Nonny steered to port.
Very little of this conversation made any sense to Rownie, but he didn’t bother to ask clarifying questions. He felt surrounded by gloom and wished he had a big, black hat of his own to pull down over his face.
Graba had cursed the troupe and all of their doings. Grubs would follow wherever they went. Burning birds would fly screaming down at them until the stage and wagon caught fire, and they all burned with it—unless the River rose up in a flood before Graba had the chance to burn them. Bad things were coming—in water or in fire or both at once.
Semele pointed to a spot on the southern side of the ravine. “There,” she said. “That is the place we should be aiming for, yes.”
Nonny steered them to where Semele had pointed. She tossed a grappling hook, grappled riverside tree roots with it, and roped the raft to shore. Then she stopped the spinning paddle contraption and climbed inside the wagon. The raft drifted at the end of its tether.
Rownie looked around. The place did not seem in any way special. “Why this spot?” he asked.
“This is our climbing place,” Essa told him. “We need to get up to street level, to drive back into town.”
Rownie looked up. The ravine was steep and very high. It did not look climbable. “We’re going to climb that?”
“No, no, no, no,” Essa said. “Definitely not. Nonny is going to climb and let down a rope, and then hoist the wagon back up to shore with a winch and crane.” She made it sound like a very easy thing to do. “The winch and crane are both already up there. Smugglers use them to carry things into Zombay without having to go through the dock wardens, but they haven’t used it very much lately. I don’t think so, at least. Hopefully there are no smugglers trying to use it right now.”
Nonny came up through a hatch in the wagon roof. She had several tools in the loops of her belt. Without saying good-bye—or anything else—she stepped nimbly across the rope between the wagon and the shore, and started climbing.
“Shouldn’t take too terribly long,” Essa said. Her fishing line tugged, and she started jumping up and down. “Hey, I got something! Fresh dinner, everybody! Fresh dinner!”
Essa hauled a mass of green tangles onto the raft. It landed with a splat.
“Hmm,” she said. “Never mind. We could make a riverweed stew, I suppose, but the only time I’ve ever known a riverweed stew to taste good was when we left out the actual weeds, so I should probably just toss them back in.”
No one else said anything.
Essa climbed quietly down to the edge of the raft and kicked her catch of weeds into the River. The green tangle sank out of sight. “I remember making wishes on riverfish, as a little girl,” she said, “though I don’t remember what the wishes were. And I was just as little as I am now, I guess. We don’t get any taller, not even if we live for a thousand years.”
“Do you usually live for a thousand years?” Rownie asked.
“No,” said Essa. “Usually someone accuses us of child-thieving or butter-thieving or button-thieving or whatever a very long time before we get to be a thousand, and then they come for us with torches. Semele’s the only one I’ve known who’s anywhere near that old.”
“Oh,” Rownie said. He looked up. He couldn’t tell if Nonny had reached the top of the ravine yet. Then two coils of rope came sailing down and smacked against the wagon, so he figured that she probably had.
Patch and Essa tied the ropes to the axle beside each wheel, and then untied the wagon from the raft. Essa gave a long, high whistle. The ropes began to pull. The wagon lifted, suspended in the air. Something shifted inside it and made a crashing noise.
“I’ll try to salvage our belongings,” said Thomas from inside his hat. “Essa, some help would be very much appreciated.” He opened a hatch and let himself in. Essa followed.
“I will go in as well,” said Semele. “Be careful, both of you.”
Rownie and Patch watched the raft and River drop farther away beneath them.
“We’re just going to leave the raft?” Rownie asked.
“Nonny’ll build another one next time,” Patch said. He gave up fishing and used his pole to push at the side of the cliff whenever the swinging, swaying wagon got too close to it.
Afternoon ended and became evening. The sun was going down. Colors of the dying day bounced up from the River, reflected. The River surface looked very far away now, but the top of the cliff seemed no closer.
Rownie looked at Patch sideways. He had something he wanted to ask, but he thought that it might be a rude question, and he didn’t know what words to use. Finally he just asked.
“How did you Change?”
Patch did not answer. He went on keeping the wagon clear of the cliff with his fishing pole.
Rownie waited. He waited for so long that he figured Patch would never answer.
“Used to have brothers,” Patch finally said. “Lots. More than the family needed. Some left home to be soldiers. One left to study. Still too many. I was youngest, so Father took me to the wagons for Changing. Then he put me in the barn. Good luck to keep something Changed in the barn. A guardian. A thing to keep other monsters away. Stayed there a long time, keeping the sheep safe.”
“How long?” Rownie asked.
“Don’t remember,” said Patch. “Years all blurred together. Left after a while. Joined a show. Not a good one. Did the Weasel Dance. Drop a dozen angry weasels in your pants and jump around while they fight. Crowds love it. Wore thick leather underneath to keep skin on my legs. Still uncomfortable. Weasels died in every show. All I got to eat, after. Semele’s shows are better. So’s the company. So’s the food.”
Rownie agreed. He was glad he didn’t have to do the Weasel Dance to keep himself fed—though a nightly meal of weasels would be better than no meal at all, and supper was rare in Graba’s household. Meals with the troupe were very much better.
He heard Graba’s voice in his head and memory. Did you eat what they gave you? Did you drink what they offered?
He checked his ears again to see if they had grown any pointier.
“How did the Change actually happen?” he asked, hoping for details. He wanted to know if he was Changing. He needed to know whether or not it would be a good thing if he did. “Was it from eating charmed food or something?”
Patch shook his head. “Can’t remember. Too long ago. Sorry.”
The sun set. The sky grew dusky and dim. The top of the ravine actually did seem closer now, and the view was just as wide and expansive as the one from the Fiddleway.
Something moved over Rownie’s head, and he heard pigeons. He felt the tips of wing feathers brush against his face as a pigeon dove between him and Patch.
It circled back around and dove again. Patch smacked it aside with his fishing pole. It screamed at him, indignant. More birds joined it with answering cries, and the air became a furious, screaming mess of wings and sharp feet. At least none of them are on fire, Rownie thought as he ducked beneath another dive-bombing pigeon. He tried to get the hatch open, to take shelter inside.
In one sudden moment, three birds flew at Patch’s face and knocked him off the wagon. He fell down and farther down.
Rownie crawled to the edge. He saw a splash far below them. That was all he saw.
Scene VIII
NONNY STOOD AT THE EDGE of the cliff and brandished a sling. She shot at the attacking birds until there were no more birds to shoot. Then the winch finished its work, and the crane hoisted the wagon up onto the ground.
Once they had untied the wagon, Nonny looped one foot through the dangling rope and hoisted herself back over the River, over the edge of the cliff.
“Find him,” said Semele. “Take the raft we left behind. We will meet you at home, yes.”
Nonny nodded, tugged on the rope, and plummeted down.
“He’ll be okay, won’t he?” Rownie asked.
“Patch can’t swim,” Essa said. She didn’t say anything after that.
; Rownie remembered the sight of Patch falling. Rownie watched him fall, and then watched again, and felt like he was falling with him.
In silence the troupe unfolded the gearworked mule and set off along Riverside Road, back toward the city. Rownie put his gloves and hat back on, to hide how unChanged he was.
They did not get very far.
At a crossroads, underneath the long shadow of a manor house and a few smaller shacks, a fallen tree blocked the road to Zombay. Children played a circle game near the tree, singing, “Tamlin, tinker man, beggar man, thief!” all together, all in one voice, and the one tagged “thief” had to chase the tagger around and around and around before the circle closed.
Rownie knew the game. He had played it before. He had run around the circle while Grubs sang the song. Curse thrower, charm monger, Change maker, thief! False face, fox face, clock face, thief!
The children stopped singing and stared at the wagon.
Rownie sat on the driving bench between Thomas and Essa. He peered out from underneath his own small hat and checked the faces of the children to make sure that none of them were Grubs. They weren’t Grubs. They wouldn’t be, this far outside the city.
“Can we go around?” Essa asked.
“No,” said Thomas. “We cannot go around. The crossing road leads to nowhere important in either direction.”
The old goblin climbed down from the bench and waved his cane angrily at the fallen tree.
“Why has no one in the village removed this roadblock? Why is no one doing so now? It is disrespectful to travelers to leave such a task until morning.”
The oldest and tallest of the local children came forward. “This is a town,” he said. “It’s not a village.” He said it with pride and disdain.
“Uh-oh,” Essa whispered.
“What is your name, boy?” Thomas asked, planting his cane firmly on the ground and leaning forward.
“Jansin,” the local boy said. He said it as though Thomas should recognize it, as though anyone and everyone should know who he was.
“This is not a town, young Jansin,” Thomas said. “This is a crossroads with a fancy house nearby, and I flattered the place to call it a village. And you should not, incidentally, be singing and cavorting at a crossroads. You might disturb the graves of innumerable scoundrels, buried here so that they can never find their way home to take up haunting. It is unwise to show disrespect to the dead—or to travelers, who have very far to go. Please fetch someone to help remove this tree.”
Jansin crossed his arms. He did not move otherwise. The other children gathered behind him.
“Why should we care about the crossroads-dead if they were all criminals?” he asked. “Why should we care about travelers if they’re only goblins?”
“This is not good,” Essa whispered. “Rownie, get ready to do something. I’m not sure what, but something. Probably grab Thomas and toss him in the back, so we can ride as fast as we can in some random direction.”
Thomas drew himself up to his full height. The top of his hat almost reached the boy’s shoulder. “Go on and wake the dead beneath you, if it pleases you to do so, but argue with me no further. My companions and I are weary and in grief.”
Jansin marched up to the wagon and pounded on the side with one hand. “You’ve got masks painted here,” he said. “So you’re players, then. Goblin players. Put on a show for us.”
The other smaller children cheered. “A show, a show!”
“We will not,” Thomas said. “We are weary, and we have far to go tonight.”
The boy tossed a coin to the ground. It was a large coin, and it looked to be silver.
Thomas stood over the silver, but he did not pick it up.
“Are you a merchant’s boy?” he asked. “No. You could not be. No one from a merchant’s household would throw wealth around so carelessly.”
“My family owns the biggest coalmaker shops in the city,” Jansin said. He said it with challenge, as though daring anyone to tell him that coalmaking was a dirty business.
“Ah,” said Thomas. “A buyer and seller of hearts. One who believes that any heart can therefore be bought or sold. Well, coal-boy, we do play for coin, and almost any coin—but not for yours.” He used the tip of his walking cane to flick the silver away. It rolled and wobbled back to Jansin. The boy scooped it up off the ground, flush-faced and angry. He threw it, hard, and knocked the hat from Thomas’s head.
“Oh, this is bad,” Essa said. “This is very bad.” She tightened her grip on the reins. “I wonder if Horace could jump over that tree? He’s never jumped before, but we could try it.”
Rownie climbed down from the wagon on the opposite side, out of sight. He ditched his hat and gloves and circled around behind the crowd of children. Their attention was elsewhere. No one saw him in the dusk light. No one noticed Rownie standing behind them, just barely among them. No one noticed that he was unfamiliar.
Thomas, meanwhile, picked up his own huge hat, dusted it carefully, and set it back on his head. Then he unsheathed a thin sword from the length of his cane and held it such that the tip of the blade almost touched the tip of Jansin’s nose.
“I will have an apology from you,” Thomas said. His voice was calm, quiet, and cold.
Jansin glared, clearly afraid, clearly unwilling to take a step backward. The old goblin held his sword steady.
Everyone waited to see what would happen next.
Then a small hatch opened in the side of the wagon with a bang and a snap. Oil lamps burned in bright colors around it. Cheerful music played from one of the music boxes inside.
An intricate wooden puppet in gentleman’s clothes popped through the open hatch.
“Welcome!” the puppet said in a voice that was almost Semele’s. “Welcome, one and everyone! The evening’s entertainment will now begin!”
The crowd of children pushed forward to gather near the puppet stage.
Thomas sheathed his sword and stood aside with a mutter and a grumble. “Unhitch the mule, Essa,” he said. “Help me tie it to that tree. The metal beast had better be strong enough to move it aside.”
Jansin smiled, smug. He had demanded a show from them, and now he had gotten his way.
Rownie looked for the silver coin. He couldn’t help but look for it. He had never even seen silver before. He didn’t find it—one of the other smaller children must have picked it up first. Rownie gave up and pushed through the crowd to stand behind Jansin. The older boy might still be inclined to pick a fight, and if he fought the rest would fight with him.
The show began.
“I hope there’s blood and guts in it!” one of the children said, hopping up and down on her toes with excitement.
An elegant lady puppet took the stage. Semele’s voice sang a story behind it.
Rownie tried to watch the puppet show and Jansin at the same time. It wasn’t easy, and he was distracted by other puppet shows in his head and memory. Rowan used to make shadow puppets against the walls of Graba’s shack—when he still lived in Graba’s shack. He could make shadows of sailing ships and animals, horses and goats and scampering molekeys. He could make silhouettes of people in tall hats or long gowns. Even the loudest and the rudest Grubs would watch and listen. Rownie always held the candle—a dangerous thing to hold over the straw-covered floor, but he was careful. His favorite shadow puppet was the bird, because that was the only one he could manage to make himself, with thumbs hooked together and fingers making feathers. Rowan had promised to teach Rownie how to twist his hands into other puppet shapes, but he hadn’t gotten around to it yet.
The audience of children laughed at something on the little stage. Rownie shook his head, trying to shake out the shadows, and paid better attention.
Semele’s voice sang a story about the lady puppet, who lived alone with a witchworked mirror. The mirror on the stage wasn’t actually a mirror. It was just an empty picture frame with another puppet behind it. The Lady looked inside, and the matching puppet
behind the frame mirrored her movements perfectly for as long as the Lady was watching—and then waved at the audience whenever the Lady looked away.
The mirror had been witchworked to show the Lady a young and childish reflection early in the day and an ancient reflection in the evening. The Lady learned how to reach into the mirror in the mornings and yank her own reflection through the frame and onto the floor. She did this several times, morning after morning, until many child puppets bustled around the stage with her.
Rownie wondered how Semele could possibly move them all at once. She was the only one in the wagon, so she had to be the only puppeteer, but each of the several puppets moved as though directed by a living hand. It was easy to believe that they were alive themselves, even though Rownie could see that each was a thing made of cloth and wood, carved and painted.
In the story, the Lady kept all of these mirror children as slaves and servants.
“She had only herself
For her own company—
But she kept many selves of herself.
It was they did the sweeping
And all the housekeeping
And dusted the books on their shelf.
She harvested selves
In the hours of each morning
When reflections were not very old.
She commanded them all,
Her own selves while yet small,
And herselves did just what they were told:
Until the cruel Lady made coal.”
All the little puppets bustled offstage again. The Lady stood alone and put both wooden hands beneath her wooden chin. She looked harsh—mostly because of the way her sharp eyebrows were painted on. Then she shivered, her small arms wrapped around her puppet frame. The windows of her chamber grew dark and gray. Rain pattered against the back of the small stage. One of the young reflections came in with a broom, and the lady puppet loomed over her.
The next part of the show was unsettling to see. The Lady reached into the chest of her smaller self and removed something red. The little puppet fell over. There was no stage blood, or any other gruesome special effect, but Rownie still felt uncomfortable. He shifted his weight between one foot and the other. Some of the more squeamish local children squeaked.
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