The dwarf gave him a hearty slap on the small of his back. ‘That’s the spirit!’ He looked about the octagonal little room, nodding over the bit of rag stuffed into knotholes and the sad pine needle bed. ‘Bearing up,’ he muttered, shaking his head sadly, as if genuinely sorry for Escargot’s plight. ‘Plan to winter here, do you?’
Escargot cast Leta a look, suddenly ashamed of his borrowed quarters. ‘No. I’ve got a few things to do. A man can’t sit idle, can he? Since you know the short of it anyway, the long of it is that I’m waiting for this business with the house to be settled. My house, that is. Or at least it was mine. I’ve been led to understand that I’m likely to lose it. Public opinion hereabouts favors my wife, who, with the baby and all, needs a place to live. And I’m not one to argue with that, am I? I’m not one to raise questions about why the child shouldn’t just come along downriver with me. For that matter, why Annie and I shouldn’t have the house and the wife leave. It was her idea, wasn’t it? Not mine.’ Escargot stopped himself. This was no one’s trouble but his own. And here was Leta, looking sorrowful, strangely silent. It suddenly occurred to him that he ought to bring up the wife and child less often around her. Why had she sought him out, anyway? Certainly not to listen to him carry on about his troubles. Should he offer them a seat on the floor, he wondered, wishing that it weren’t too late to stroll into town. But the only tavern left open at that hour would be Stover’s, and that wouldn’t do.
‘Have you spoken to the judge?’ asked Uncle Helstrom, tamping his pipe and squinting up at Escargot.
‘I almost hit him in the eye. Leta was there. There’s not much need for judges in Twombly Town, actually, so they just ask for volunteers. A man named Stover holds office now, and has for three years. No one else wants the job. What decent man would? Put his neighbor in a cell for taking an extra drink. Take a man’s child away from him because this judge, mind you, has an eye toward the man’s wife and wants the child into the bargain. No, I didn’t talk to the judge.’
‘Well,’ said the dwarf, shaking his head knowingly, ‘I don’t hold any particular sway in these parts, but I have certain – what can I call them? – methods, let’s say, which I can bring to bear. Do you follow me?’
‘I suppose so,’ replied Escargot, not wanting to look foolish. His opinion of the uncle was growing. Here was a man who saw things clearly, who went to the nub. Had he come all the way upriver from Hightower Village to lend another man a hand? Escargot found himself smiling at Leta again. She nodded and winked, as if to say that here, in this little man, lay Escargot’s hope, perhaps both their hopes.
‘Now, sir,’ said the dwarf. ‘I didn’t come all the way upriver from Hightower Village entirely on a mission of mercy. I wish I could say I did, because if it was true, it would make me a better man than I am. And there isn’t one among us that wouldn’t profit – morally speaking, of course – from being a better man than we are, is there?’
Escargot agreed that there wasn’t. Uncle Helstrom’s humility and wisdom seemed suddenly boundless to him.
‘And at the same time I can see, with my own eyes, and I know, in my own heart, flawed as it is, that a good man shouldn’t be living like this, bearing up or no. Not when his rightful house and property sit waiting for him up the road. No, sir. He should not. He must not. And so your business, I’m trying to say, must take precedent over my own.’
‘Uncle!’ cried Leta, in such a fearful tone of voice that Escargot jumped. The girl seemed on the verge of tears –as if there were something in her uncle’s generosity that spelled ruin for the little man, as if the dwarf were so wholeheartedly charitable that another man’s good fortune was more precious to him than his own. Escargot, for the second time that evening, could barely speak.
‘Quiet, girl,’ said the dwarf, whacking his stick against the dirt floor in a spirit of righteous determination. The end of the staff, shod in brass, struck sparks from the dirt, to the amazement of Escargot, and the sparks seemed to lend a spiritual force to his decision, whatever that decision had been. Escargot was bound, of course, to find out. He reminded himself of his code.
But he couldn’t let himself be out-virtued by Uncle Helstrom. At least it must appear as if he struggled against it. Here was Leta, after all, hoping, perhaps, that Escargot himself was the equal of her uncle, that in Escargot lay unmined depths, laden with emeralds of good will, rubies of self-sacrifice. ‘My business,’ said Escargot stoutly, ‘will have to hold until morning. Late morning. Our man Stover isn’t an early riser. So let’s hear about your business, sir. I’m entirely at your service.’
The dwarf stood for a moment as if contemplating, wrestling with his better instincts, then nodded. ‘My niece has spoken of you often, young man.’ He paused for a moment and looked into the lit bowl of his pipe, grinning slightly as if happy to have seen Escargot’s face brighten at the mention of his niece. ‘You share, she says, a number of– what shall we call them? – common interests, perhaps, and that you’ve held earnest conversations about things artistic and philosophic’ Escargot nodded, happy to hear himself referred to as a philosopher. This was a decidedly superior uncle. His odd appearance was merely eccentric. And there was nothing at all wrong with eccentricity. Escargot liked to think of himself as something of an eccentric.
‘She mentioned, my good fellow, a certain bag of marbles. Red agate marbles. A bit above the average in size – of the type, in fact, that a child might refer to as a “shooter.” I believe she said you’d gotten them from a wandering bunjo man.’
‘Right as rain,’ said Escargot, vaguely troubled at this unexpected turn. He inadvertently patted the bulge under his coat.
‘I feel duty bound to tell you that those are very valuable marbles, young man. Very valuable marbles. Guard them well.’
‘Thank you,’ said Escargot, doubly puzzled and leaping just a bit with surprise when he discovered Leta standing beside him, outlined in the open door of the room. The fog had thinned outside, and it swirled by now in patches on the wind. For a moment the moon shone through it in sudden silver illumination like a fogfish disappearing beneath the surface of the Oriel, and made Leta’s dark hair glow with misty, reflected light. It seemed, for that one moment, that her skin was almost transparent, that she was a wraith or a delicate porcelain doll so finely wrought that the porcelain was like frosted glass. Then the fog settled in again and the moon winked out and Escargot found that Leta’s arm was around his shoulder and that she was gazing at him meaningfully. He grinned at Uncle Helstrom and looked down at his feet, noting with horror that the tongues of both shoes had betrayed him and protruded from beneath their laces and that the cuff of one of his trouser legs had come unstitched and had fallen out.
‘What my uncle means to say ...’ Leta began earnestly.
‘Leta, my girl,’ interrupted Uncle Helstrom in a voice full of doubt. ‘I really don’t ...’
‘What he means is that those marbles would be of particular use to him at the moment. He is engaged in certain experiments, certain very vital experiments, and for reasons that baffle me, those particular marbles are of monumental importance to him.’
‘Absolutely,’ put in Uncle Helstrom, his face taking on a serious look.
‘In fact,’ Leta continued, ‘not three months ago those were his. They were stolen from his laboratory above Hightower Village and perhaps were sold or traded to the bunjo man you told me about in the tavern that day.’
‘Oh, I say,’ said Escargot, not knowing entirely what to say beyond that.
‘I went off downriver, if you want to know the truth, to alert Uncle.’ With that, Leta began crying and buried her face in her hands.
‘There, there,’ said Escargot, putting his hand around her shoulders now and giving her a squeeze. Uncle Helstrom looked into his pipe bowl again.
‘A man can’t just stroll in and make demands, can he?’ continued the uncle. ‘You’ve bought the marbles, fair and square, and, as I say, their value is inestimable, especi
ally to a man of science like myself. Where do you have them, by the way, in a vault?’
‘Why no,’ began Escargot, feeling the lump of the marble bag against his chest. ‘Not entirely. That is to say, I had thought of making some such arrangement, but to be absolutely truthful, with this recent business and all ...’
‘Of course, of course, of course,’ said Uncle Helstrom. ‘I understand utterly. Haven’t lost them though?’
‘Oh, no. No. They’re safe. Here they are, as a matter of fact. Excuse me.’ And with that Escargot wrestled off his coat, cringing at the sight of his elbow thrust through the sleeve of his worn-out shirt, and hauled the marble bag off from around his neck. ‘They’re yours, sir. Take them. What I payed for them was a pittance. And anyway, I don’t fancy myself a man of property anymore.’
‘You’re too good,’ said the dwarf, waving his hand at the marbles, ‘but you haven’t got any reason to be so generous.’
‘And you hadn’t any reason for your generous offer to speak to Mr Stover in the morning, had you?’
Uncle Helstrom shrugged. ‘I’ll tell you what, lad. I’ll make you an offer. I admire your contempt for property –there is nothing more admirable, as far as I can see. But a man has to eat, hasn’t he? And a man doesn’t like to sleep on pine needles, does he? Because it doesn’t matter how much you mash the things down, there’s still a half dozen pricking you through your clothes all night long. And what’s this?’ he asked, pointing with his foot at the little earthen bowl of pickled fish that sat on a stone next to the pine-needle bed, ‘Dinner?’ He shook his head sadly. ‘It looks as if it might have been alive once, doesn’t it? What was it, fish? The goblins wouldn’t eat it, would they? No, sir, a man can give up property. Damn all property. But he can’t give up his health, can he? He can’t give up –what is it that he can’t give up? – the civilizing influences of a good meal and a glass of ale. Here, sir; here are enough gold pieces to see you through the winter. Keep the marbles against hard time. That’s what I advise. If you’re shrewd, you can do well with them. I’ll get by. I quite likely won’t see the end of my experiments anyway. I ... Hush, child,’ he said to Leta, who had begun to weep again, then he heaved a sigh, heavy with the weight of unexpressed weariness.
‘Take the marbles, for heaven’s sake!’ cried Escargot. ‘They just give me nightmares anyway. What in the world am I going to do with them, catch fish? I’ll just trade them away for trinkets. And this gold, sir, there’s really no need ...’
‘Of course there’s need. If I were down and out and came to you, what then? Would you give me a handful of gold and then take it back? No you would not. The gold has nothing to do with the marbles. It can’t have. The marbles can’t be valued so. They’re enchanted, I don’t mind saying. Money can’t buy enchantment – not that sort anyway. But I will take the marbles – on loan. Yes, I insist. There will be no discussion of it. You’ll have them back in a week. And in the meantime, as collateral, you’ll take this.’
Uncle Helstrom reached into his cloak and pulled out a bag of his own, tied off at the top with a leather thong. ‘This, my boy, is a truth charm. If it’s the truth you need, this’ll give it to you. In spades.’
Escargot took the bag from him and tugged at the thong, wondering what a truth charm might look like. He imagined windup chattering teeth of the sort you’d buy at a joke shop and leave on your wife’s pillow as a lark.
‘Don’t open it here,’ cried Uncle Helstrom, putting a hand on his wrist. ‘Avoid opening it at all. It’s very powerful magic that lies within that bag, and magic like that oughtn’t to be meddled with unless it’s desperately necessary. Do you grasp my meaning?’
Escargot nodded, handing over the marbles and hanging the truth charm in its place. ‘Collateral isn’t at all necessary, actually, not between friends.’
‘I’m rather a businessman in my own way,’ said the dwarf shrewdly. ‘Business, as they say, is business, and friendship is another thing altogether. I’ve studied, my boy, in the school of regret.’ And with that he shook his head and gave Escargot a look – the look a teacher might favor a student with when he’s reached a really solid and weighty conclusion.
‘Are these the Smithers books?’ asked Leta, having regained her composure.
‘Yes they are. Take a look at the top copy – The Man in the Moon.’
‘Ooh,’ said Leta, flipping it open to the frontispiece. ‘Here’s the page of manuscript laid in. And an inscription, too. Aren’t you the lucky one.’
‘Would you like to have it?’ asked Escargot, filled suddenly with generosity.
‘Oh I couldn’t.’
‘Of course you could. Just don’t set it back down. Who knows, perhaps you’ll let me visit it sometime.’
‘Anytime you’d like,’ said the girl, smiling and closing the book.
Escargot nearly pitched over. This is more like it, he thought to himself, remembering Leta’s cool and sensible rebuff on the street just days earlier. He must have had a more pronounced effect on her than he’d thought. Uncle Helstrom nodded and grinned, happy, it seemed, to see his favored niece treated so.
‘In a week, then, let’s say, I’ll return this bag of marbles. But I’ll look you up in town, then – won’t I? – and you’ll be in a position to stand me to a glass of ale. Then I’ll do the same for you.’ With that he drew a pocket watch out of his cloak and looked at it with evident surprise. ‘Late, late, late,’ he said, clicking his tongue. ‘We’ve got to be off, haven’t we? Come along, niece. And by the way, by ten o’clock tomorrow morning your man Stover will have heard from me. I’d pay him a visit if I were you and beard him on the issue of the settlement. I think I can guarantee you he’ll see reason.’
Together the dwarf and the girl stepped out into the night and without a backward glance strode away through the fog, carrying his marbles and his signed Smithers, and leaving Escargot standing in the doorway, conscious of the fact that the three of them had been standing all along, that he had been reduced to such a state that he couldn’t even offer a friend a chair. He looked at his pocketful of gold coins, then picked up his bowl of fish and pitched it out the door and onto the meadow. He’d see Stover in the morning, all right. He’d take a room at Stover’s tavern is what he’d do, and he’d drink up a pint or two of Stover’s ale with Stover’s scowling face to flavor it. And if Stover complained, maybe he’d pop him one on the beezer, just for good measure.
He lay down on his pine needles, wrapped his blanket around his feet, and pulled his jacket tight, then watched the three candles burn themselves into little heaps of wax. Finally he drifted toward sleep, thinking of Leta and of last laughs, his thoughts swirling together into mist. Hovering within the mist was a vaguely familiar face, watching him, leering, perhaps. Before he could rouse himself enough to identify it, to focus on it, he was asleep, untroubled at last by nightmares.
3
Stover Has His Way
Escargot awoke to a clear dawn sky. The mists of the night before had fled, the distant hills had shrugged off their mantle of fog, and the sun rose hot and enormous in the east. It was a perfect day for doing nothing, for bathing in the river – a perfect day, that is, if a man had nothing better to do with his time and no better place to take a bath. A man with a pocketful of gold, though, a man who was a friend of Mr Abner Helstrom, that man could make better use of his time.
‘Time to pitch the bed out,’ Escargot said aloud, and then handful by handful he hauled pine needles out of the little room and scattered them over the meadow. Then he lay his blanket out over the ground, piled all but one of his Smithers books into the center of it, gathered the corners, and heaved the whole thing over his shoulder before setting out toward the river. It seemed, taken all the way around, that it was time to move to better quarters.
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 a
gainst 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.
The Stone Giant Page 4