"I guess you're right. Very well, I'll meet you when this business is over. And this time, don't turn into a monster."
"I'll try not to. Good luck." Roger waved and walked across the bridge, clicking his staff on the rough stones of the railing.
Now that Prospero was alone, he found that he wanted to smoke. Out came the stubby brier and the tin matchbox with the nutmeg-grater sides. Brrrip! went the match, and it shot little pin sparks before flaming an acrid yellow. Prospero lit his pipe and threw the match into the water, where it sank like a nail. It gave a skyrockety ka-foosh, and the whole river under and around the bridge was lit up. Awakened fish swam in little flipping darts and a turtle started to swim toward the surface. Prospero was leaning over the rail and laughing at the idiocy and essential triviality of a wizard who made magic matches. He laughed until he realized that he hadn't the faintest idea of how to destroy a bridge.
And now, the soldiers were coming. He could hear them clanking and stomping, and over the black horizon was a bouncing orange glimmer. They must be about two hills away, he thought. Bridges. How to destroy a bridge. No time to go riffling through the book, and anyway he knew he wouldn't find anything there. Tarot cards? Ha! Well, it was worth a try, and from the sounds up the road, he would only have one try. He dug into the bag and brought out a pack of tarot cards in a painted cardboard case. But, which ones to use? Some sort of logic had to be followed, and it would take several years to try all possible combinations. What about the four aces at the corners and the tower struck by lightning in the center? All right, but hurry!
He ran from one corner of the bridge to the other. Using candle wax to hold down the cards, he put the aces of cups, coins, staves, and swords on the four rail ends of the bridge. The wind had died down, so it was easy to hold the cards in place. A whack of his hand squashed the pasteboard against the wax. Now, he was in the middle of the bridge again, holding the tower card that signifies madness and destruction. He pasted it to the center of the bridge, on the pentagonal block that lined up with the two keystones. Stamping on the card with his heel, he shouted:
"Bridge, break! Stones, crack!"
He was not surprised when nothing happened. The duty straw-covered stones were still in place. The fern-capitaled marble columns that Bishop Hatto had stolen from a church still held up their load. And, the soldiers were coming.
They were at the top of the hill that looked down on the bridge. A cluster of shiny blood flashed kettles with dark bristled faces underneath. Tipping pike poles and pendulum-swaying chain maces. Prospero stood and watched them come. They probably can't see me yet, he thought, with those blazing torches and a moonless night. He walked to the rail and relit his pipe. The troop halted at the edge of the bridge with a dishpan clatter. Their leader squinted into the darkness for a minute, and then, he handed his torch to someone. He drew his sword, a plain iron blade without bosses or jewels. Now, his feet were clumping on the pavement.
Prospero felt the ragged blade point touch his beard.
"Well, old man, what are you doing here?"
"Looking at the fish, an it please Your Lordship." Prospero tipped his hat and blew smoke out of the corners of his mouth.
"Really? In the dark? You'll be able to see them better from the bottom of the river."
"Ah, but I won't be able to smoke in all that wet, will I?"
Prospero raised his arm and threw his pipe on the stones, where it burst with a sudden red flash that lit the faces of the two men. A second after came an aerial-bomb thud that hurt the ears of everyone standing near. The leader's sword flew into the air and came down looking like a big buttonhook. He ran back, holding his ears, and little corkscrewing ribbons of fire screeched after the army, as they turned into a colliding, shouting metal thicket that hustled away down the road.
Prospero stood there wishing that he knew how to destroy bridges. An image came back that had registered in his mind when he first saw the bridge. One of the staring stone wardens had a little crack around his neck. Prospero ran to the figure, pulled off the head, and with a sudden heave, threw it off the bridge. The carved lump hit the mud with a thock, and now, he could see a little square hole in the neck. A piece of paper was in it. Without stopping to read the charm, which might have been interesting at another time, Prospero tore it up and went back to the middle of the bridge. He tapped the card with his staff.
"Bridge, break!"
The mate of the headless statue pitched forward on its face, one of the mossy coats of arms fell into the stream, the pillars shook in their muddy sockets, and the bridge started to lurch in hiccupy spasms. But, it did not collapse.
The soldiers were coming back now, shouting. Prospero thumped his staff as if he was churning butter, all the while shouting, "Break, blast you, break!" When the soldiers were on the bridge again, bill points lowered for a charge, they saw a sweating old man throw down his stick. He took the remaining cards from his pocket and threw them in the air. A fountain of orange-and-black strips fell around him. The cloud of cards started to whirl and a stiff streaming wind began to blow between the high curbs of the bridge, freezing the little army in the act of charging, so that for a moment, it looked like a statuary group. Then, they were blowing down the road, skidding on rocks and vaulting very professionally on bending pike staffs. The wind blew them flat to the ground and kept on blowing. Five miles away, the innkeeper of Five Dials was emptying a tub of dishwater in his back yard, a little alcove in the cup of the overhanging cliff. He heard a whizzing overhead and looked up to see the copper weather-cock spinning into a blurry ball. As he watched in stupid amazement, he heard a bang out in front. Peeking around the shingled corner, he saw a helmet rocking in the road like a little round boat.
Back at the bridge, Prospero was running on a pitching stone deck. Slime-haired blocks popped up and fell into the stream. He heard long roar and many heavy splashes behind him, and suddenly, he was standing on a tipping pile of stones. One arm heaved the bag to the bank; the other threw the staff spinning into the dark grass. A standing broad jump brought him to the bank, where he fell into a clump of thistles. He rolled out of it and sat there with little forked burrs littering his robe. A shadow moved over his head as one of the stone men-there were two on this side as well-stood up on grinding stone knees, raising a thick sword in blocky fists.
The glum face nodded, the knees cracked, and the statue, sitting in his chair again, slid backwards down the bank.
At Bishops Bowes, the first thing Prospero saw was Roger sitting on a keg of onions in the middle of the empty street. He was smoking and staring placidly around at empty windows.
"They're all gone," he said. "They were gone when I got here. I suppose the news got to them and they fled to some castle. How did your bridge go?"
"I tell you about it later," said Prospero, who was still picking burrs out of his robe. "What are we going to do now?"
"Well, I've looked around the town. There are two horses left in the stable here. I suggest that we take them and leave some money. It's a long way to the mountains, and you can feel that something is gathering. I felt it all the way up here from the bridge."
"But, I can't ride a horse!" said Prospero. "You know that. I was frightened of ponies when I was a child. And, it won't do you any good to give me riding lessons, I'm still scared."
"Fine figure of a wizard" said Roger, chuckling, "Ah, me. You'll never guess what I'm going to do. Or try to do. Come on."
Roger led the way out of the little town to a thickly planted and weedy garden. The black mucky soil sprouted string beans in pale green clusters-their pods felt sticky and furry to Prospero as he bent down to look at them-the delicate ferny tops of carrots, big clumpish cabbages, and tomato vines on leaning crutches. Roger passed these by. He was looking for something else.
Prospero suddenly knew what was going on. "Oh, good heavens! Great elephantine, cloudy, adamant heavens full of thunder stones! Roger! You can't be serious. Are you?"
Roger wa
s looking around and drumming his forefinger against his teeth. "If I were serious, I would never have become a wizard, would I? The fact that it's been done before doesn't stop it from happening again. And, we've got to get there somehow."
"There are no pumpkins in this garden," said Prospero. "Anyone can see that." He reached up a vine and broke off a tomato. The slippery red flesh was already getting loose and wrinkly. "Here. Work on this."
"Thanks," said Roger sourly. "We'll see. And, wouldn't you be surprised."
"I would," said Prospero. "And, I'm watching. What kind of spell are you going to use?"
"Something appropriately silly," said Roger. "Hum. Те tum. Oh, tum te tum. "Awe bleteth after lamb, Ihuth after calve cu'... ah!"
He put the tomato down in the middle of a patch of spear-bladed weeds. Touching it with his wand, he recited calmly:
"Higgeldy-piggeldy
Saint Athanasius
Riffled through volumes
In unseemly haste;
"Trying to find out if
(Hagiographically)
John of Jerusalem
Liked almond paste."
At first, the tomato just wobbled foolishly on its platform of weeds. Then, it swelled and spun into a reddish cloud of gaseous bromine-deadly if inhaled-which gradually took the shape of a carriage. Unfortunately, it was the kind of carriage you would expect from an overripe tomato: a large sagging purse of red leather on prickly green wheels. As Prospero and Roger watched disgustedly, the wet jowly bag collapsed, oozing ketchup from many slurping cracks.
"Care for a bean?" said Prospero.
"You be quiet. Just be quiet. Look, there's more to this garden. Come on."
They walked farther in, stepping over rows of parsnips and cauliflowers. Vines, finally, and on them, knobbly green-streaked yellow squashes When Roger picked one up, he noticed that it was rotten black underneath: Yellow strings of pulp and seeds hung from the caved-tn belly of the plant. One after another he turned them up, and they were all like that. He was about to give up when he saw a little streak of orange under an intricately knotted pile of vines. This squash was solid; he thubbed his staff against its goose-pimpled sides.
"This will do nicely. All right, stand back."
"Higgeldy-piggeldy
John Cantacuzene
Swaddled in Byzantine
Pearl-seeded robes
"Put out the eyes of his
Iconophanical
Prelate, for piercing his
Priestly ear lobes."
The squash flew into a saffron-powder rage, and when the dust settled, there was a square black Amish-style box carnage. It smelled faintly of kerosene, the leather-strap springs were cracked, but it looked serviceable. On the doors and ceiling, for some reason, were dusky paintings of river landscapes, and the black horsehair-filled upholstery had silver ashtrays set into its tufted armrests. Two bull's-eye oil lamps burned on the front.
"There!" said Roger. "Lets get those horses."
The two wizards went north. For days, they rode across flat tableland where nothing, but long yellowed grass and dusty goldenrod grew. In the distance, you might see a tree or one of those tall watchtowers that the Northerners built. Those towers were not like anything seen in the south; Round, narrow, and with pointed stone roofs, they looked like huge candles,-usually they had three floors, connected by ladders, that could be pulled up through holes in case of attack. You could not hold out for long in them if you were besieged, but a fire could be lit on the upper story and the smoke could be seen for miles. Once Prospero, and Roger found one of these towers planted next to the road on which they were traveling. It was night and there were soldiers outside, sitting around a peat fire. They were not laughing, drinking, or telling stories. Instead, they sat grimly hunched over, poking the fire with their spears and wearing their acorn helmets. Long narrow nose pieces, fire-shadowed, made their faces look evil. They must have heard the carriage rattling along miles away, but none of them looked up as it rolled past, spitting gravel. They were waiting for something else.
The few scattered towns of the North were usually hidden under the lee of a low hill; or you might find houses scattered through the trees of a little grove, or grouped at the foot of a landscaped and terraced hill of farmed fields. On top, there was always a castle without battlements, a long oval wall of odd-shaped heaped stones, pierced by cruciform loopholes. The carriage passed several of these dumpy forts, but never came close to any of them, Prospero, using his brassbound telescope, could see that the fields were untended, and that the drawbridges were up.
In the roadside towns, the wizards picked up stories and rumors. One man told how frost formed on the windows at night, though it was only the middle of September. There were no scrolls or intricate fern leaves, no branching overlaid star clusters; instead, people saw seasick wavy lines, disturbing maps that melted into each other and always seemed on the verge of some recognizeable, but fearful shape. At dawn, the frost melted, always in the same way: At first, two black eye holes formed, and then, a long steam-lipped mouth that spread and ate up the wandering white picture. In some towns, people talked of clouds that formed long opening mouths. One man in the town of Edgebrake sat up all night, staring at a little smiling cookie jar made in the shape of a fat monk; it stood on a high cupboard shelf, smiling darkly amid shadows. The man would not tell anyone what was wrong, or what he thought was wrong. Doors opened at night inside some houses, and still shadows that could not be cast by firelight fell across beds and floors. People who lived near forests and groves dreamed that the trees were calling to their children; in the daytime, pools of shadow that floated trembling around the trees seemed darker than they should have been, and when the children showed an unusually strong desire to play in the woods, panicked parents locked them indoors. Voices rose from empty wells, and men locked their doors at dusk.
One night, after weeks of travel, Prospero and Roger were sitting around a fire they had made near a peat bog. Orion burned cold and tilted overhead in a sky that seemed emptier than it should have been. The chill was close around them, and even in their woolen high-collared cloaks, they felt that they were sitting in a wet cellar. There was none of the bracing windy cold of the empty northern fields-just clinging, bad-smelling damp. Prospero was reading his large handwritten book, and Roger, whose legs had gone numb, got up to walk around. He walked past the carriage and stopped suddenly. There was a man standing by the horses. He was wearing a coarse-spun cloak and a furry hat pulled down over his ears, and he was touching the horses with the tips of his fingers. Not petting them, just touching them to see if they were real. Roger stood there and watched him, his hand resting on the steamed-up nickel surface of one carriage lamp. When the man looked up and saw the bearded face gruesomely foot lighted, he jumped back with a sucked-in yelp, as if he had slummed his hand down on a nail.
"Yes," said Roger. "I'm real, too. We won't hurt you." He was trying to look kind, but he felt more like laughing. Prospero got up and walked over to join them, his book slung under his arm.
"Then, please, sir," said the man, "and you too, sir, will you see me home? I live five miles down the road and I'm afraid."
"Of what? Bandits?" Prospero asked the question, knowing that "bandits" would not be the answer.
"Come with me and I'll show you. You are men of magic. I am not so foolish that I can't see that. There are no carriages like this on our roads. Come with me."
All three men got into the dusty black carriage; Roger sat in the middle, holding the reins, and when they were sure they had all their gear, he clucked to the horses and the wheels swished through the tan wet weeds. The road they turned onto was a well-kept branch of the Great Way, a major highway broad enough for two wide wagons to pass; this stretch of it was bordered by a low wall of brown square-cut sandstone. The running lamplight flickered on a stone cross, one of the milestones marking the distance from the Feasting Hill to the Brown River. Rigid stone saints, their faces washe
d empty by rain, clung to the wheel that bound the arms of the cross together. The farmer leaned out the window and pointed at the marker.
"Its not far now. Yes, there it is!"
They stopped at the edge of a walled graveyard. In the bright moonlight, a slate-roofed chapel stood under the dripping yellow leaves of a huge half-dead willow. Prospero and Roger got out and followed the farmer over a rickety wooden stile. Inside the yard were narrow roof-shaped tombs-replicas of the coffin lids that rotted below-flat, thick, ground-level slabs, and church-window-pointed uprights. Years of weathering had peeled irregular paper-thin layers from the slabs, so that the remaining letters lay in puddles and islands of flint. The farmer, kneeling, pointed to a long stone that was cracked into six or seven jagged pieces.
"Look at these. Tell me what this means, if you can."
The broken words, some filled with dark blobs of moss, said "empty," "dark," "hollow," "doomed." All the gravestones were alike. The words repeated were the same-nothing else was left.
Roger gently grasped the man's shaking arm.
"Come. We'll take you home."
As they left the churchyard, Prospero turned to look the little chapel. The willow's limp strings were moving over the broken shingles in an ugly caressing way. There were letters on the slates:
IT IS NOT LONG TIL-
He saw that "TIL" had had two Ls-the second had slid halfway down the roof.
A few miles down the road the carriage stopped at the farmer's cottage, a whitewashed oblong topped by two lumpy haystack gables. In the two upper windows, scowling jack-o'-lanterns burned-Southerners had started the custom, and it had spread among folk who thought amulets and hex signs were not enough to keep away night creatures. The Dutch door of the cottage was open at the top, and the strong-looking woman who leaned over the sill was silhouetted in orange firelight. She held, not a broom, but a short pike pole. The farmer called to her.
The Face in the Frost Page 10