the autumn, when storms were fierce and frequent, and was a gesture of generosity on the part of Instep whereby its inhabitants could say, “Come and eat and dance; be entertained and spend your money; and—hear the Megrimum for yourselves.” For this was the name they had come to use when speaking of the mournful creature that lived at the top of Kneeknock Rise.
“Now, don’t forget!” said Egan’s mother for the twentieth time. “When you get to Instep, go directly to your Uncle Anson’s house. Don’t go wandering about the shops. Your Aunt Gertrude will worry if you’re not there by six, and she’s been worried enough since Ott disappeared.”
“If Aunt Gertrude is as fussy as you say, no wonder Uncle Ott keeps running off,” said Egan, pulling crossly at his new collar. “I wish I could stay with someone else.”
“Nonsense!” said his mother. “If you’re going to the Instep Fair, of course you must stay with your aunt and uncle. Anyway, Gertrude isn’t exactly fussy. She’s just nervous. Who wouldn’t be nervous, living at the bottom of the Rise? I don’t see how they stand it all year round. It’s very good of Gertrude and Anson to look after Ott, seeing as he’s never done a thing but read his books and write all those verses. And then, too, he’s sick so often. Colds and wheezing. It can’t be easy for them, even if he is your Uncle Anson’s only brother.” She walked around her son, eyeing him critically, and brushed a bit of lint from his shoulder. “Now, Egan, do be polite to Gertrude and Anson. They’re so pleased you’re coming to the Fair, and it will be a real treat for your Cousin Ada. Little Ada! Why, I haven’t seen her since she was a baby!”
Egan rode across the countryside to Instep with his father’s friend, the chandler, who was taking a load of fragrant new candles to sell at the Fair. It was forty miles from home to the gates of Instep, a long, tiresome ride on the hard seat of a bulky cart drawn by a very resentful mule the chandler called Frieda. The mule sometimes walked so slowly that you were sure she had fallen asleep, but she could also decide, quite suddenly and without warning, to break into a gallop. Every time this happened, Egan and the chandler would fall over backwards into the straw-packed candles behind them and then have to struggle upright, while the cart hurtled crazily down the road, and yell at Frieda until they were hoarse. The mule would stop eventually, gasping and glaring as if it were all their fault, and then the whole process would begin over again.
It was just after one of the galloping episodes that the chandler suddenly put his hand on Egan’s arm and pointed. “There they are!” he said excitedly. “And there it is!” Along the level horizon, sure enough, a row of dark bumps had appeared. One of the bumps, narrower and straighter than the others, rose up in the middle of the row, crowned by a shred of mist that shimmered in the clear autumn sunshine.
“Is that it?” asked Egan in a low voice, squinting at the distant cliff. “I’ve never seen it before.”
“That’s it!” whispered the chandler. “I’ve seen it fifty times, but it always makes me shiver. It’s a grand sight, grander close up.” He prodded the dawdling mule impatiently with his driving stick. “Hurry up, Frieda, can’t you?” he cried. “Get a move on!” Then his voice dropped again and he murmured, “That’s it, all right. That’s Kneeknock Rise.”
When Egan arrived at last, he was tired and dusty and somehow resentful of the somber thrust of the cliff that had loomed larger and larger as the cart jolted over the fields toward Instep. It was too big, he decided; too proud. He scowled at it jealously. And the first sight of his Uncle Anson’s house did nothing to improve his mood. A little girl was sitting on the wall that enclosed the small house and yard, and she studied him critically as he walked along the road to the gate. She
“Now, don’t forget!” said Egan’s mother for the twentieth time. “When you get to Instep, go directly to your Uncle Anson’s house. Don’t go wandering about the shops. Your Aunt Gertrude will worry if you’re not there by six, and she’s been worried enough since Ott disappeared.”
“If Aunt Gertrude is as fussy as you say, no wonder Uncle Ott keeps running off,” said Egan, pulling crossly at his new collar. “I wish I could stay with someone else.”
“Nonsense!” said his mother. “If you’re going to the Instep Fair, of course you must stay with your aunt and uncle. Anyway, Gertrude isn’t exactly fussy. She’s just nervous. Who wouldn’t be nervous, living at the bottom of the Rise? I don’t see how they stand it all year round. It’s very good of Gertrude and Anson to look after Ott, seeing as he’s never done a thing but read his books and write all those verses. And then, too, he’s sick so often. Colds and wheezing. It can’t be easy for them, even if he is your Uncle Anson’s only brother.” She walked around her son, eyeing him critically, and brushed a bit of lint from his shoulder. “Now, Egan, do be polite to Gertrude and Anson. They’re so pleased you’re coming to the Fair, and it will be a real treat for your Cousin Ada. Little Ada! Why, I haven’t seen her since she was a baby!”
Egan rode across the countryside to Instep with his father’s friend, the chandler, who was taking a load of fragrant new candles to sell at the Fair. It was forty miles from home to the gates of Instep, a long, tiresome ride on the hard seat of a bulky cart drawn by a very resentful mule the chandler called Frieda. The mule sometimes walked so slowly that you were sure she had fallen asleep, but she could also decide, quite suddenly and without warning, to break into a gallop. Every time this happened, Egan and the chandler would fall over backwards into the straw-packed candles behind them and then have to struggle upright, while the cart hurtled crazily down the road, and yell at Frieda until they were hoarse. The mule would stop eventually, gasping and glaring as if it were all their fault, and then the whole process would begin over again.
It was just after one of the galloping episodes that the chandler suddenly put his hand on Egan’s arm and pointed. “There they are!” he said excitedly. “And there it is!” Along the level horizon, sure enough, a row of dark bumps had appeared. One of the bumps, narrower and straighter than the others, rose up in the middle of the row, crowned by a shred of mist that shimmered in the clear autumn sunshine.
“Is that it?” asked Egan in a low voice, squinting at the distant cliff. “I’ve never seen it before.”
“That’s it!” whispered the chandler. “I’ve seen it fifty times, but it always makes me shiver. It’s a grand sight, grander close up.” He prodded the dawdling mule impatiently with his driving stick. “Hurry up, Frieda, can’t you?” he cried. “Get a move on!” Then his voice dropped again and he murmured, “That’s it, all right. That’s Kneeknock Rise.”
When Egan arrived at last, he was tired and dusty and somehow resentful of the somber thrust of the cliff that had loomed larger and larger as the cart jolted over the fields toward Instep. It was too big, he decided; too proud. He scowled at it jealously. And the first sight of his Uncle Anson’s house did nothing to improve his mood. A little girl was sitting on the wall that enclosed the small house and yard, and she studied him critically as he walked along the road to the gate. She