behind the tree stump on which he had been sitting, he crouched down and, crossing himself feverishly, continued to beg for mercy. “Heavenly Father help me. Holy saints protect me.”
Tymmon was talking, too, saying loudly and then more loudly, “ ‘Tis but a dog! A dog! He won’t harm you. He is only a dog! ”
He was beginning to think the cowherd was deaf, although certainly not mute, when the plea for heavenly help finally dwindled away into silence. Still cowering behind the tree stump so that only his head was visible, the boy looked from Tymmon to Troff and back again, his eyes jittery with fear and narrowed by suspicion.
“A dog?” he said at last, “ ‘Tis like no dog I ever seen. And who might you be, stranger?”
The voice was thin and quavery and tinged with the broad rolling accent of country folk. And the head, which from Tymmon’s point of view seemed almost to be resting in a disembodied fashion on the tree stump, was narrow, pale-eyed, big-eared, and crowned with a dead-straw bristle of hair. Tymmon found himself grinning.
“My name is... He paused, remembering that Tymmon, son of Komus, was a dangerous name to bear. But the hesitation was only for a fraction of a second while his racing mind considered and discarded several aliases, and then settled on Hylas—a name from one of Komus’s tales of ancient times. “Hylas,” he said. “I am Hylas, and my dog is called Troff. I am sorry that he startled you, but I am not entirely surprised. You see, he is from a rare breed raised only in the eastern countries and used there for the hunting of lions and griffins and other dangerous beasts. But he is quite tame and obedient. See how he will obey when I tell him to lie down and roll onto his back. Watch now.
“Lie down, Troff,” he said. At the same time he held one hand at his side out of the boy’s view, and wiggled the fingers in a scratching motion. And the gargoyle, as he always did at the very thought of a good scratch, flopped down and rolled belly-up. Tymmon knelt to give him a quick pat, and a brief and secret scratch. “See how well trained he is,” he said as he regained his feet. “What is your name, friend? Tell me your name and I will make you known to him and tell him to do you no harm.”
“I be called Char.”
So Tymmon made a great show of telling Troff that this was Char, and that he was not to be harmed. And Troff rolled right side up and also made a great show of listening intently, as might an obedient dog. And when their act was over the cowherd came out from behind the stump.
Still watching warily, he began to edge toward where Troff was lying, grinning his white-fanged gargoyle smile. After several minutes of gradually increasing confidence, the peasant boy crouched down and touched Troff’s head. He then smiled triumphantly at Tymmon, and went on touching, patting, and scratching with increasing enthusiasm. Troff’s response was enthusiastic also. Watching the two of them, Tymmon began to feel uneasy. He had asked the silly beast to be friendly, not to make himself ridiculous fawning over the first simple-minded country bumpkin he happened to meet.
“Well,” Tymmon said sharply, “we must be on our way. It is getting late and I had hoped to reach civilization before nightfall. Perhaps you could direct me to the nearest town or village.”
“Late,” the boy said suddenly, looking up toward the western sky. “Yes, it be late. I needs must hurry.” He snatched up a long staff and started toward the grazing livestock.
Tymmon hurried after him. “The nearest village? Could you direct me?”
Already starting to wave his staff at his four-legged charges, the cowherd paused, and with his staff still raised, knit his brows in thought. After a remarkable amount of careful thought-taking he said slowly, “The nearest village? There be no village nearer than Bondgard.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. Bondgard be the nearest.”
“And are you going to
Tymmon was talking, too, saying loudly and then more loudly, “ ‘Tis but a dog! A dog! He won’t harm you. He is only a dog! ”
He was beginning to think the cowherd was deaf, although certainly not mute, when the plea for heavenly help finally dwindled away into silence. Still cowering behind the tree stump so that only his head was visible, the boy looked from Tymmon to Troff and back again, his eyes jittery with fear and narrowed by suspicion.
“A dog?” he said at last, “ ‘Tis like no dog I ever seen. And who might you be, stranger?”
The voice was thin and quavery and tinged with the broad rolling accent of country folk. And the head, which from Tymmon’s point of view seemed almost to be resting in a disembodied fashion on the tree stump, was narrow, pale-eyed, big-eared, and crowned with a dead-straw bristle of hair. Tymmon found himself grinning.
“My name is... He paused, remembering that Tymmon, son of Komus, was a dangerous name to bear. But the hesitation was only for a fraction of a second while his racing mind considered and discarded several aliases, and then settled on Hylas—a name from one of Komus’s tales of ancient times. “Hylas,” he said. “I am Hylas, and my dog is called Troff. I am sorry that he startled you, but I am not entirely surprised. You see, he is from a rare breed raised only in the eastern countries and used there for the hunting of lions and griffins and other dangerous beasts. But he is quite tame and obedient. See how he will obey when I tell him to lie down and roll onto his back. Watch now.
“Lie down, Troff,” he said. At the same time he held one hand at his side out of the boy’s view, and wiggled the fingers in a scratching motion. And the gargoyle, as he always did at the very thought of a good scratch, flopped down and rolled belly-up. Tymmon knelt to give him a quick pat, and a brief and secret scratch. “See how well trained he is,” he said as he regained his feet. “What is your name, friend? Tell me your name and I will make you known to him and tell him to do you no harm.”
“I be called Char.”
So Tymmon made a great show of telling Troff that this was Char, and that he was not to be harmed. And Troff rolled right side up and also made a great show of listening intently, as might an obedient dog. And when their act was over the cowherd came out from behind the stump.
Still watching warily, he began to edge toward where Troff was lying, grinning his white-fanged gargoyle smile. After several minutes of gradually increasing confidence, the peasant boy crouched down and touched Troff’s head. He then smiled triumphantly at Tymmon, and went on touching, patting, and scratching with increasing enthusiasm. Troff’s response was enthusiastic also. Watching the two of them, Tymmon began to feel uneasy. He had asked the silly beast to be friendly, not to make himself ridiculous fawning over the first simple-minded country bumpkin he happened to meet.
“Well,” Tymmon said sharply, “we must be on our way. It is getting late and I had hoped to reach civilization before nightfall. Perhaps you could direct me to the nearest town or village.”
“Late,” the boy said suddenly, looking up toward the western sky. “Yes, it be late. I needs must hurry.” He snatched up a long staff and started toward the grazing livestock.
Tymmon hurried after him. “The nearest village? Could you direct me?”
Already starting to wave his staff at his four-legged charges, the cowherd paused, and with his staff still raised, knit his brows in thought. After a remarkable amount of careful thought-taking he said slowly, “The nearest village? There be no village nearer than Bondgard.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. Bondgard be the nearest.”
“And are you going to
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