“I say nothing that she does not fully deserve,” Stephen proclaimed, and Noble Steed nosed his ear in agreement.
With the addition of Noble Steed, the little company traveled more quickly. As long as Stephen led her, Noble Steed was quite content to work as a packhorse, carrying all the extra food they managed to gather—mostly smoked meat from various small and fuzzy creatures. Craggy’s cloak created makeshift saddlebags for her to carry the load, and strips from Youngster’s cloak tied it on. Stephen did his best to help with enchantments, but he felt strangely drained, as if he had already used up much of his magic in other enchantments—although he had hardly done any since before they had entered Faerie.
It was . . . disconcerting.
Still, Stephen did not find himself worrying over-much. He was walking again, as he had in the old days before Jolly Executioner and the Beast of Quag and the Fairy Queen. Yes, they were low on food and lower on other supplies and often walked long past weariness. But he had done that in many past years, and found the old routine comforting. Once, he might have worried about surviving. Not so now; now he knew how to hunt his own food with creatures of his own making. Better yet, now he was not wandering the country alone: he had a faithful horse (he had never had any horse before; it was illegal for enchanters to ride), and he had certainly never had two good friends walking beside him. It was . . . nice—companionable—to walk like this.
And yes, he realized that they were still on a Mission, if only to tell the king what had happened. And yes, he knew these days wouldn’t last forever, and soon again he’d return to strolling the country as a traveling enchanter. But he would be happy as he was, in the absence of fairies and monsters and assassinations.
For the first time since his childhood, Stephen was content.
The company had traveled west and south for about a week before they met one of the King’s roads leading due south. They followed this to the nearest town, intent upon getting directions and, if possible, a few supplies.
“I don’t have much money,” said Youngster, “but I’m sure they’ll have something I can do. Everyone needs a locksmith or tinker now and then—or, if nothing else, I could always do odd jobs. I wouldn’t want to wash dishes for a living, but one day of it wouldn’t be too bad.”
“Blacksmithing,” grunted Craggy. “Before I joined the company.”
“Really?” asked Stephen. “Excellent! Re-shoe Noble Steed while you’re at it, won’t you?”
Craggy nodded.
“Excellent: then Youngster tinkers, Craggy blacksmiths, and I enchant. If anyone asks why we look so awful, we tell them a glass shop exploded in our faces. Don’t be too offended if small children scream when they see you.”
Youngster rolled his eyes. “We don’t look that bad,” he said.
But as it turned out, Stephen was closer to his mark, and the company tarried not long in that town.
XX
“For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.”
—William Shakespeare, Macbeth
The King’s Road continued due south. After a time, the company came across a second road, running east to west. They turned east, and had hardly walked upon the road an hour before striking a gentle creek. A narrow bridge crossed the creek and Stephen began to cross it, but Youngster held him back.
“Wait a moment,” Youngster said, shuffling through Noble Steed’s packs, “I know I have it here somewhere—ah!” He withdrew a coiled fishing line and hook. “I picked it up from that town,” he explained. “Thought it might come in handy.”
Stephen smiled and nodded. Yes. That town. Smallton had been its name, uncreatively enough. They had indeed found work there, once its citizens had gotten over the company’s scars. Actually, Stephen had done better that the other two. As one lady had put it, one expected an enchanter to be ugly from performing all his wicked magic, and didn’t mind when he was. It was handsome enchanters they threw out.
Stephen had avoided looking in mirrors.
“We can spend the afternoon here and have fish for dinner,” said Youngster.
“It’ll make a nice change from rabbit,” agreed Stephen, who hated rabbit. “Find a place and I’ll find you something to serve as fishing pole.”
“No need—there’s a perfect one right here. Go do enchanter things or something.”
“I’ll get firewood,” Craggy grunted, and left without further ado. Stephen stayed a moment longer.
“Are you any good at fishing?”
“Fair; I usually catch something. Ah—here’s a good spot!”
Youngster stopped by a particularly promising location—although, to Stephen’s eye, it looked just the same as the bank on either side—and settled down. Stephen watched for a moment, then pulled off his boots—he’d have to get new ones, next time he managed to stay in a town long enough—and twinkled his toes in the water.
“Not next to me,” Youngster warned. “You’ll scare off the fish.”
Stephen shrugged and ambled amiably upstream, hands behind his back, enjoying the feel of the sun upon his face. He chose a cheery-looking spot, dropped his boots beside him, and sat down. For several minutes he sat that way, listening to the creek burble and thinking of nothing much.
The water at his feet bubbled cold.
Stephen started at the bubbles, and swiftly shifted his bare feet away from them. The bubbles followed until he jumped up and paced several feet inland.
With one last gurgle, the bubbles desisted.
Stephen counted to one hundred, then two hundred, in case the bubbles decided to return.
Nothing. Not a bubble in sight. Stephen dipped one foot in the water.
A second passed, then two, and bubbles appeared, hitting the sole of his foot, bursting against his skin. They tickled.
Stephen lifted his foot from the water and, almost immediately, the bubbling ceased. He thrust it in—bubbles; out—nothing. Each time he touched his foot to the water, the bubbling was prompter until at last it kept perfect time with his feet, perhaps anticipating them a little, and he could no longer keep his feet wet for an instant without their presence. Tiny fish swarmed around his feet, attracted by the strange bubbles.
Stephen returned to shore, picked up his boots, and strolled downstream. Craggy was back, and had possession of the makeshift fishing pole, which he was expertly dangling.
“Any luck?” Stephen asked.
“None,” Youngster admitted. “Craggy thought he might try, but he can’t catch anything either. I know we haven’t been at it all that long, but I’m beginning to think the fish are wise to us—if there are any fish.”
“There are. Something interesting happened to me a minute ago,” said Stephen, and walked out into the stream.
“Don’t!” Youngster protested, but Stephen ignored him and strode further out, until he stood up to his knees in bubbles.
At that moment, Craggy’s line went taut, and he grunted in satisfaction, leaning back to reel in his catch. A few tense seconds later, he was the proud owner of a trout, a singularly unimpressive fish that flashed and gleamed dull colors in the afternoon sunlight. Youngster quickly ended its suffering with a rock.
“Cast your hook again,” said Stephen, still standing in the creek.
“Let me do it,” said Youngster. “Craggy can clean the fish.”
Craggy nodded, handed over the fishing pole, and got to work with his knife—removing fins, head, tail, skin, bones—done, in less than a minute.
“Cast near my feet,” said Stephen, watching the gruesome spectacle with interest and vaguely wondering if Craggy had been a fishmonger as well as a blacksmith. Probably not, he decided; the two professions weren’t terribly complementary. “Cast as close to my feet as you can without hooking me.”
“I’ll never catch anything that way!”
“Just do it.”
Youngster obeyed and, almost as soon as the hook it the water, the line jerked in Youngsters hand. Yo
ungster drew out another trout, a rainbow, the largest Stephen had ever seen.
Youngster whistled. “Two hours and not a fish in sight, then that thing!”
“Strange, isn’t it?” said Stephen, splashing to shore. “Cast again.”
“With pleasure,” Youngster said, and did so. Nothing caught. Ten minutes later, Youngster was growing increasingly annoyed and impatient after his earlier success, and still—nothing.
“We have enough fish,” he was saying. “No need for any more.”
“Just wait,” said Stephen, “and get ready for the biggest trout in a line of big trout.” He stepped into the creek.
Youngster yelped as he was dragged forward. In an instant, Craggy had leapt up and grabbed him, grabbed the pole, slowly walking backwards and dragging the fish.
“The pole’s going to snap!” Youngster cried.
“No, it’s not!” Stephen shouted back, watching the water excitedly, trying to see through the bubbles. There was something there, he could just see its shadow. He leaned closer and—shrieked, leaping onto the dry land.
Behind him, the bubbling faded away.
Youngster caught sight of the fish and dropped the pole, but Craggy held on determinedly, swinging the fish onto the ground, away from the creek. It landed with a thud, thrashing and glaring at them with huge, evil yellow eyes.
“What is that thing?” Youngster exclaimed. “What is that thing?”
It was something that didn’t belong in an inland creek, that was for sure.
The first thing one noticed was its teeth. They were needle-sharp and long, so long they curved outside the mouth—up between the eyes on and down below the chin. They were teeth that could kill smaller fish in a single lunge.
The second thing one noticed was its shape: too long and thin.
The third thing one noticed was its dorsal fin. Like teeth and body, it was far too long and thin, and ended in a razor point.
“What is it?” Youngster whispered, regaining his equilibrium.
“It’s a fish,” said Stephen, because he didn’t know the answer.
“It’s a viperfish,” Craggy corrected. “Fishermen tell stories about them, sometimes. Fish that belong in the deep sea and are somehow caught in far shallower nets.”
“So it’s not a monster,” said Youngster.
“That depends upon your definition of ‘monster,’” Stephen muttered. “If you ask me, that’s a monster. And I think I’ve had enough of fishing for today.”
“It’s still moving,” said Youngster. “It’s still alive. Do you think we should . . . throw it back?”
“Do you want to put your hand in that thing’s mouth to retrieve the hook?”
“If we don’t, we’ll have lost the hook.”
“There are always more hooks,” said Stephen. “You can replace hooks; you can’t replace fingers. Besides, I don’t think I’ll want to eat more fish any time soon.”
“So we just leave it there?”
“Yes! And remind me never to touch creek water again!”
“One has to wonder,” Youngster mused as they began walking, Craggy carrying the cleaned trout over one shoulder, firewood over the other, “how the viperfish came to be here. I mean, we’re not anywhere near the sea, and the water’s shallow. You’d have thought we would have seen that fish, swimming around, terrorizing all the other fish.”
Stephen shrugged.
“Speaking of which, did you do something to attract the fish? When you walked in the water, it was bubbling. Is that an enchanter’s trick?”
“No. I don’t know what happened.”
“It certainly was effective,” Youngster continued, increasingly cheerful as they left the creek—and dying viperfish—behind. “Maybe a little too effective, but—do you realize, we just lost the opportunity to become some of the first people ever to eat viperfish?”
Stephen shuddered.
“Point taken,” said Youngster. “Still, you never know; it might have tasted all right.”
“It’s not too late to go back and get it.”
“No, no, I mean—I couldn’t. And we have plenty of food here. We can stop for an early dinner of . . . fish.” Youngster sighed. “And I’m going to be thinking of that horrible thing with every bite of trout I take—probably for the rest of my life.”
“Appetizing,” said Stephen. “I hadn’t thought of that, but thank you.”
Beyond the running waters of the creek (that many falsely believed to repulse fairy creatures), the country melted into farmland. As far as the eye could see, and further, grew the staples of the land: wheat, corn, potatoes, pumpkins, and dozens of other foods. The company roasted their fish on the road between two fields of half-grown wheat, careful to keep the flames closely contained.
“We could find work at one of these farms,” said Youngster as they ate. “It would be nice to get some fresh bread and milk.”
“We’ll look for a farmhouse tomorrow,” Stephen agreed. He poked at his trout and thought about the viperfish. Now that he saw the trout up close, it looked a little too similar for comfort.
The next day, they walked on. Wheat fields eventually gave way to corn, then to apple orchards. Stephen looked hopefully at the fruit, but it wouldn’t be ripe for at least another two months.
Around midday, the company came within sight of a farmhouse. The owners were obviously prosperous, to judge by the size and pristine condition of the place, and probably in possession of all the visible land. Around the side of the house was a smaller version of the land’s cornucopia: a vegetable garden with carrots and parsnips and peas and onions and tomatoes and cucumber.
“You’d better go to the farmhouse alone,” Stephen told Youngster. “We don’t want to intimidate whoever lives there with a show of force—and Craggy and I look more like disreputable characters than you. Just say that you and your two companions are looking for an afternoon’s labor in return for food and supplies. Don’t mention my profession unless they’re about to turn you away.”
Youngster opened his mouth as if to protest, then nodded. He, too, remembered their reception in various towns, and the suspicious glances cast at the blue robes. “I’ll be back soon,” he promised. Leaving Stephen, Craggy, and Noble Steed waiting on the King’s Road, Youngster crossed the vegetable patch, climbed the front steps, and rapped politely on the door. A minute later, the door was opened to reveal a wrinkled old lady—possibly the only member of the household too feeble to labor in the fields.
“Yes?” she asked, squinting at the strange, scarred young man, a hint of nervousness in her voice.
Youngster smiled charmingly, and the scars looked like smile wrinkles and youthful good humor. It was a superb smile, jovial and friendly and honest, and not even disfigurement could ruin it. Before long, the old lady was inviting him inside for tea and asking to hear his story and what on earth had caused all those scars.
“She probably served him cakes,” Stephen sighed, thinking of all the fairy cakes he had eaten. Though he searched his whole life, he knew he would never again taste something as delicious and sweet and light as the glamour on those cakes . . . whereas in reality, they had probably been stale biscuits or nothing at all. But oh, how one came to crave fairy food.
Stephen was still musing sadly on the tastiness of cakes when Youngster bounded back from the farmhouse.
“Good news,” Youngster announced. “They’re friendly, and have plenty of work for us.”
“In the fields?” asked Craggy.
“Closer—right here, actually, around the house. Roof repairs and weeding around the vegetables and spreading fresh manure out back. If we work hard, Mrs. Beanstraw has promised cider and all the dinner we can eat!”
“Sounds excellent. Who’s doing what?”
“I’m weeding,” Youngster announced quickly.
“Roof,” said Craggy.
Stephen wrinkled his nose. “Bring on the manure,” he said, “but be warned: these robes aren’t enchanted against
smell.”
Mrs. Beanstraw showed them a small shed at the back of the farmhouse, which held all the supplies they might need. Youngster took a hoe and trowel; Craggy found hammer, nails, saw, and old boards; Stephen made do with shovel, rake, and a wheelbarrow full of manure, flies, and small beetles (although these last two were incidental).
“Spread it nicely and evenly,” Mrs. Beanstraw instructed Stephen, indicating the spot that needed fertilizing—a small plot of land between the house and a greenish pond. She walked him carefully around the borders of the plot, clutching his wrist with one bony hand, her eyesight too dim to recognize the tattered remains of his robes for what they were. “Don’t spread it too deep or too shallow. Have you ever done this before?”
The Monsters of Stephen Enchanter Page 28