The Stone Giant

by James P. Blaylock

  Above them on the hill the house burned. The third story and attic were full of flames, which roared out the broken window and licked the eaves. In the second-floor window, peering past lace curtains that hung like cobweb, stood the old woman, the witch, as if gazing at the turmoil that raged below her. Escargot dropped his oar at the sight of her. It was clear that she was watching, blind or no; but she wasn’t merely watching the turmoil, she was watching Leta.

  Escargot picked up his oar, held it in both hands before him at waist height as if it were a fence rail and he were about to vault over it, and ran up the hill, knocking goblins aside in a wide swath. He didn’t want to clobber any elves. Whatever the nature of the struggle on the hill, being elves they were quite obviously on his side – that is to say, against the dwarf. They seemed surprised to see him, which of course they would be, and were doubly surprised when he latched onto Leta’s arm, kicked loose a goblin that had her by the leg, and set out at a run downhill toward the river. His goal was simple. He’d haul her to the rowboat, cast off, and make straightaway to the submarine. They’d come about and lay on full steam, as it were, for Landsend. They’d leave the lot of them behind – elves, goblins, dwarf, and witch – to sort out the mess. They could bite and poke at each other until doomsday.

  A resounding crash sounded behind them, and Escargot couldn’t help but look back. Half the roof had caved in, dumping burning lumber onto the ground, the flames leaping almost at once up the shingled wall, and even as the two of them watched, it seemed that the entire farmhouse, from cellar to attic, was suddenly aflame. The door burst open and the dwarf and witch tumbled out like penny gumballs out of a machine, gasping and bent and pawing the air, then stumbling to their feet and making away toward the trees. The elves, having raced downhill to avoid the collapsing roof, raced up it again, chased by goblins and in the wake of the fleeing dwarf. All the better for them, thought Escargot, smiling at Leta and winning a smile in return, and without a word they set out once more, concerned only with flight.

  As they ran a fog rose off the river. It was dense and gray and heavy, as if it were the ghost of the river itself, and a chill breeze sprang up before it, swirling the mist this way and that in little tendrils. Leta jerked Escargot to a halt, twisted loose, and turned as if to run from the fog. ‘Quickly!’ she cried, out of breath and in deadly earnest, but the swirling reek, like a little wind devil spawned of the enchanted river, soared up the hill on the freshening breeze and engulfed the both of them.

  ‘Leta!’ shouted Escargot, grabbing for her. But he found himself holding nothing at all, and her answering shout floated half uttered in the mist. She was gone. Vanished. Just as she’d disappeared yesterday evening at sunset. Sunset, Escargot muttered. Fog. Sunset and fog. All of this had to do with sunlight, didn’t it? He turned hopelessly back toward the river, slouching along through the thinning murk toward the rowboat. He wouldn’t see Leta again, not that day. He was sure of it. In an hour the sun would set, and he’d bet dollars to doughnuts that if he scoured Balumnia with a lawn rake all night long he’d find no trace of her – quite simply because she wouldn’t be there.

  When she’d appeared with Uncle Helstrom – that had been at night. It had been the witch then, not Leta. And again, in the Widow’s windmill, Leta had vanished when the setting sun had struck her face. She had become the old woman. The same thing had happened in Seaside – hadn’t it? He’d chased her through the streets until night had fallen, and with evening she’d vanished, winked away, and there was the old woman, again. The house in Landsend – he’d found her there at night again; that was the old woman, not Leta. The pattern was clear. It was like goblin gold, exactly like goblin gold – enchantment that dissolved in the sunlight. Darkness and fog would mask it, but sunlight would expose it. Somehow, for some unfathomable, monstrous purpose, Leta was snatched away by night and hauled along upriver, possessed by the witch. Leta’s wraith, heaven knew, might be hovering roundabout him in the air at that moment, crying out in a voice that only spirits could hear. He slumped onto the center thwart of the rowboat, returning the oar to its place underneath.

  The boat still sat high and dry on the beach. It seemed to him suddenly as if he had no place to go, not really. Once again he was left without a destination. The urgency of his quest had redoubled – the touch of Leta’s hand and the smile on her face had done that. But all of that made it even less impossible to go on. Where would he go? Where, for heaven’s sake, had the elves gone? He brightened a bit. Perhaps the elves had gotten hold of the dwarf. They’d lead him up, his head in a noose, his hands tied. Together they’d force him to release Leta. Escargot would twist his arm for him if he didn’t like the idea.

  There was the sound of voices behind him, growing louder by the moment. It was the elves, returning. The fog had lifted. It had risen up the hill and obscured the forest now, seeming to roll very slowly upriver, as if following the progress of a cart, say, that was making away along the river road. Escargot knew before he saw the elves that they’d have no dwarf in tow. And they didn’t.

  The elves – about a dozen of them now – slouched along toward him as if they were tired out. One walked before the rest, dressed in a waistcoat and buckler and with a gaudy, frilly shirt underneath. He wore cuffed boots with the toes curled back around in little pigtail points, and he dragged his unsheathed sword along in the dust of the roadway, as if he were contemplating some grand failure and could think of nothing else. Unlike his companions, he wore a cocked hat, yanked down over his brow and shading his face. A turquoise peacock feather, once grand and dashing, hung from the hatband, broken in the center and shredded to pieces. The tip of the feather lurched down into his face with each tedious, clumping step he took, and he swatted at it as he walked, as if it were an insect buzzing round his nose. His fellows weren’t vastly more cheerful.

  All were dressed in piratical clothes. If it had been midnight it would have appeared that they were dragging home from an exhausting masquerade, where they’d all, perhaps, drank too much punch and danced too furiously and now were tired and filled with regret. They perked up, at least for the moment, when they saw Escargot sitting in his beached rowboat. The elf in the cocked hat bristled and flourished his sword, as if he weren’t quite sure whether to run Escargot through on the spot, or hang him in order to avoid soiling his blade.

  ‘We’ll have a word with you, sir,’ said the elf in a voice intended to be gruff.

  ‘Theophile Escargot,’ he said, standing up on the wooden slat deck of the rowboat, ‘at your service.’

  ‘Step ashore, sir.’

  ‘Gladly,’ said Escargot, bowing to the lot of them and clambering out of the boat. A great moaning erupted a few yards down the beach, and the goblin whose head had stopped Escargot’s rock stood up groggily and looked around him. He rubbed’ the top of his head gingerly, caught sight of the elves and of Escargot, and ran straightaway into the river, howling and moaning, and was borne away on the current, his head bobbing atop the water like a cleverly painted melon.

  The elf captain blinked several times at the disappearing goblin, watching until it vanished beyond the edge of the cove. ‘Who are you, sir, and what did you mean by spiriting away the woman?’ He looked around then, suddenly aware, it seemed, that Leta wasn’t in Escargot’s company. ‘Search the area!’ he cried, waving his sword in such a way as to have clipped the heads off his companions had they been any closer. The elves darted off, beating the bushes and peering behind trees. One climbed up into the branches of an oak and then couldn’t climb out again. He appealed to the captain for help. ‘Did you see anything?’ asked the captain, standing under the tree.

  ‘No,’ came the reply.

  ‘Then you can stay in the damnation tree!’ the captain thundered, in his way, and the elf in the tree clung to a limb and looked shakily at the ground.

  ‘I say, Captain,’ said an elf in gaiters and a satin shirt, ‘you can’t just leave poor Boggy in the tree.’

 
‘Who says I can’t, now?’ asked the captain, exercising his authority.

  ‘Poor Boggy!’ cried another elf, as if in reply. And Boggy himself began to moan and to hug the tree as if he were in danger of pitching off into the dirt. His cap slipped off his head, and he lunged for it, very nearly losing his balance. He caught himself, hooting with fear, and immediately began to cry.

  The captain shook his head tiredly, as if to lament having to put up with such a crew as this. Then he turned to Escargot and, winking at him, asked to borrow his jacket.

  ‘Of course,’ said Escargot in reply, and he pulled the jacket off and handed it over. Four elves attached themselves to it, clinging to sleeves and to the bottom seam, and, stretching it below the tree limb, shouted at the unfortunate Boggy to leap into it. They’d catch him, they promised. He wouldn’t be hurt. Not a bit.

  Boggy leaped, slamming into the coat and bearing all four elves down into the weeds, shouting and flailing and causing Escargot to wonder whether, taken all the way around, there was such a vast difference between elves and goblins after all. But they had built his submarine, of course, and his truth charm, and any number of other wonderful devices, including the galleon they had flown in on. How they got any of it done, though, was one of the world’s great mysteries.

  When Boggy was dusted off and comforted, and the captain had been the victim of more than one hard look, as if he had conspired to have Boggy put through such tortures, Escargot was given his jacket back and once again became the center of attention.

  ‘Where is the girl?’ asked the captain, not mincing words.

  ‘I haven’t the earthliest idea,’ replied Escargot, entirely honestly.

  ‘She was with you not fifteen minutes back.’

  ‘That she was. But she’s vanished. The fog came up off the river and she was gone. Into the air. Puff. One moment she was speaking, the next she evaporated and her voice along with it. I thought that you might tell me where she’d gotten off to. It’s impossible that you know less about this affair than I do, because I know nothing at all.’

  The captain squinted at him, obviously disbelieving. Here was Escargot, miles from any habitable village, out wandering alone and connected in some unknown way with the girl. It made no sense that he knew nothing at all. ‘Who are you, then? You don’t live along the river.’

  ‘Of course I do,’ said Escargot. ‘I’ve got an old aunt up-river from here on the north shore who’s dying. Quite likely already gone, bless her heart, and she’s left me a brewery. Hale’s Ales. You might have heard of it. There isn’t a better ale, not along the river anyway. I’m bound for there now, but I saw the house burning so I rowed ashore to lend a hand.’

  The captain squinted at his rowboat and then winked at him again. ‘Where did you set out?’

  ‘Grover,’ said Escargot, smiling.

  ‘You rowed all the way upriver from Grover? Why didn’t you row to Hansen’s Island and take the steamship. You’d save about three weeks time.’

  ‘Steamship’s down. Hansen’s Island was flooded in the last rain and the steamship won’t be running again till Tuesday.’

  ‘Hah!’ cried the captain triumphantly. ‘Hansen’s Island! Damn Hansen’s Island! Thereis no such place. I trapped you with that one, lad. You’d best make a clean breast of it now. Out with it.’ And with that he looked about him, grinning at his companions and nodding in appreciation of his own cleverness. Boggy’s sniffing and mumbling undermined it, though, and the captain gave him a look.

  Escargot thought about it. There was no reason, really, to pretend, to lie. They’d caught him at it already, and if he cooked up another one, they’d quite likely catch him out there too. He’d tell the truth, is what he’d do, for the most part, and he’d at least end up with two score of allies that he hadn’t had earlier in the afternoon.

  ‘I’m a sea captain,’ he said, eyeing the elves. ‘I’ve come upriver from Landsend and beyond. This dwarf has stolen my goods, insulted my person, and has played some sort of villainy on the girl Leta, who, I might add, I’ve taken a vow to rescue.’ With that he bowed to the captain again, thinking that he’d made a fairly pretty speech of it all the way around – the sort of affected talk that the captain would approve of.

  ‘Upriver from Landsend now, instead of Grover, is it? A sea captain?’ The elf slapped the fiddlehead of the rowboat with his open palm and grinned at his crew, one or two of whom cried, ‘Sea captain!’ or ‘Landsend!’ as if they, too, doubted Escargot’s tale, but the feebleness of their taunts made it seem to Escargot that their purpose was rather to support their captain than to embarrass Escargot. The captain was very satisfied with himself. ‘Where’s your ship?’ he said with a suddenness that made it very clear he was trapping Escargot into another confession.

  ‘In the river,’ came the answer.

  ‘Ho! In the river!’ shouted Boggy, restored now. The captain frowned at him.

  Escargot rose, motioned to the captain, and set out around the curve of the little half-moon cove until, stepping out onto the rock and sand headland at the far end of it, he could see the submarine riding at anchor. He getsured at it and kept silent.

  ‘Quite a device,’ said the captain, nodding in approval. ‘I know it. It belonged to a renegade, a blackguard.’

  ‘Captain Perry, that would be?’

  ‘Yes indeed. He was a megalomaniac. There aren’t many bad ones among us, sir, but he was an exception of the first water. How did you come by this boat?’

  ‘He sank a trader I crewed on. Killed any number of men but took me aboard the ship. He had ransom in mind, perhaps. ...’

  ‘Maybe he was after your aunt’s brewery,’ said the captain, interrupting.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Escargot, momentarily confused over whether the aunt’s brewery lie had been exposed yet or not. That was the problem with lies, actually – they tended to tangle themselves up. ‘In a word, I overcame him and his crew and marooned them, is what I did, and now J pilot that boat, as I said, in search of the dwarf and the girl he’s mistreated.’

  ‘Hooray!’ shouted Boggy, won over, apparently. But his cry evaporated in the afternoon stillness as the captain stroked his chin in contemplation.

  ‘And with whom,’ asked Escargot in an effort to get the upper hand, ‘am I honored to be speaking?’

  ‘Captain Appleby and the crew of the Nora Dawn,’ said the captain very politely, as if a little ashamed of himself for having overlooked introductions. He led the way back up the beach to where the rowboat was moored. ‘It’s no go, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Your meddling in this affair. It can’t stand it. It won’t stand it. Your foiling the efforts of my men to rescue the girl can be excused. You didn’t know you were caught up in affairs beyond your ken. But now you know, and it’s off down the river with you. Go home. That’s my advice. It’s more than that. It’s my order. I’m commissioned to give them, you know, to civilians as well as to my crewmembers.’

  Escargot stood blinking at him. It would be a shame to lose his temper. As officious as this elf captain was, he was more humorous than irritating. ‘What about my property?’

  ‘I’ll compensate you for it. At once. That and more. I’m a generous man. I’ve been commissioned to be a generous man. What sort of property did the dwarf steal from you? Gold?’

  ‘Marbles.’

  ‘Marbles is it?’ Captain Appleby stared at him. ‘You’ve come upriver ... Wait a minute – Captain Perry’s device! You’ve come from where? Seaside? The Isles? You’ve come through the gate, by golly, after a bag of marbles? It can’t be so. Don’t trifle with me, lad; I’m not in a trifling mood. Send your bag of marbles to keep your drunken aunt company. How much will it cost me to see your diminishing self atop the river?’

  ‘A bag of very odd marbles. Red – the color of blood. And not entirely round. Even the most amateur of marble spinners could have done better. They’re enchanted marbles is what I think, and. ...’


  But Escargot stopped in wonder at that point, for Captain Appleby’s mouth had dropped open, as if he’d just that instant had his jaw muscles severed. ‘Red, did you say? About as big as what, pigeon’s eggs? Where did you get these marbles?’

  ‘From a bunjo man. Not many months back, either. And I’m fairly sure now that they’d been giving me the most astonishing dreams.’

  ‘I daresay,’ muttered the captain, stroking his chin again. ‘And you say the dwarf has them now?’

  ‘That he does.’

  ‘All is explained then.’ The captain turned to the elf beside him, who had been eyeing Escargot shrewdly throughout the exchange and looked to be some sort of officer, a first mate, perhaps. ‘The earth tremors,’ he said.

  ‘Of course,’ came the reply.

  ‘It’s later than we think.’

  ‘It is that.’

  ‘But he got sloppy with it and lit the house afire.’

  Escargot eyed the two, catching most of the words that passed between them. ‘The earthquake earlier today. That wasn’t one of your standard earthquakes hereabouts, I take it.’

  The captain looked up at him, grinning suddenly. ‘Oh very standard, I should think,’ he said hastily. ‘Wouldn’t you say so, Collier?’

  Collier admitted that he’d rarely seen an earthquake so all around standard.

  ‘It weren’t standard at all,’ shouted Boggy, unfortunately standing well behind the captain and so unaware that the captain had screwed his mouth into a sort of pickle frown and was winking rapidly at Collier. ‘I seen a giant head open up in the mountainside and yawn, like it had been woke up, almost, and. ...’

  ‘And you can shut your gob, Mr Boggy ...’ began the captain.

  But Escargot, remembering the mountainside that he’d seen, cried, ‘I saw it too! Just like a mouth, wasn’t it? And you could swear that there were eyes above, clamped shut, but trembling, like at any moment they were going to spring open and some great stone giant was going to stand up and gape.’