night. No sleep until, in the soft gray light of dawn, Troff yawned and stretched and said the danger was over. They both slept then, but it was not long before a hot bright sun cleared the hills beyond the river and, beating down fiercely upon them, forced them to awaken.

  “What were they?” Tymmon asked again that morning as he made up his pack. “Were they demons, or perhaps wolves? Were they wolves, Troff?”

  But Troff only growled and, looking fiercely toward the wooded hillside, said that he had chased them away. That he had chased them away and they would not return.

  “I hope you are right,” Tymmon said. “In any case I think we should not wait to fish again in this place. I think that we should leave as soon as possible.”

  And with his eyes still turned toward the hillside, Troff said that he agreed. When all was ready, Tymmon shouldered his pack and then, with the gargoyle trotting close beside him, began to wind his way southward through the boulder-strewn canyon.

  They walked all that day, eating nothing but some half-ripe berries, a lizard, and a great ugly frog. It was Tymmon who found and ate the berries, and Troff who devoured all of the lizard as well as the frog, after Tymmon made it clear that he was not interested in sharing. Thus they were ravenously hungry and bone-achingly tired when, not long before sunset, they came out of a thick stand of young trees that grew along the bank of the river.

  Ahead of them was an open stretch of grassland, and not far away a herd of oxen and cattle were grazing peacefully. Closer still, sitting on a tree stump, was a human being. The first human, other than the two brigands, that Tymmon had seen for many days. Grabbing Troff by the scruff of his neck, he pulled him to a stop and retreated back into the shelter of the saplings.

  The cowherd, for such he seemed to be, was about Tymmon’s size, and appeared to be almost as ragged and dirty. Completely unaware that he was being watched, he was whistling t
unelessly to himself and whittling on a piece of wood.

  “Look,” Tymmon whispered. “A boy. The cowherd is only a boy. Remember now. You are a dog.” He again grabbed Troff by the loose skin on the back of his neck and shook him. “Remember. A kindly, good-natured dog. Like this.” Tymmon extended his tongue and panted, while with one arm he reached back to demonstrate the friendly waving of a tail. Troff watched with interest.

  But then Tymmon’s arm, the one that was representing a waving tail, suddenly made contact with the point of the Spanish dagger. Muttering a muffled exclamation of pain, he was rearranging the weapon in his belt, when he noticed the expression on Troff’s face. His head cocked to one side, the gargoyle was grinning, in a familiar and particularly maddening way. In exactly the way that Lonfar had always smiled when some plan he had spoken against turned out badly.

  “Troff,” Tymmon was starting to say angrily when he suddenly realized that Troff was right. At least for the moment, he was entirely right to fear the dagger. It was, for the moment at least, dangerous. What would the cowherd, and other peasants as well, think if they saw the elegant and valuable weapon? Would they not, as Tymmon had done when he saw it in the possession of the brigand, be certain that it had been stolen from a murdered nobleman?

  A few minutes later the dagger was hidden, along with Komus’s cap, at the bottom of Tymmon’s pack. And Troff did indeed wave his tail in a convincingly doglike manner as they started out across the meadow to where the cowherd was still busily carving his piece of wood. They were only a few feet away when he stopped whittling and, as if suddenly aware that he was not alone, quickly turned his head.

  NINE

  “OH, HELLO. WHO BE you... the cowherd began and then, as he caught sight of Troff, “Holy saints protect me. Blessed Mary help me.” Leaping behind the tree stump on which he had been sitting, he crouched down and, crossing himself feverishly, continued to beg for mercy. “Heavenly Father help me. Holy saints protect me.”

  Tymmon was talking, too, saying loudly and then more loudly, “ ‘Tis but a dog! A dog! He won’t harm you. He is only a dog!”

  He was beginning to think the cowherd was deaf, although certainly not mute, when the plea for heavenly help finally dwindled away into silence. Still cowering behind the tree stump so that only his head was visible, the boy looked from Tymmon to Troff and back again, his eyes jittery with fear and narrowed by suspicion.

  “A dog?” he said at last, “ ‘Tis like no dog I ever seen. And who might you be, stranger?”

  The voice was thin and quavery and tinged with the broad rolling accent of country folk. And the head, which from Tymmon’s point of view seemed almost to be resting in a disembodied fashion on the tree stump, was narrow, pale-eyed, big-eared, and crowned with a dead-straw bristle of hair. Tymmon found himself grinning.

  “My name is... He paused, remembering that Tymmon, son of Komus, was a dangerous name to bear. But the hesitation was only for a fraction of a second while his racing mind considered and discarded several aliases, and then settled on Hylas—a name from one of Komus’s tales of ancient times. “Hylas,” he said. “I am Hylas, and my dog is called Troff. I am sorry that he startled you, but I am not entirely surprised. You see, he is from a rare breed raised only in the eastern countries and used there for the hunting of lions and griffins and other dangerous beasts. But he is quite tame and obedient. See how he will obey when I tell him to lie down and roll onto his back. Watch now.

  “Lie down, Troff,” he said. At the same time he held one hand at his side out of the boy’s view, and wiggled the fingers in a scratching motion. And the gargoyle, as he always did at the very thought of a good scratch, flopped down and rolled belly-up. Tymmon knelt to give him a quick pat, and a brief and secret scratch. “See how well trained he is,” he said as he regained his feet. “What is your name, friend? Tell me your name and I will make you known to him and tell him to do you no harm.”

  “I be called Char.”

  So Tymmon made a great show of telling Troff that this was Char, and that he was not to be harmed. And Troff rolled right side up and also made a great show of listening intently, as might an obedient dog. And when their act was over the cowherd came out from behind the stump.

  Still watching warily, he began to edge toward where Troff was lying, grinning his white-fanged gargoyle smile. After several minutes of gradually increasing confidence, the peasant boy crouched down and touched Troff’s head. He then smiled triumphantly at Tymmon, and went on touching, patting, and scratching with increasing enthusiasm. Troff’s response was enthusiastic also. Watching the two of them, Tymmon began to feel uneasy. He had asked the silly beast to be friendly, not to make himself ridiculous fawning over the first simple-minded country bumpkin he happened to meet.

  “Well,” Tymmon said sharply, “we must be on our way. It is getting late and I had hoped to reach civilization before nightfall. Perhaps you could direct me to the nearest town or village.”

  “Late,” the boy said suddenly, looking up toward the western sky. “Yes, it be late. I needs must hurry.” He snatched up a long staff and started toward the grazing livestock.

  Tymmon hurried after him. “The nearest village? Could you direct me?”

  Already starting to wave his staff at his four-legged charges, the cowherd paused, and with his staff still raised, knit his brows in thought. After a remarkable amount of careful thought-taking he said slowly, “The nearest village? There be no village nearer than Bondgard.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. Bondgard be the nearest.”

  “And are you going to Bondgard?”

  “Yes. I be.”

  “Excellent.” Tymmon tried not to show his amusement. “Then it is to Bondgard that I would like to go. Would you permit my dog and me to accompany you?”

  “You be wanting to go to Bondgard—with me?” the boy asked, and when Tymmon had made it clear that he was asking exactly that, he thought again and then said, “Well, come on then, for all of me. But I mustna tarry. If I be late my uncle will beat on me. He always beating on me when I be late.” He started off again, waving his shepherd’s staff, but within a moment he returned.

  “That dog, there. Be he a stock harrier? My uncle says that all big dogs be harriers.”

  “A stock harrier? Oh, you mean a chaser of livestock. No, of course not. He is trained to chase only wild game.” Tymmon’s answer was quickly made, but as the shepherd began to gather the strayed cattle, he thought again. Troff was watching the rounding up of the livestock with an alarmingly alert and eager expression on his ugly face. Tymmon shrugged out of his pack, pulled out a length of rope, and formed one end into a loop. Then he approached cautiously, fearing that what he had in mind would not be easily accepted by such a mighty and untamed beast.

  “Troff,” he said uneasily, “this is a lead. Dogs are often kept on leads. Like this. See, this end goes around your neck and I hold the other. Thus dog and man cannot easily be separated. There. Is that not...

  Suddenly realizing that Troff seemed to be accepting the lead quite readily, Tymmon stopped babbling. He tugged gently on the rope, Troff followed, and within a few moments they were under way. Tymmon, with the now leashed Troff in hand, walked beside the cowherd, while up ahead the herd trotted and lumbered, six oxen, five milk cows, two gaunt and bony mules, three even scrawnier donkeys, and a half dozen goats.

  As they made their way across the open pastureland and then down a long tree-bordered lane, Tymmon began to feel more confident. Things were going quite well. The cowherd no longer seemed to harbor any suspicions concerning Troff’s true nature and Troff himself was behaving admirably. Not only had he been friendly to the peasant boy, but he also had accepted the lead, and had not, as Tymmon feared he might, mistaken the livestock for easy prey. And he now seemed to be content to trot along behind the herd at a discreet distance, as any well-trained farm dog might do. Gargoyles were, indeed, amazingly intelligent and adaptable creatures.

  As they walked along, Tymmon de
cided to entertain his new friend as well as take his own mind off his painfully empty stomach. He would tell the boy the story of his life. The story, that is, of Hylas, who in the original tale, as told by Komus, was a young man of great beauty who lived in ancient Greece, but who Tymmon now reincarnated as the son of a brave huntsman who had been recently killed by brigands, forcing his son to go forth to seek his fortune.

  “Where?” the cowherd asked.

  “Where?” Tymmon asked. “Oh, you mean where did we live? Oh, a great way from here. Far away to the south. In a kingdom called... Casting around in the remains of old geography lessons he could find nothing suitable—far away, but not so far as to be unbelievable. “Nordencor,” he said at last, falling back on the distant kingdom of his birth.

  “Nor—den—cor!” Char pronounced the word with some difficulty.

  “Yes. Nordencor. My father served the lord of the castle, the lord Cyllo. My father was huntsman to Lord Cyllo. He was a great hunter and a favorite with all the nobility. But one day, only a few months since, when he was out hawking with a small party, they were attacked by a large band of brigands. My father fought with great bravery and killed at least a dozen of the cutthroats single-handedly, but at last he himself fell. And in gratitude the lord Cyllo presented me with his favorite hunting dog—Troff, here—and I set out to see the world.”

  As the story grew into an accounting of the hair-raising adventures that Tymmon had experienced since leaving home—some loosely based on fact and others purely fictional—Tymmon became caught up in the telling. So much so that for a time he almost forgot his empty stomach and the uncertainty of his situation. And as for Char, he listened wide-eyed, so intent on Tymmon’s story that he often missed his footing and stumbled on the rutted road. Even Troff, trotting alongside, seemed fascinated. They were well into an especially thrilling account of an attack by harpies when they reached the first outlying cottages of the village of Bondgard, and Char was forced to tear himself away to deliver a milk cow to its owner.