The Stone Giant (29 page)

When he bumped up onto the sandy shore of another smaller cove, out of sight of the galleon, and hauled the rowboat up out of the river, Leta was gone and the elves with her. The air was full of shouting and smoke and mayhem. Three goblins, their heads bobbing from side to side, eyes whirling, came raging out of the shrubbery at him, as if they’d been on the lookout for him all along and had worked themselves into a frenzy through anticipation. Escargo had had enough of goblins and their dangerous pranks. He was out of sympathy with the little men. He plucked an oar out from underneath the thwarts and slammed the first goblin in the side of the head with the flat of the paddle. It was too long for any serious swinging, though, and the goblin was up and after him along with his companions, all of them capering along behind as Escargot charged up the bank carrying the oar like a spear.

He stopped abruptly, picked up a rock the size of a bread loaf, and threw it with all his strength at the head of the goblin nearest at hand, then leaped in after the next one, jabbing the creature in the chest with the handle of the oar and knocking it over backward into the weeds. The first goblin lay where he fell, his mouth still working feebly, the stone beside him. The third goblin hesitated, looking at his fallen comrades, then tried to heft the stone himself, shakily, with skinny little arms, baring his filed teeth at Escargot as if to throw a fright into him. The rock was far too heavy, though, and the creature dropped it on his own bare foot, howling in pain and rage, then turned and jammed a taloned finger into the ear of the goblin still sitting in the weeds. His companion howled, grabbed the offending finger, and bit it twice, only to have a clump of his hair yanked out in turn. The two fell upon each other in earnest then, and Escargot, wondering that such a thing as a goblin could exist in an otherwise rational world, turned and trotted up toward the road, at which time both the scrabbling goblins leaped up and chased after him, hooting with rage.

It was clear that there were goblins aplenty to smack with the oar. The elves, a couple dozen in all, dressed in their gaudy foolery, were outnumbered by a margin of ten to one, and it was only their sanity that evened the score against the mad goblins, who were every bit as likely to tear off the ear of one of their fellows as to attempt the ear of an elf. Swords whirled in the afternoon sunlight, wielded by the capering elves, who seemed leery of actually skewering goblins, but were waving their weapons in a theatrical show, poking the occasional goblin that achieved any real mischief. It was suddenly clear to Escargot that the elves intended to gain entrance to the burning house, and that the goblins weren’t in the mood to see them do it.

He watched Leta snatch a goblin up by his trousers and toss him head over heels down the hill toward the river, then latch onto another one and sail him off too. She kicked a third in the same general direction, and although the goblins raged and spat and did little threatening dances roundabout her, they seemed loathe to hurt her. A half dozen elves rushed in at her all at once, pounding goblins out of the way as they ran, but Leta pushed the first of them in the face and sent him sprawling downhill too. There were no end of elves and goblins, both crowds set against each other, and Leta, apparently, set against the both of them. All of them scurried around her as if they had designs on her, but daren’t hurt her.

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.’