Authors: James P. Blaylock
At the river he pulled in his lines, twisting them one by one around a fat stick, securing each hook and shoving the stick in with his net beneath the log. Then he sat in the sun with his back against the log and opened Smithers’
The Stone Giants
. He thumbed through, stopping at each illustration, until he got to the part where the Moon elves and the stone giants battle for power over the land of Balumnia, and the Moon elves, riding in sky vessels, perform desperate and dangerous incantations. The ground heaves, mountains crack asunder, and the giants are swallowed by the earth and crushed, droplets of giant blood splashing into the river and solidifying into little globes likes water-cooled obsidian.
Escargot was particularly fond of stories that took place eons in the past, in a past so distant that anything might have happened. Then the air was so full of magic that the wind sang when it stirred the leaves on trees or blew through willows along a river. The Moon was still close enough to the Earth so that with a really long ladder – the sort, perhaps, that the linkmen use to pick fruit in their orchards – a man might climb high enough to touch it. Smithers was full of that sort of thing. It didn’t matter where you started reading Smithers’ books, really. They were like one vast history that began in mist and hadn’t yet ended, and it didn’t make a nickel’s worth of difference whether you started in at chapter twelve, which chronicles the arrival of the armies of the field dwarfs at the battle of Wangley Bree, or in chapter forty-two, in which the light elves sail to the Moon in a flying machine to explore the emerald caverns of the Green King. In short, there was no end to adventures in Smithers, and in the three hours that Escargot had before it was time to visit old Stover, he could look into only a smattering.
But he was anxious to pay Stover a visit. As ten o’clock drew near and passed, he found himself checking his watch again and again, certain that more time had gone by than really had and making up and discarding conversations that he was likely to have with the tavern keeper. At last he stood up, put Smithers into the blanket, slung it all over his shoulder, and set out toward town, whistling a higgledy-piggledy tune.
Stover stood on the boardwalk outside the tavern door, slapping whitewash onto the wooden siding and scrubbing it off with a brush whenever he slopped it across the stones of the foundation. Escargot watched him from across the street. There was something oddly satisfying in the scowl on Stover’s face. It was a scowl that seemed to suggest that there was nothing he loathed more than whitewashing. He could, of course, hire any of a number of village boys or girls to do the whitewashing for him, for a fee. But the idea of fees turned Stover purple – they were worse than whitewashing, worse than anything. Escargot strolled across the street, still whistling.
‘Whitewashing is it?’ he said cheerfully.
The old man gave him an up and down look. ‘If I’ve got any left after I finish here I’ll give you a coat of it too. But don’t count too heavily on success, sir, for it’ll take a bucketful at least to hide the grime that covers the likes of you.’
Escargot hadn’t been prepared to be insulted. His imaginary conversations that morning had involved his insulting Stover, and Stover wringing his hands and politely apologizing. He forced himself to stretch his grin. ‘Leta still renting the room upstairs then?’
Stover stared at him and shook his head – not by way of answering, but as if Escargot’s question were so foolish that no answer would work.
‘I’m not at all surprised, actually,’ said Escargot. ‘I suppose she’s had her fill of Stover’s Tavern. But I rather fancy it, myself. I’ve been thinking that a man like me might elevate himself if he was to study a man like you, a pillar, as they say, of the village.’
‘Go away,’ said Stover.
‘I’m very serious. If Leta’s moved out, I’ll take her room.’
‘I haven’t any room to rent, not in the tavern I don’t. I
do
, however, have the power to let you into a room in Monmouth Prison very cheap. And they’d give you a fresh set of clothes along with it. Abandonment, sir, is worth a year under the law. Civil disruption, of course, is worth a month of two more. And if you’re inclined toward violence, which I haven’t any doubt you are, then we can make it a round five and have you hung into the bargain. My advice to you is to pack your bag and go.’
The conversation had gone awry. Perhaps the uncle hadn’t yet spoken to Stover. ‘My agent, I assume, hasn’t contacted you yet?’
‘What in the world are you talking about?’
‘You haven’t spoken, this morning, to Mr Abner Helstrom, my attorney?’
‘Damn Mr Abner Helstrom. I’ve spoken to no one. It’s inconceivable that anyone with such a name as that could exist. And it’s late to think of hiring attorneys, even imaginary attorneys. They can’t save you. Nothing can save you now. Your life is a ruin and you’ve only your own sloth to thank. Mr Abner Helstrom! Why not Mr Abner Maelstrom? If you’re going to invent names, brigand, invent good ones. Get away from me now! Slink off and leave me to my work.’
‘I’ll buy a pint of ale first,’ said Escargot through his teeth. It was just eleven o’clock. He’d have a pint of ale out of Stover or wring his neck. He’d have a pint of ale and
then
wring his neck.
The old man looked at him, his face suddenly saddened. ‘I fear that the price of a pint of ale is rather dear this morning,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I’ve been forced to steepen things just a bit – far beyond your means, if I’m any judge of a man’s means.’
‘You’re not.’ Escargot dug the gold out of his pocket, a dozen coins in all, and scattered them at Stover’s feet. They lay glinting in the sunlight in a very satisfying way. Then, strangely and slowly, they began to shift and shudder, for all the world as if they were waking up and setting in to walk away. The golden glow dimmed, and Escargot could see the planks of the boardwalk through the coins. In another instant they were gone and a dozen black beetles scrabbled roundabout Stover’s feet, the old man hopping and dancing and crushing bugs. Escargot stood astonished, watching the display, unable to summon up the precious last laugh that he’d anticipated all morning long. ‘Goblin gold,’ he muttered.
‘What!’ cried Stover, ‘Get out of here, I tell you! Your money is worth as much as your miserable soul, apparently. Now be gone, or by heaven I’ll thrash you with this brush and have you jailed.’
Escargot backed away, not out of fear but out of lingering astonishment. The gold was gone. The bugs were crushed on the planks of the boardwalk. Who
was
this Uncle Helstrom? He turned and set out slowly, back the way he’d come, his rage having suddenly abandoned the shouting Stover and settled on the dwarf uncle. Goblin gold, was it? Truth charms. Vital experiments. He’d show someone a vital experiment with a club.
‘Wait!’ shouted Stover, stepping off into the street.
Escargot turned, glaring, his face set like stone. Stover stepped back onto the boardwalk as if ready to bolt into the tavern and shut the door.
‘Tomorrow,’ said the old man triumphantly. ‘You can come round to Mr Smeggles’ office on Pine Street. You’ll be paid for a third of the house and property, less money for repairs and for the child’s education, of course. You deserve nothing. But the woman you abandoned insists –as long, that is, as you agree to have nothing more to do with the child. Not a thing.’
Escargot stared at him. ‘We’ll see who agrees to what.’
‘You’ll
see the inside of a jail cell!’ Stover shouted after him as Escargot trudged back toward the meadow, his plans all gone to smash, his marbles gone. First goblins, then goblin gold. It made sense, didn’t it? Abner Helstrom! Stover was right. Escargot had made a fool of himself. He hadn’t any doubt that half the village had been watching just now – gaping out of windows, cupping hands to their ears. And what of Leta? That had been the worst bit of foolery of all. Had the entire thing been layed out weeks ago, from before the first time he’d seen her at Wurzle’s? Stover would say, if he knew anything about it, that the entire mess was the consequence of sin, of Escargot’s roving eye, of his watery soul. And maybe Stover would be right.
It took about a minute and a half for Escargot to decide otherwise. Whatever the truth was, Stover didn’t have it. Stover was a shriveled toad, a bug, a viper, an officious, petty, and bent man who, unfortunately,
could
have Escargot pitched into Monmouth Prison. Never see his child again! They’d pay him off, would they? He kicked a clump of meadow grass, and the effort of it dislodged the blanket full of books. Copies of G. Smithers sailed out all over the meadow, bumping down with pages fluttering, scattered atop what was left of the pine-needle bed.
Escargot set in to give the clump of grass another kick, just for good measure. If the books had been anything but Smithers, he would have danced on them and kicked
them
to bits, then dumped the lot of them into the river, just for having betrayed him. Why, he wondered, hadn’t he gone into Beezle’s store first and spent his gold on a suit of clothes and a pair of shoes. It was the sunlight that had turned the goblin gold back into the stuff it was made out of. Inside the store it would have remained gold. Then it would have been Beezle’s problem. He’d been too anxious to see Stover squirm; that was the truth of it. Fine adventurer
he’d
make – fleeced by a dwarf in a slouch hat, taken in by a pretty face, chased from town by a tavern keeper, and tossed, for goodness sake, out of his own house by a wife who had driven him mad with pies for two solid years.
He bent to pick up the fallen books, laying them once again atop the blanket. When he stood up, the leather sack with the truth charm in it bumped against his chest. He bundled up the blanket and books and hurried into the windmill, pulling the door shut behind him. Magic or not magic, he’d have a go at the charm. It was probably worthless. Of course it was worthless. It couldn’t be anything else. It probably
was
a set of clacking teeth. Leta and her false uncle were quite likely gasping with laughter at that very moment. He wiggled loose the thong that tied the bag and dumped the heavy charm out into his hand. It was a rock – a round, grayish lump of stone shot through with lines of amethyst and quartz crystal and with a lidded eye carved into the top as if it were about to wink at him.
It certainly
looked
like a charm; there was no denying that. There was the possibility, of course, that it was some sort of goblin charm, made up simply as a lark. It might even be dangerous. But why, he wondered, would either Leta or the dwarf want to harm him? What they wanted, it seemed, was to steal his marbles, for purposes he couldn’t fathom. At least he hadn’t had any nightmares the previous night, only the remnants of the face. The dwarf – that’s whose face it had been. The curious Uncle Helstrom. Of course it had. The thought was just a little bit frightening. What was this uncle, some sort of magician, perhaps, with his waterweed tobacco and his metal-shod staff that struck sparks out of dirt? His signed Smithers! Damnation! Leta had made away with his signed Smithers, and he’d been left with a carved rock.
He set the charm on the sill of the little window in the wall that faced the river. Outside, the vanes of the windmill revolved slowly in the breeze, one by one going past. Tell me, truth charm, whether the books of G. Smithers are truth or lies.’ The truth charm sat there, washed in sunlight. Escargot tried again. ‘What is Abner Helstrom’s true name?’ Nothing happened. ‘What is the color of my shirt?’ asked Escargot. It’s right in front of you, truth charm.’ The charm was silent. ‘I’m a worthless fool,’ said Escargot to the charm, ‘I’ve lost everything I’ve owned and wanted, and if
you
want to know the truth, half of it can be laid to vanity. More than half. That’s where the fault lies.’
He picked the charm up and slipped it back into the bag. He’d been left with a worthless, dead piece of rock. He would carry it around his neck forever, he decided, in order to remind himself of the fruits of vanity. He would become a holy man, wandering the river road, getting thin, living on grubs, heaping burning trash on his head. The picture of it struck him suddenly as funny. Even the tongues of his shoes were hilarious, waggling out like that, giving him the raspberry. Shambling old Stover and his prayer meetings, his wife and her precious pies, Wurzle and his salamanders – the lot of them, himself included, were evidently born into the world to cut ridiculous capers for the amusement of the gods. Or, Escargot thought grimly, of the Uncle Helstroms. Well he’d cut no more. He’d be off downriver is where he’d be, just as soon as he got the money from Smeggles the lawyer. Perhaps he’d take Annie with him, fly in the face of the law. They could chase him if they chose, but they’d find it a warm chase indeed. And if he ran into Uncle Helstrom, magician or no magician, he’d tweak the dwarf’s nose.
He hung the sack round his neck, buttoned his shirt over it, and set out toward the forest after fresh pine needles. Halfway there he abandoned the plan. He wouldn’t bother with sleep tonight. He’d spend the night planning. Then tomorrow he’d have the money out of Smeggles, buy a horse and supplies, and ride down the river road toward Hightower Village and put up at an inn. If anyone
had
heard of Abner Helstrom in Hightower, then Escargot would have a go at the dwarf straightaway. If not, then the whole business was a lesson well learned, wasn’t it. He dug out
The Stone Giants
and headed for the river.
The weather that evening wasn’t all it might have been. The sun, which had set out so gloriously that morning, had become thin and distant, and once again before dusk the fog rose off the river and the evening grew watchful. When Escargot found himself squinting to see, and cocking the book this way and that to catch the feeble light, he gave up. Once again he could feel something in the air. Maybe it was just autumn; maybe it was Halloween drifting nigh. The moon crept up over the tree line, appearing and then disappearing through breaks in the fog. And once, when Escargot chanced to look into the sky, something sailed across the face of the moon – a bat, perhaps. But it hadn’t looked much like a bat; it looked more like a witch aloft.