The old man’s head bobbed up. He looked toward the sound of Patch’s voice, trying to focus, and then saw who it was. He called out weakly, “You miserable cur! You little rotter! You …” But he interrupted himself with a wince of pain.
Patch dropped to his knees, panting. “Osbert, what happened? How long have you been here? Are you hurt?”
Osbert’s face was pale and shining with perspiration. He shuffled his shoulders against the boulder to straighten himself. “Not sure—felt dizzy. Weak. Hurts in here.” He touched his hand to his chest. “Help me up now, you villain. Got to get home.” The words came in a whisper, as if even talking was painful.
Patch put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Are you sure you can make it? Maybe you should stay here. We could make a fire, keep you warm all night.”
Osbert shook his head and grasped Patch’s wrist. “Come on. Take this old man home before I knock you silly.” He picked up the shepherd’s crook that was lying next to him and, with the boy’s help, got to his feet. Patch had an arm around Osbert’s waist, Osbert an arm over Patch’s shoulder. The old man wheezed and shuffled along, his right foot stronger than his left, which dragged feebly behind. After every few steps, they stopped so Osbert could rest.
Patch heard a whimper behind them and looked back to see Pip lying on the ground with her ears flattened against her head. “Come on, Pip, he’ll be all right,” Patch said. The dog slunk forward, her belly practically scraping the ground.
At last Patch could hear the shushing sound of the river ahead. “We’re getting near the Tumbles.”
The sweat was pouring down Osbert’s face, though the afternoon was growing cool. “I know,” he said. “No choice, Patch. I’ll never make it to the other bridge. We must cross here.”
“We’ll be fine,” Patch said, squeezing the old man’s side. As he and Osbert hobbled forward like an awkward four-legged beast, he peered at the shadows under the bridge. Across the river to the west, the last sliver of sun dipped behind the trees, and the night began to draw its gloomy cloak across the world.
“Patch,” Osbert said almost too quietly to hear, “you know I never mean all those horrid things I say. You know that’s just old Osbert playing the grumbler.”
Patch grinned. “Oh shut your yap, you mangy bear. Let’s get you home.”
They stepped onto the bridge, watching the planks that creaked under their feet. Osbert was moving slower than ever now, wincing with every step.
When they were halfway across, Patch glanced behind him and saw that Pip had stopped on the other side. The dog was shaking, and her tail was curled down out of sight. She squatted and peed in the dirt.
Patch caught a whiff of something awful—a stench both rotten and sweet that made his stomach heave and bile rise in his throat. Near the far side of the bridge, a hand—a monstrous, stone-colored, knobby-fingered hand—rose from the darkness below. It grasped and held the side, and a troll hauled itself up into the dying light. Osbert moaned and slumped to his knees, almost pulling Patch down with him.
“Run, Patchy,” the old shepherd croaked.
Available Summer 2005
P. W. (PAUL WILLIAM) CATANESE was born in New York and grew up in Connecticut, where he lives with his wife and three children. When he’s not writing books, he draws cartoons and works for an advertising agency.
Interestingly, the letters in “P. W. Catanese” can be rearranged to spell “want escape? Paul figures that’s why people read books like his.
To his readers, Paul writes: “Hope you enjoy them. Don’t worry if you’ve forgotten most of the original fairy tale that this story is based on—everything you need to know is right in these pages.”
The Thief and the Beanstalk (Further Tales Adventures) Page 20