The Giant-Slayer (17 page)

“I’d give it a darned good try,” said the Tellsman.

Jimmy pulled out the ball of bones. The dragon claw rattled inside. “It’s supposed to keep me safe,” he said. “I don’t know how it works.”

The hollow sphere swung from Jimmy’s hand. As the firelight caught the edges of the bones, it made strange patterns of black and white.

“Who gave you that?” asked the Tellsman.

“Khan. The hunter.”

“Would you care to part with it?”

“No, sir,” said Jimmy. “It’s going to help me, I think.” He let the charm turn on its string. “What does it do?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t make it,” said the Tellsman. He spat into the fire and sat brooding for a while. Then suddenly he laughed. “I’ve known at least a thousand men. Perhaps ten thousand more. The smallest of them all would be five times as big as you. But did even one of all those men go up the Great North Road with just a single charm, and not an inkling of its purpose? Jimmy, you dwarf them all.”

He got up then, and moved to the edge of the firelight. In the shadows he had a square barrow on wooden wheels. It unfolded to become a workbench, with a grindstone in the middle, a treadle underneath. There were cubbyholes and narrow drawers that, one by one, the Tellsman sorted through.

Jimmy watched from his place as the man brought out charms and amulets of all sizes. Some were new and shiny, others chipped or broken, brown with dirt and rust.

“Here’s the very thing.” The man held up a tarnished
bracelet, thin as a blade of grass, with a tiny disc of oyster shell suspended by a ring. “I’ll throw a shine on it for you,” he said and spat twice on his grindstone. He gave the stone a push to get it going, then pumped away on the treadle. The barrow rocked and shook. When the man touched the bracelet to the stone, sparks flew away in a blizzard.

Jimmy liked the rumbling sound of the wheel and the sizzle and whirr that came from the metal. In the darkness the sparks made a spray like fiery water.

The bracelet was still hot when the Tellsman gave it to Jimmy, as though the spirit of the sparks had passed into the metal. Jimmy slipped it over his wrist and watched the bit of shell turn and shimmer in the firelight.

“What does it do?” he asked.

“I’m not exactly sure, as I’ve forgotten how I came upon it,” said the Tellsman. “Oh, of course it has something to do with water. The piece of shell attests to that. And the thinness of the metal suggests the effect is temporary. It’s bound to help in a swamp, but I wouldn’t trust it in the sea.”

“Well, thank you,” said Jimmy.

He fell asleep with the bracelet on his arm, a smile on his face. He thought that he was well on his way already, and that the kindness of travelers would see him through to the end. Happy and contented, Jimmy slept so well that he didn’t stir until late in the morning. When he woke, the Tellsman was gone, the fire was out, the barrow hauled away.

Jimmy was sorry that he wouldn’t have a chance to thank the man—until he sat up and looked properly around.

His pockets had been turned inside out. His bag had been torn open, its few sad contents strewn right across the
Great North Road. Frantically, he reached for the string around his neck.

Jimmy found with relief that he still had his charm, his ball of bones. But it dangled now against his shirt, as though the Tellsman had tried—but failed—to pull it away. He tucked it back into place and crawled in the dust to collect his things. He found his socks, his shirts, and his underwear, but not the locket that had been his mother’s.

At first, Jimmy felt more disappointed than ever. He wanted to give up right then and go home to Fingal. But at the edge of the old fire, he found a leg of the rabbit placed politely on a flat stone that had been cleared of dirt. And beside the stone was a message. It was scraped into the ashes:

Has lightning inside
.

Jimmy ate the rabbit leg for breakfast as he stared at the writing. What did it mean? he wondered:
Has lightning inside
? He poked the ground gingerly but found it cold.

From the edge of the woods he took a stick, and with that he dug through the ashes and the bits of black charcoal, half believing that he might find lightning down in the ground. But when he didn’t, he wasn’t surprised. Then, puzzled, he tossed his bundle onto his shoulder and walked north up the road, tapping the stick before him.

He tapped all morning. He tapped into the afternoon, over a hill and into a valley, past Unicorn Rock with its white spire thrusting straight in the air. He knew it at once,
though he had never seen it before. Toward evening he came to a field of flat brown stones, each as perfect as a brick. “Ah, the Devil’s Courtyard,” he said aloud, as though he’d passed it a hundred times.

Again he saw the world as if through eagle’s eyes. A few miles ahead, the road would fork. The better path would lead to the east, around a small lake with red water, where Gypsies liked to camp. The other fork would go on to the north, but soon it would dwindle into a narrow trail, then disappear altogether. That was the way to the swamp.

There was only an hour of daylight left when Jimmy reached the fork. He thought he should press on for as long as he could. But the music of Gypsies was coming faintly from the east, and he believed he’d be welcome there. So he trudged round the lake, still tapping his stick, and it was the Gypsy King himself who came out of the camp to meet him. The King flung his arms wide open. “My boy!” he cried.

Jimmy had met the Gypsy King only once, years before, when a long train of caravans had stopped outside the inn. It was the King who had knocked on the door, asking for water for his horses. Fingal had said that no Gypsy horse would ever drink from
his
well. But Jimmy, in secret, had carried bucket after bucket, until the horses were sated. The King had said then that he would never forget Jimmy’s kindness. And now his teeth flashed with gold fillings as he grinned at the boy. “You long way from home, Jimmy. You come eat now. Come eat,” he said.

There were thirty Gypsies, in seven caravans, camped beside the red lake. They treated Jimmy like one of their own, making sure that he had food and water and a place to sit
before they let him say a word. Then, when he was ready, they peppered him with questions: Where was he heading? Why was he going? Was something wrong with Fingal? Jimmy told them about the tax man and the terrible things his father had said.

“I’m going to the swamp,” he told them. “Bottomless or not, I don’t care; I’ll swim if I have to,” he said. “My mother went in there, and so will I. I have to speak to the Swamp Witch.”

A hush fell over the Gypsies. They looked away from Jimmy, down at the ground or off across the water that was now as dark as blood. Far out on the lake, a loon whistled crazily.

The Gypsy King said, “We never speak of the Swamp Witch.”

“Why not?” asked little Jimmy.

The King made a sweeping motion with his arm. His clothes were black, and in the gathering night he looked like a bird taking wing. “She’s a devil woman. It was a witch who stole my heart, and all witches are the same,” said the Gypsy King. “When the moon is dark the Swamp Witch comes close to the camp. The dogs, they smell her.”

Jimmy learned no more than that. True to his word, the King wouldn’t speak of Jessamine, the Swamp Witch. And Jimmy, anxious to please, didn’t press him. There was an uncomfortable moment, until someone plucked quietly at fiddle strings. Then someone else joined in with tambourines, and soon the camp was loud with music, wild with Gypsy dancing.

All the women, all the girls, had a dance with Jimmy. They twirled him round the fire circle, round the wagons and the horses. They flung him here and flung him there, and everyone was laughing.

Jimmy had never been so happy. He had never imagined that such happiness was even possible. In fact, he felt more loved by the Gypsies than ever by his father.

They gave him a bed in the King’s wagon, on a pile of woolen blankets. A Gypsy princess, with hair as black as a raven’s feathers, bent down to kiss his forehead. But when she saw the ball of bones at his neck, she pulled away.

“What’s the matter?” asked Jimmy.

“I don’t like that,” she said.

“It’s a charm,” he told her.

“No, it is more.” She crawled into her own bed at the foot of the wagon and pulled a red blanket around her. “It is two charms. One protects the other.”

“Why?” asked Jimmy.

“So that no one can remove it but the owner.”

“But won’t it keep me safe?” asked Jimmy, up on one elbow now.

“Yes. It is a good charm,” said the Gypsy girl.

“Then why don’t you like it?” asked Jimmy.

“Because it has evil in it. Your charm brings death.”

It was a mystery to Jimmy how a good charm could be full of evil. He asked the Gypsy to explain, but she wouldn’t. She blew out the candle beside her bed and lay in silence as the King and all the others laughed and talked outside.

Jimmy dreamed of nothing. His sleep was long and safe,
and in the morning he bathed with the Gypsies in the cool scarlet water. He ate again, and drank again, then took his stick and bundle and sadly said he had to go.

The King followed him out to the road. “My boy, you stay with us, why not?” he said. “From now on you live with Gypsy, yes?”

“I wish I could,” said Jimmy. “But I have to go to the swamp.”

“Why?” said the King. “Why must you see this witch so badly?”

He thought he’d explained it. He had to see the witch to set things straight. He had to learn what had happened to his mother, and he hoped to grow to be big. He had to show his father that he wasn’t a runt or a squirm.

“So many things you have to do,” said the King. “So much on your little shoulders. But one day, when you have done them all, you come home and live with Gypsy. Promise me, my boy.”

“I would like that very much,” said Jimmy.

Jimmy followed his tracks down the Great North Road, tapping a Gypsy tune with his stick. When he reached the fork he turned right, toward the swamp and the home of the witch.

The road soon ended, just as the travelers had said it would. The trail that snaked into the forest was easy to follow for the first seven miles. Fresh blazes, bright as yellow paint, marked the route over three hills, each higher than
the next. The trail was trodden to bare dirt, and bridges of logs had been built over rivers and creeks.

In the eighth mile, Jimmy found a traveler’s pack abandoned beside the trail. It had been torn open, by men or animals, and nothing worth having was left. Half a mile farther on, he found an empty barrel, tossed aside, and a pair of boots with the soles worn off. He passed a thrown-away compass with no needle, an abandoned cart with one wheel shattered, a chest of drawers, the handle from an axe. There was more and more as he went along, as the trail faded slowly into the forest. It had all been left behind, he supposed: abandoned by weary travelers willing to give up their all to carry on.

Beside a creek was the skeleton of a horse, now as flat as a white drawing on the grass, crushed by its own pack saddle. On the other bank there was no trail to follow, no mark or blaze at all. So Jimmy made his own path into the wilderness, and four hours later it brought him to another creek, where he was surprised to find the bones of another dead horse squashed below its pack. Only when he crossed the creek for a second time did he realize that he’d gone in a circle.