Song of the Gargoyle (9 page)

At first Tymmon was not greatly concerned, thinking them to be fishermen from a nearby village. He was even, for a brief moment, considering greeting them and asking them for directions to their village—in case he did decide, at some point in the future, to make his way back to the open land of the valley.

But as he hesitated, the men completed the beaching of their boat and turned to look up the bank toward Tymmon’s hut. And then, as they started up the slope, the slight, wiry one drew a long evil-looking dagger from a sheath at his belt.

It was not that the man armed himself that was so terrifying. Anyone, even an honest village fisherman, might well prepare for trouble before venturing to explore a hut in the wilderness. But this weapon was finely made of bright Spanish steel, its hilt inlaid with gold and silver and precious gems—clearly not the weapon of a peasant or fisherman. And the other man, who carried with him a crude metal-headed club, was wearing on his large feet beautifully crafted leather boots with curling pointed toes. Both men were clearly outlaws since, by decree of the High King, any commoner in possession of precious metals, or even shoes with pointed toes, was guilty of a criminal offense.

Suddenly it was all too clear. These men were brigands, members of one of the robber bands, who made their living by robbing and murdering. And it was also clear that the boots and dagger were stolen goods, probably taken from murdered victims of noble birth.

Chilled by the sudden realization that he was in terrible danger, Tymmon crouched lower behind the thicket and watched as the two cutthroats climbed up the slope. They said nothing until they neared the firepit, when the one in the lead stopped and spoke.

“Stay there, Obam, and keep your eyes on the woods. I will see what we have here.”

The big man turned to stare directly at Tymmon’s thicket and he ducked lower, so that he did not see the small man enter the hut. But a moment later, when he cautiously raised his head, the big man had turned away to watch as his companion emerged carrying Tymmon’s blanket and tinderbox. The small brigand glanced at the dirty ragged blanket and threw it aside, and was examining the tinderbox when the other called, “What be that, Jagg? What you got there?”

“Nothing of worth. ‘Tis likely the camp of a runaway serf. Come. Let’s be off.” Carrying the tinderbox, he started back toward the river, but the other, instead of following, turned aside, hung his club from a loop on his belt, and crawled into the lean-to. When he, too, emerged and started down the slope to the river he was grinning widely and staring at something he carried in both his huge dirty hands. It was Komus’s cap and bells.

The loss of the tinderbox, which would mean cold, dark nights and meals of raw flesh, had made Tymmon’s throat tighten with pain and rage, but somehow the stolen cap was much harder to bear. Clutching his head with both hands, he was clenching his teeth against a shriek of angry protest when, from directly behind him, a bloodcurdling sound made him leap to his feet in terror. His confused and panic-stricken mind had barely noted the source of the deep threatening roar when Troff bounded past him and out onto the riverbank.

Tymmon could only watch in stunned amazement as Troff, still making the terrifying sound, dashed straight at the smaller brigand, who had dropped the tinderbox and was trying to pull his dagger from its sheath. The charging gargoyle crashed at full speed into the cutthroat’s chest, sending him sprawling backward, and a moment later Troff was standing over the fallen man clutching his arm in his jaws. “Help!” the brigand screamed. “Help me, Obam, you fool. Club him. Club the beast.”

The bigger man, who had been standing motionless, as if paralyzed by astonishment, began to creep forward brandishing his heavy club. But at that moment Tymmon, too, came alive and, grabbing up a length of firewood, ran down the bank and reached the second thief just as he was raising his club over Troff’s head. Intent on the noisy scene in front of him, the man was not even aware of Tymmon’s approach until the heavy log smashed into his arm.

Afterwards the order of the events that followed became blurred in Tymmon’s mind, but he did recall that at some point he had tugged at the loose skin on the back of Troff’s neck, asking him to release his grip on the smaller man’s arm. And shortly thereafter both of the brigands were staggering down to their boat, moaning and cursing, while Tymmon stood beside Troff on the bank with the club, the dagger, and the tinderbox lying near their feet. And clutched in Tymmon’s right hand was the jester’s cap.

At that point the pace of events became much slower, since neither of the robbers seemed able to make any use of their right arms, and it took them some time to drag their boat into the river and push off from shore. During that time they turned their heads often to stare angrily, and anxiously, at Troff and Tymmon, but they said nothing at all except to curse each other’s clumsiness. But once out into the stream they became much more talkative.

“You are not rid of us,” the smaller man shouted. “We be back soon for your worthless hides.”

“And for my mace,” the big man bellowed. “We be back for my mace and Jagg’s dagger. And we be bringing the others with us with swords and crossbows. Will we not be, Jagg?”

“Shut up, Obam,” the other said, and then lowered his voice, but his words carried well over the narrow strip of water. “We be back soon enough but not with the company. We be saying naught to the company. Do you hear me, Obam? Do you want them all to know that Jagg and Obam be beaten by a boy and a dog?”

When the men and the boat had disappeared down the river, Troff turned suddenly and disappeared into the forest, to return almost immediately carrying a dead pheasant, which he undoubtedly had been bringing back to the camp when he became aware of the presence of the robbers. As Tymmon built up the fire and cleaned and roasted the bird he said little, but his mind was busy. Troff, too, seemed nervous and restless. It wasn’t until the meal was finished that Tymmon spoke.

“We will have to leave,” he told Troff. “Sooner or later they will send others against us, or return themselves. However, I do not think they will return alone until their wounds have healed, and that may take some time.”

He paused, grinning. “We did well, Troff. I surely broke the right arm of the big one, and I fear you left the other in even worse condition. It is not to be wondered at that they were reluctant to tell their companions the truth of our encounter. That they, two armed men, were so bested by a boy and...

Tymmon stopped, suddenly recalling the exact words of the smaller outlaw. A dog! The brigand had called Troff a dog. In the heat of the moment the word had been without significance, but now... He turned quickly to look at Troff, who had just curled his great thick body into a ridiculous position as he attempted to scratch the back of his head.

“Troff!” Tymmon said, accusingly. “A dog?”

Troff stopped scratching. Hanging his head he looked up at Tymmon from the tops of his eyes, in a manner that spoke openly of a guilty conscience.

Tymmon frowned. “Are you then only a dog?” he asked in angry amazement.

Troff leaped to his feet, lunged at Tymmon, and with a playful nudge nearly knocked him off his feet. Then, as he cavorted in a circle, he said that he was Troff. Not a dog, but Troff. Troff, Troff, Troff. Then he turned his back, lay down, and began to lick a front foot, pretending not to notice as Tymmon walked slowly around him.

How could he be only a dog? For one thing he was a great deal larger and uglier than any dog that Tymmon had ever seen. Dogs, in Tymmon’s experience, were all fairly similar. In fact there had been, at Austerneve Castle, only coursing hounds, small light-bodied beasts with delicate narrow heads and long thin legs. He had heard of course of other breeds, large sleek-bodied beasts used in the eastern forests for the hunting of boar; and others—squat, big-headed, flat-faced animals bred for the baiting of bulls. But at Austerneve the old king had long ago banished all other breeds to preserve the purity of his favorites, the swift and graceful hounds used for the coursing of rabbits and other small game. It would take three or four coursing hounds to weigh as much as Troff. And as to appearance—there were few similarities, except for such generalities as a tail and four legs.

And then, of course, there was Troff’s ability to speak. And he did speak to Tymmon, there was no doubt of that. Not, perhaps, in the usual manner, but there was no doubt that he understood everything that Tymmon said. At least, when he wished to. And in his own way, was he not able to clearly and without question make his thoughts and wishes known?

“You do speak to me, don’t you?” Tymmon asked, and looking up, Troff cocked his head thoughtfully. “You have spoken to me clearly from that first night when you appeared out of the darkness. And you understand everything I say, don’t you, Troff?”

Suddenly Troff jumped up, stood on his hind legs and, placing his front feet on Tymmon’s shoulders, licked him sloppily from chin to brow. Staring into Tymmon’s eyes, he said with great clarity and assurance that he understood everything very well indeed.

Tymmon wiped his face with his sleeve. “And you are a gargoyle?”

The tongue licked again, this time up Tymmon’s neck and over his ear, as he hastily turned away his face. And then Troff said that he was a gargoyle. Yes, certainly, a gargoyle.

Tymmon sighed. “Yes, I was afraid so,” he said. And aware of what tomorrow must bring he was suddenly weighted by a deep and heavy burden of sorrow and loneliness.

I
T WAS A LONG
night, full of anxious dreams as well as long periods of wakefulness during which Tymmon planned and worried and planned again. At first he firmly resolved to stay with Troff in the forest, at least until the end of summer. Not here in this camp, since it was now known, to the brigands, but perhaps farther south along the bank of the river. Yes, he would stay with Troff at least a little while longer.

But later, during the deep still hours, his plans changed again. He would have to leave, and very soon. He could not continue to live without human companionship, and with no food but the flesh of wild game. But most of all he could not help but follow the hope, however faint, that once back among mankind he would somehow hear news of his father.

Yes, he and Troff would have to part, he decided sadly. But as sleep came nearer and his thoughts drifted into fragmented fantasies, he was at least able to console himself with scenes in which he was traveling south to Nordencor—and then meeting his father’s friends and relatives, who were greeting him warmly and then...

At that point his plans drifted into a dream in which Sir Tymmon of Nordencor, a man now and a knight, well armed and mounted on a fiery steed, was storming some evil stronghold in which his father was being held prisoner.

But even when such distant dreams were banished with the approach of daylight, his last decision held. And with it came the sad knowledge that, when the day began, he would have to say good-bye to Troff and then, all alone, start his journey back to the homes of men.

Soon after daybreak he arose quietly and began to dress. Inside the lean-to Troff had awakened, but he was still sprawled across Tymmon’s blanket. With his chin on his enormous paws he rolled his eyes to watch as Tymmon began to gather his belongings and once again tie them into a pack. Troff knew. It was clear that he knew, although Tymmon had not yet spoken of what he was planning to do.

Tymmon worked swiftly and with determination—and tried not to look at Troff. Even when it was necessary to retrieve his blanket by politely asking the gargoyle to rise, he tried to keep his eyes turned away. But somehow as he returned to his packing an image of drooping ears, sad eyes, and worried brow was still before him.

He would not look at Troff again, he decided as he wrapped Komus’s cap and bells and hid it deep within the pack. He would finish his preparations, and meanwhile he would keep his mind busy with other things. He would think only of his plan to follow the river, which would provide him with water to drink and perhaps an occasional fish to eat, as well as a path through the forest. A path that would surely lead eventually to the open land of farm and village. At last, the pack was completed, and he could put it off no longer. Turning to face the sad accusing eyes beneath the bulging gray-brown forehead, he said, “Well, Troff...

His own eyes were suddenly hot and wet and he had to swallow hard before his voice could make its way around a burning lump that had suddenly leaped up to fill his throat.

“Well, Troff,” he tried again. “It is very hard to say good-bye. You have saved my life many times over and I—I—” The lump grew, squeezing his voice into a high-pitched whine that ended in a painful gasp. He turned away quickly and, collapsing on the ground, buried his face in his hands.

He was struggling to hold back the tears when suddenly there was a hot breath on his face and then a heavy pressure on the left side of his body. Cracking his fingers he peered at Troff, who was now sitting close beside him, leaning heavily against his shoulder. Tymmon’s arm went out, around the warm, hairy body, and for some time they sat without moving. And as they sat thus, a strange new revelation began to unfold itself gradually within Tymmon’s mind.

The idea grew and expanded, and at last, without moving his head, he said, “Troff. I know I said that you could not come with me when I go back to the homes of men—for fear that you would be seen as an enchanted beast. And I as a demon in league with the devil. But it has just occurred to me to wonder if... Do you suppose that there might be others who would consider you to be only a dog, as did those two brigands?”

He again glanced at the gargoyle. “ ‘A dog,’ I would say. ‘Of course he is naught but a dog. What else might he be?’ And you of course would say nothing. It would not be wise for you to let them know that you can speak.”

He sat up suddenly and turned to face the creature beside him—and for a moment his new resolve wavered. He did look so like a monster. If not exactly a gargoyle, certainly a creature of similar countenance. But at the moment he was also looking much more like his usual eager-eyed and grinning self. “Do you think it would be possible?” Tymmon asked. “Do you think you could come with me and play the part of a dog? Would you come with me, Troff?”