The Disappearing Dwarf

by James P. Blaylock

  He commanded himself not to think of such things. He made an effort instead to picture the flowers that grew in the elf moss around Twombly Town that spring, and to remember their deep pastel colors that reminded him of painted Easter eggs or of the violets and pinks and deep greens of distant mountains at sunset. But as beautiful as all those thoughts were, hunched trolls and parties of shrunken goblins insisted on creeping in and spoiling things. The forest became gloomier and gloomier, and shadows deeper and more threatening.

  He found himself suddenly stumbling into the Professor, who had stopped inexplicably in the middle of the road. ‘What?’ Jonathan asked, even though the Professor as yet hadn’t said anything.

  ‘Shhh!’ the Professor whispered, pointing through the trees toward a flickering light, a fire of some sort, that danced in a clearing a hundred yards or so off the road. A little trail wound away toward it. It was a peculiar sort of fire that leaped and shrank and threw sudden splashes of light into the shadows of the trees beyond it. It seemed to move weirdly about, flaring up here, then dying away, then leaping up again some few yards off to the left or the right or deeper into the trees. It didn’t at all seem to be the sort of fire that Jonathan fancied investigating.

  But then who could say that it wasn’t Miles up to some sort of enchantment, or that it wasn’t Selznak himself working mischief over one of his strange fires fueled with dried bones? The Professor stooped and picked something up off the road, then dropped it again, throwing it down as if he’d inadvertently grabbed hold of a dead toad. That wasn’t far from the case. On the path lay a dried bat. The Professor was about to kick it into the bushes when Jonathan stopped him by picking the thing up. Through the bat’s ears was a bit of string tied in a loop.

  ‘This came from Dr Chan’s,’ Jonathan said, dangling the bat at arm’s length. ‘Didn’t he say that Miles had been in to buy herbs and bats?’

  ‘Yes, he did.’ The Professor studied it for a moment, then said, ‘We’ll have to take a closer look at that fire.’

  Jonathan tossed the bat away. He couldn’t think of anything else to do with it. If Gump were along he’d work it into some useful object – put a candle on its head or turn it into a door pull. But that sort of thing didn’t appeal to Jonathan, not right then. So the two of them crept along the little trail with Ahab between, Jonathan wishing he had an ape suit to hide in, and all of them ready to turn and run at the sound of a broken twig. They were halfway to the fire when they heard a willow flute being played very poorly. There was no melody to it, just an idiot piping followed by low, cackling laughter. They stopped where they were and waited. Whatever sat by the fire was certainly not Miles. Firelight sprang up against the bole of a great tree beyond, throwing across it the shadow of a stooped figure tearing at something with its teeth, a great beef bone, perhaps, or a turkey leg. The sound of slavering and crunching could be heard dimly, and once again the willow pipes started up, this time accompanied by the senseless pounding of a copper gong.

  Jonathan realized just then that there were other fires lit in the woods, any number of them, flickering through the darkness. They blinked out, then popped up again, far away like the lights of fireflies, then frightfully close, spawning leaping shadows on the ancient trees.

  Without a word the three of them turned and sneaked back out toward the road. Jonathan had the sudden terrible feeling that the road wouldn’t be there, that they would wander in the woods all night waiting for the sun to rise, but that the sun would no more brighten the deep shadows than did the threads of broken moonlight. He thought he heard a rustling along the path behind him, the padding of feet and the swishing and brushing of limbs. Then the piping of the willow flute stopped abruptly. It struck him that it was time to run, and he was about to suggest as much to the Professor when he found himself stumbling out onto the coast road, and then dashing off south in the wake of his two companions. The whole short adventure seemed to have given both of them a second wind, and they struck off south, determined to find their way out of the forest if they had to walk until dawn.

  20

  In the High Window

  After a half-mile or so, the road widened and the trees thinned, and they trudged out into a clearing bathed in watery moonbeams. In it sat a cottage. It was a very cheerful cottage under the circumstances, its windows lit and its door ajar and the sound of laughter and gaiety tumbling out into the night – not goblin laughter either, but the sounds of people enjoying themselves.

  A girl stood in the open doorway watching the road, and when Jonathan and Ahab and the Professor stopped in amazement at the edge of the clearing, she waved and seemed very happy to see them.

  Jonathan at first wasn’t sure that he was happy to see her, not right then. But it occurred to him that she was very pretty standing there on the porch in the lantern light. Her hair was long and blond, and she had a thin, young figure. Wispy was the only word he could think of right off to describe her as she stood there in a lace dress. She waved at them again. ‘Come along,’ she called in a cheerful voice that chased most of Jonathan’s suspicions away.

  The smell of roast goose wafted out through the open windows, and it was that more than anything else that convinced them to have a look inside. Ahab, however, didn’t want to go. He lay down growling, smack in the middle of the road, and wouldn’t budge. Jonathan hauled on his collar and reasoned with him but wasn’t having any effect. So after a moment he gave up, deciding to come back outside later and entice Ahab in with a bit of roast goose.

  Those inside the house were having a good time indeed, laughing and singing and clanking cutlery about and banging plates. The girl on the porch stepped off and took Jonathan’s hand. ‘The wizard said to watch for you,’ she said, smiling. ‘He was along earlier but he hurried away again. He said to tell you that things are never as bad as they seem.’

  That struck Jonathan as being very encouraging indeed – just the sort of thing he’d always insisted upon. His faith in Miles doubled, and he barely gave a thought to the strange fact that the girl’s hand was very cold and was dry as dust. For a moment, just as she stepped out into the moonlight, Jonathan had the strange thought that her hair wasn’t blond, as it had seemed to be in the lantern light. It seemed momentarily to be gray, like old ashes in a grate, and her face, rather than being pleasantly thin, appeared skeletal just for the slip of an instant. But once again on the porch in the lantern light, she was young and wispy and there was nothing at all to worry about. Whatever he’d seen, the Professor must have missed, for he was rubbing his hands together and gazing at the company within the cottage.

  Almost a dozen people were gathered around a long trestle table laden with the most amazing foods: a tremendous roast goose and heaps of mashed potatoes, tubs of butter, and rich smoking gravy. There were puddings, pies, bottles of ale, jars of cranberry sauce, and plates of biscuits. Over the fire in the hearth was a suspended basket heaped with chestnuts that a lad in leather trousers poked at with a silver fork. Everyone’s plate was piled with food, and at the head of the table were two empty plates and chairs as if they’d been set there specifically for Jonathan and the Professor. Jonathan could see no reason not to make use of them. It was the only polite thing to do.

  So the two of them sat down, and for the first time in hours Jonathan felt as if he could relax a bit. It seemed quite possible that they could induce their hostess to let them spend the night there, and then make a fresh start in the morning.

  The cottage itself was cheerful and warm with its timber ceiling and great stone fireplace. Dark oak wainscot circled the plaster walls, and bunches of flowers – lilacs and wild iris and columbine – sat in ceramic vases. Lantern light flooded every corner of the room and spilled out across the polished plank floor, illuminating the faces of the happy revelers.

  Jonathan half wondered where they’d all come from, the closest towns being a good long way away, but there would be time enough for questions and tale-telling after he’d dealt with the sl
ices of roast goose that were being forked onto his plate.

  All of a sudden he remembered Ahab sitting alone out on the road, and he rose and excused himself and speared a slice of goose with which to convince Ahab to be a sensible dog. But before he got halfway to the open door a gust of wind blew it shut with a wild slam, and a shriek of mad laughter rang out behind him. He found himself caught up in cobweb – cobweb that couldn’t have been there a moment before. The lad in the leather trousers was leering at him stupidly, poking with his silver fork at a wire cage full of rats that snapped and popped in the hot fire.

  The slice of roast goose, or whatever it actually was, squirmed on the end of the fork in Jonathan’s hand, and he threw it with a shout at the cage of rats as he spun round to face the revelers at the table behind him.

  Professor Wurzle’s chair had tipped over backward onto the floor with him still in it, and two goblins pinched at his arms and cheeks nodding idiotically as two ghouls held the struggling Professor down.

  On the table there was no roast goose or pudding or pie. A great tray of broken bloody meat lay there instead: undistinguishable, vile meat that made Jonathan suddenly sick. Goblins stabbed hunks out of it with long knives and grinned up at him, motioning for him to have a go at it first. One of them, the biggest goblin, seemed to be about half melted, as if his face were made of soft tallow. The cottage was full of shrieking and cackling and the smell of dust and age. The lilacs and iris were gone and were replaced with dead weeds and grotesque funguses. Ahab barked and howled beyond the door, and Jonathan was for a second undecided whether to let him in or help the Professor out of his scrape. He hadn’t time to think about it much, however, for one of the goblins that had been pinching the Professor’s cheek grasped a knife from the tabletop and had the look about him of a man considering how to best carve a roast.

  Jonathan grabbed the nearest chair and smashed it into the goblin’s head. Almost as soon as he did he felt a hot fork spear into his arm. He turned and flailed out at the rat cooker, catching him square on the cheek. His fist skidded across its face, and it was like hitting a lump of clay. Skin and bone gouged away in a spray of black liquid, and the thing, whatever it was, tumbled over, knocking the cage of rats deep into the fire. Goblin laughter shrieked out, and two of the goblins jumped across and pointed and screamed at their companion who lay smoking in the flames, his clothes catching fire and burning with amazing fury.

  The Professor was up and out of his chair by then and looking for something to hit. But none of the goblins and ghouls offered him any resistance. Two goblins danced atop the table, stomping and kicking at the bloody feast and slavering and whacking each other with chewed bones. About then, a black cat crawled out from beneath a chair and leaped up onto the tabletop, and Jonathan realized who it was the girl on the porch had reminded him of when she had stepped into the moonlight. He had been a fool not to see it; they had both been fools. Only Ahab had any sense. Then Jonathan noticed that Ahab was no longer barking and growling outside the door and that the lanterns round the walls began growing dimmer and dimmer and that the fire in the hearth was dying and shrinking. Beside it, smiling crookedly, staring through milky eyes, was the old woman of the swamp, of Tweet Village, of St Elmo Square.

  Jonathan was suddenly shoved from behind, shoved toward the door by the Professor, who, in a rage, took a wild swipe with a chair at the witch. The chair broke into kindling wood against the wall, and the witch, her posture unchanged, still smiling vaguely and staring, stood some few feet farther away. Neither Jonathan nor the Professor had any desire to discuss the phenomenon. Jonathan tore the door open, and the two of them stumbled out into the night, shrieks and howls of laughter following close on. The door slammed shut and they were once again on the coast road.

  Behind them, all was strangely silent. When they turned and looked back, there was no longer any cabin in the clearing, only bits of stone from an old crumbled foundation and another heap that might once have been a chimney. Beyond there were trees – great, wide trees that grew close together in a line, the shadowy places between them seeming like dark doorways through which, in the far distant shadows, dots of fires glowed, winking and blinking in the night. Ahab was nowhere around.

  Jonathan whistled and called. There was little need of secrecy. All the calling and whistling, however, didn’t accomplish a thing. Both Jonathan and the Professor knew that they’d find Ahab when they found the Squire and Selznak and Miles. It seemed tolerably certain to Jonathan that they were on the verge of doing just that. They were being toyed with; there could be no doubt. The disappearance of Ahab was more such toying – or at least that’s what Jonathan hoped. He started toward the tunnels through the trees, thinking that perhaps Ahab had somehow gone that way. Although the Professor shook his head doubtfully, he went along. But the tunnels themselves led into utter darkness, and no shred of moonlight illuminated the blackness. There was nothing, in fact, to indicate that anything at all lay beyond, except the flickering of distant fires and the faraway piping of willow flutes.

  Jonathan whistled tentatively into the trees, then shouted. Again there was no response, no sign of Ahab. It was far more likely, if Ahab had somehow wandered off on his own, that he’d gone farther down the coast road. After twenty minutes of futile searching and whistling, that’s just what Jonathan and the Professor did.

  Within fifteen minutes they were out of the woods and trekking along a beach in the moonlight. With no trees to break the sea wind, the air had grown more chill, but both Jonathan and the Professor were sure they’d far rather freeze the night away in the open than spend it in the woods hobnobbing with goblins and witches and ghouls.

  A fog was blowing in off the ocean, and although through occasional clear patches they could still see the rolling of ghostly breakers and the splashing foam luminous in the thin light of the moon, off to their left the land was almost entirely obscured. It was clearly time to call it a night. They scooped out a good-sized depression in the sand behind several great rocks that blocked most of the wind. Jonathan lay for a moment watching the dark water appear and then disappear in the fog farther down the beach. It occurred to him that a campfire would be nice under the circumstances. Almost as soon as the thought wandered through, he fell away into a deep sleep and began to dream that he had one, but it was small and cold and needed heaps and heaps of wood.

  He kept waking up with cold feet every half-hour or so. When he did, he thought again how nice a fire would be and told himself in no uncertain terms to get up and build one. Then he’d begin to imagine again that he had, but that it was an uncooperative fire that didn’t care a bit about keeping anyone warm but fizzled and popped and smoked and languished while he puffed and dropped twigs on it. He began to dream that there were other fires burning roundabout, away off up the beach, fires that danced and crackled until he set out to find them, then snapped away into darkness making him lurch awake to find that he hadn’t started a fire at all, not even a smoldering little sad fire, but that his feet were still damp and cold and that it didn’t seem to be any closer to morning than it had been a half-hour before.

  Twice when he awoke and looked for signs of approaching dawn, he thought for a moment that he saw shapes – shadows in foggy moonlight – moving very purposefully and stealthily along the strand. There seemed to be a moaning on the breeze like wind through the chinks around an ill-hung and drafty door or like the sound of distant ghosts flitting through the night air lamenting their fate. The far-off pounding of copper gongs accompanied the moaning, and once, just for a moment, Jonathan could quite distinctly hear low, chattering laughter as if it too were carried along the wind. It seemed to be emanating from the very fog that hung suspended in the night around them.

  Once, shortly before dawn, he awoke sleepily and opened his eyes just for a moment. Above him and off inland beyond the coast road, there shone for a time a light glowing in the mists like a lit window in a high tower. But just when he blinked awake enough to take a
ny real notice of it and to decide to awaken the sleeping Professor, the fog swirled and thickened in the night air and the lights faded and were gone. Again there were shadows around him in the dim night – shadows of things creeping on the sand and the misty vision of a human skeleton jerking along through the dark, clacking like bamboo wind chimes in the thick wet mist, then fading and disappearing into the gray.

  Jonathan was hard-pressed finally to say whether he was sleeping or waking at any particular moment. He determined as he lay there, not really trying to sleep but just waiting for the sun, that it made precious little difference anyway, so he resolved to keep his eyes shut and wait. He understood, or so it seemed to him there on the beach, that although he had assumed he’d come to Balumnia in pursuit of the Squire, in actuality he’d simply been waiting – waiting for Selznak to work his evil, to spin his web. Like it or not, he was entangled finally in that web, and his waiting was almost at an end.

  Then the sun rose. Or at least the night began to fade into day. With it faded some of his fears, and it began to seem reasonable that he’d done a lot of dreaming during the night – very strange dreaming to be sure, but dreaming nonetheless. It began to seem, in fact, that he’d had enough waiting, that it was time to be off on the hunt.

  He rolled over in the cold sand to say as much to the Professor, but the Professor wasn’t there. Instead, slumped against the gray, weedy rock, its chin on its chest, was a yellow, ragged-looking skeleton, crumbs of peeled, antique skin hanging here and there from a hollow cheek and an ivory shoulder blade.

  Jonathan lurched forward and attempted to scramble to his feet. He shouted for the Professor, since it was the Professor he most wanted to see. But his shout was carried away on the wind and was gone. He found that he couldn’t scramble to his feet. It was as if he were entangled in a web and could thrash about as much as he liked, but that the more he thrashed the less headway he’d make.