Song of the Gargoyle

by Zilpha Keatley Snyder

  As the noble ladies in their elaborate headdresses and richly embroidered gowns finally began to make their way down the grand staircases to be helped up into the high-slung wagons, the thickening crowd pressed forward, staring eagerly. In the general excitement Petrus and Dalia seemed to have forgotten for the moment that they were fugitives, and let themselves be caught up in the general enthusiasm of the other spectators.

  But Tymmon, although he tried to play the role of curious commoner trying for a glimpse of the grand life, was far from being at home in the role. As he moved his little party through the crowd, inching always toward the great gate, he was constantly watching for danger. For curious or suspicious eyes, or for a search party of palace guards, who might by now have found the imprisoned dungeon keeper, and have set out to find the escaped prisoners and their rescuers.

  The loading of the wagons seemed to take forever, but at last the first driver cracked his whip and the procession began. And as the glittering cavalcade moved forward, the crowd followed, thinning itself in the narrow passageway and, in the outer courtyard, spreading out into a great sea of bobbing heads and jostling shoulders. Tymmon, with Dalia riding on his back and with one hand clutching Petrus and the other gripping Troff’s collar, pressed forward in the midst of the crowd, his head swiveling constantly as his eyes and ears strained to catch the approach of danger.

  Near a buttress on the left side of the great gate he pulled his party to a stop. There they waited until the final horsemen cleared the gate and set off down the road. Set off down the open highway followed by a number of the most determined of the spectators, who continued to follow for some time, waving kerchiefs and shouting “Godspeed” and “Safe journey.”

  It was not until Tymmon had seen two ragged figures stumble through the gate and disappear into the heavy plume of dust, that he led his party out under the heavy drop gate. Under the gate and then on across the drawbridge, expecting every second to hear a cry of “Halt” or the rattle of pursuing footsteps.

  But there was no pursuit. Not there on the drawbridge and not later as they trudged through the thinning dust, moving ever nearer to the two ragged beggars. And not throughout that long, exhausting morning, as once again they joined into one company, left the roadway, and set out over the rolling foothills that lay between Unterrike and Austerneve.

  By then they had almost ceased to worry about human enemies. There was a new threat now to their further progress, the prince’s increasing exhaustion. At last, not long after they reached the beginning of Austerneve land, it became obvious that he could walk no farther. They spread a blanket for him in a sheltered spot under a low wind-twisted oak, and when he was resting comfortably, Komus charged Tymmon with his care and went on alone.

  They waited an hour and then two, while Tymmon bathed the prince’s face with water from the gourd, and coaxed him to eat a little water-softened bread. And Dalia sat beside him and talked to him softly and steadily in her sweet newborn voice. Long afterwards the prince told Tymmon that it was Dalia’s voice that had given him the strength to go on living through that long afternoon. Dalia’s voice and the sunshine, which he had not seen for three long, dark years.

  And then Komus returned with a farmer and donkey cart. A farmer that Komus had not lied to about the possible danger from Unterrike pursuers, but whom he had exhorted into a great fever of patriotism for Austerneve and its ancient royal family. Exhorted and charmed and captivated as well, as only Komus could charm and captivate. So that the farmer had gladly left his fields in the midst of a day’s work and joined the dangerous rescue of King Austern’s heir.

  Much later, just as dusk was thickening into darkness, the donkey cart passed through the great gate of Austerneve, into a castle that was soon to be shaken by the most joyous celebration that the ancient kingdom had ever known.

  EPILOGUE

  TYMMON WAS LOOKING FOR his flute. It was a quiet morning. The first really quiet and uneventful morning, in fact, since the return to Austerneve, and he suddenly felt the need for music. He knew the flute was still in his old pack, and that the pack had to be somewhere in the rather disorderly suite of rooms that made up their new quarters. But he couldn’t remember exactly where he had put it.

  Their new home was in the palace proper and had been, until quite recently, occupied by the baronet Quantor and his staff. But now the baronet had been, along with all the Unterrike nobility, stripped of his rank and sent into exile by command of the High King. And the baronet’s suite was the new home of Komus and his family. The grand and palatial home of Komus, the onetime court jester who had recently been given the title of Honored Councilor and High Chamberlain to the court of King Austern IX.

  The suite included several large and elegant rooms that were, at the moment, crammed with pieces of furniture and other objects, not yet organized into any sort of useful unity. There were, for instance, various belongings salvaged from the old room in the northwest tower, as well as many pieces left over from the baronet’s household. Plus all the magnificent furnishings and works of art newly lavished upon Komus, and Tymmon too, by the grateful king. Not to mention the lovely and valuable sculpture of the Holy Mother which had been presented to Tymmon with great ceremony by another thankful father—Sir Hildar.

  For a moment Tymmon’s search was forgotten as he remembered with great satisfaction the visit from Lonfar and his father. How Sir Hildar had requested an audience with the new Honored Councilor and his son, Tymmon, whose brave deeds had exposed the evil deeds of the Unterrike knight to whom Lonfar might, all unknowingly, have pledged himself. He could recall most of the grand words in which Sir Hildar expressed his, and his son’s, humble thanks for what Komus and Tymmon had done, and how Komus responded gravely, with only a small twinkle in his eyes, that it had all been Tymmon’s doing. And how Lonfar had fidgeted, and blushed, and then, at his father’s urging, had muttered, “My humble thanks also.”

  Tymmon grinned. It was a recollection he knew he would enjoy for years and years to come. But for now he reluctantly forsook such pleasant memories to return to the task at hand—the unearthing of the old pack that he vaguely remembered storing away somewhere amid all this elegant clutter.

  He had already examined the grand drawing room where Petrus, Dalia, and Troff were engaged in a noisy game that seemed to have no particular wins or losses, but involved a great deal of running and shrieking—and good-natured growling on the part of Troff.

  And now Tymmon was searching a room that contained only a beautiful desk of inlaid wood, a table, some chairs, and a number of cabinets and clothespresses.

  He smelled the pack before he saw it. On opening a large cabinet with ornately carved double doors, he was immediately aware of an unpleasant odor that seemed to be coming from under a pile of decorative wall hangings. And under the tapestries he found his pack.

  The smell, he found, was the product of a very old and moldy pork dumpling. A dumpling that had been purchased from a peddler on the morning of the escape from Unterrike and, in the score of days since, had been quietly rotting away among the precious objects that had been Tymmon’s only possessions for a long and desperate time.

  Holding his nose, Tymmon inspected the dumpling, which seemed to have sprouted a furry coat and turned an interesting shade of green. Then he lifted it gingerly between thumb and forefinger and crossed the room with considerable haste, to where an open window overlooked the fosse. As the dumpling splashed into the inner moat, he wondered briefly if such an overly ripe offering would offend the king’s fat and fussy fish. Then he went back to the table, pulled up a chair, and began, slowly and solemnly, to bring forth his long forgotten treasures.

  First came several articles of clothing, sturdy doublets, gaiters, and jerkins, purchased in Montreff after his fortunes had begun to change for the better. They were not, of course, raiment of the fine quality to which he was now becoming accustomed, but they were of well-woven homespun, and smelled only slightly of rotted dumpling. Tymmon
folded them neatly and placed them carefully to the left of the pack.

  Digging farther, he next found, wrapped in an old doublet, the flute and rebec. Placing them on the other side, Tymmon went deeper, unearthing the knife, the ax, the tinderbox, and various lengths of rope. Objects that for a lonely and frightened fugitive had made the difference between life and death. Handling them with grateful respect Tymmon arranged them neatly across the table in order to honor them with the serious consideration that they so richly deserved. It was not until then that he found the two remaining objects, hidden under a layer of rags at the very bottom of the pack. The Spanish dagger and Komus’s cap and bells.

  He was still sitting at the table sometime later, deep in thought, when he heard footsteps and then a series of sniffs.

  “What in God’s name is that dismal smell,” Komus said. “Something is dead, if I am not mistaken. A rat, perhaps?”

  “No,” Tymmon said, grinning. “Only a dumpling. But it has departed now. Flown out the window.”

  Komus pulled up a chair and sat down. “Another long mysterious story, I suppose. Well, I am ready. Begin the telling.”

  So Tymmon explained about the pork dumpling and then went on to point out the other items the pack had held, and to explain each one’s significance. Tymmon had long since given his father an account of all his adventures, but he had only touched lightly on the time spent in the Sombrous Forest. But now he spoke in detail of the cold and hunger and the constant fear of wolves and other dangers. Komus listened carefully, from time to time nodding his head in understanding and then shaking it in wonder.

  “It is amazing,” he said when Tymmon’s story was finished. “Amazing that you survived such a pilgrimage, and not only survived but flourished. And rescued not only the prince and myself from living death, but two children as well. Tymmon, you are truly...

  His voice broke and he shook his head, as if unable to say more, but when he did speak again some minutes later, it was to utter words that Tymmon had never in his lifetime thought to hear.

  “Tymmon,” he said, his voice grown suddenly solemn, “I have been thinking about your noble heritage—our heritage in Nordencor. I long ago swore a solemn oath never to return to that accursed city, or to renew my acquaintance with the ones I once called friend or kinsman. But now I have come to feel that I did indeed wrong you in making such a choice for you also. And I know that after you learned of that choice you felt betrayed and cheated of your birthright. And now—” He paused, running a slender, long-fingered hand through his curly hair. I am sure now that if we went to King Austern with our story he would help in any way he could to enable you to claim the lands and titles that are yours by right of birth.” He smiled wryly. “You would be late in entering into your training for knighthood. But not too late, I think, for one so experienced in such knightly deeds as rescuing princes in distress. Not to mention various and sundry others, less noble, but equally in need of deliverance.”

  Feeling a desperate need for air, as if a great drowning wave had rolled over him leaving him gasping for breath, Tymmon staggered to his feet and hurried to the window. The tears in his eyes made the sun seem to dance on the water of the fosse and turned the roses in the garden beyond into flames of red and gold. He stood there for an unmeasured time before he came back to his place at the table. Across from him, Komus sat quietly waiting with the strange painful smile still on his lips.

  “About my future, Father,” Tymmon said. “I have been thinking.” He reached out and pulled two objects toward him—the Spanish dagger and the cap and bells. He lifted the dagger first, the beautiful and costly weapon that might well have been given to a young knight at the time of his entry into knighthood. Turning it slowly in his hands, he let the sunlight from the open window turn it into a thing of deadly beauty.

  “ ‘Tis true that I have long dreamt of knighthood. But recently I have been thinking of other things. Of things I have seen and learned on my”—he paused and smiled—“pilgrimage. And of what I would someday hope to be.” He reached out with the other hand and picked up the cap and bells. Making a scale of his two hands, he weighed the dagger against the cap. Then he smiled at Komus and widened his eyes as though in surprise as he let the cap sink down as though its weight was much greater than that of the dagger. “And see how the scale has tipped. I think now that I would prefer to be a court jester, Father, if I could be such a one as you have been.”

  “Truly,” Komus was saying, “have you thought carefully of... But at that moment Troff trotted into the room. He came first to Tymmon, nudged him, and sighed, rolling his eyes back in the direction of the drawing room. Then he plodded across the floor to where sunlight was pouring in through the window and collapsed.

  “He says the little savages have worn him out,” Komus said.

  Tymmon looked up sharply. “Did you hear him say... he began and then stopped. In all the days and hours since they had been reunited Tymmon and Komus had talked of many things. Of almost everything. But there was one subject that neither of them had ever mentioned. Komus had not spoken of Tymmon’s mother, the lady Lianne, or even so much as mentioned her name, although he had listened, stone-faced and silent, to Tymmon’s telling of what he had learned from Jarn, the jongleur, of her life and death.

  And Tymmon had not told his father of his belief that Troff was an enchanted creature and of how they were able to speak to each other.

  But now Tymmon said, “He speaks to me, Father. Not as much now as he did when we were alone in the forest, but he still tells me very clearly what he is thinking and—” He was silent for a moment before he went on, grinning to show that he was giving his father permission to laugh at what he was saying. “When he first came to me in the forest I believed him to be a magical beast, a gargoyle enchanted into life. But now...

  But Komus was not laughing.

  “Lianne talked to animals,” he said. And then he added, “Your mother, Tymmon.”

  Tymmon nodded. “I know. Jarn told me. And you once spoke of it too. Of one who talked to animals, although you did not say her name or that she was my mother.”

  Komus’s eyes were blank and inward. “She called them messengers sent from heaven.”

  Around a tightness in his throat Tymmon said, “Jarn did not tell me that.” He searched his father’s face, seeing the deep and bitter pain, and the courage that had made him able to hide it beneath songs and jests. After a while a new thought came to him and he asked, “Do you believe that Troff—was sent to me?”

  And then Komus, who had always said he believed in very little that he had not seen for himself, said simply, “Yes, I think that is true.”

  “Sent to me by—by heaven?”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps by one who now dwells there.”

  “And do you think Troff really talks to me, Father?” Tymmon’s question was hesitant and uncertain, because sometimes he was not sure that he himself believed it.

  Komus grinned and called to Troff, who quickly roused himself, trotted across the room, and laid his great ugly head upon Komus’s knee, peering up at him from under his wrinkled brow. And Komus scratched behind the bat-wing ears and said, “I would be a poor fool, indeed, if I did not have the greatest faith in the voice of this enchanted monster.”

  Then he handed the flute to Tymmon and, taking up the rebec, strummed a chord and said, “Come. Let us hear that voice again.”

  They played and sang together for a long time.

  A Biography of Zilpha Keatley Snyder

  Zilpha Keatley Snyder (b. 1927) is the three-time Newbery Honor–winning author of classic children’s novels such as The Egypt Game, The Headless Cupid, and The Witches of Worm. Her adventure and fantasy stories are beloved by many generations.

  Snyder was born in Lemoore, California, in 1927. Her father, William Keatley, worked for Shell Oil, but as a would-be rancher he and his family always lived on a small farm. Snyder’s parents were both storytellers, and their tales often kept their children
entertained during quiet evenings at home.

  Snyder began reading and telling stories of her own at an early age. By the time she was four years old she was able to read novels and newspapers intended for adults. When she wasn’t reading, she was making up and embellishing stories. When she was eight, Snyder decided that she would be a writer—a profession in which embellishment and imagination were accepted and rewarded.

  Snyder’s adolescent years were made more difficult by her studious country upbringing and by the fact that she had been advanced a grade when she started school. As other girls were going to dances and discovering boys, Snyder retreated into books. The stories transported her from her small room to a larger, remarkable universe.

  At Whittier College, Zilpha Keatley Snyder met her future husband, Larry Snyder. After graduation, she began teaching upper-level elementary classes. Snyder taught for nine years, including three years as a master teacher for the University of California, Berkeley. The classroom experience gave Snyder a fresh appreciation of the interests and capabilities of preteens.

  As she continued her teaching career, Snyder gained more free time. She began writing at night, after teaching during the day; her husband helped by typing out her manuscripts. After finishing her first novel, she sent it to a publisher. It was accepted on her first try. That book, Season of Ponies, was published in 1964.

  In 1967, her fourth novel, The Egypt Game, won the Newbery Honor for excellence in children’s literature. Snyder went on to win that honor two more times, for her novels The Headless Cupid and The Witches of Worm. The Headless Cupid introduced the Stanley family, a clan she revisited three more times over her career.