‘I’ll need a half dozen of those yellow tree fungi – the ones that look like clam shells and have the pink dots all up and down one side. I shouldn’t wonder if you have a difficult time finding them. Look on the underside of old, fallen hemlocks.’
Old, fallen hemlocks,’ Jonathan wrote dutifully, ‘underside. How large are these fungi, Professor?’
‘About the diameter of a man’s head, when they’re ripe. If you find them much larger they’re useless. They go all to slime when you touch them. Slimy ones are no good at all.’
‘No slime,’ wrote Jonathan.
‘And then I’ll need a jar of cobweb – dusty cobweb if you can manage – and a half dozen little axolotls, preferably speckled ones.’
Jonathan shook his head as if amazed. ‘Will this accomplish the cure, Professor, all this vegetation and such?’
‘I hope so. I got the recipe from a wandering bunjo man who came through town years ago. Claimed he had beans that would grow into houses. A lot of foolery I told him.’
Of course,’ said Jonathan. Of course.’
‘But I couldn’t argue with his poultice. No one can deny the curative properties of fungi and axolotls.’
‘No one would dare,’ Jonathan assented.
No sooner had they settled on the recipe list than Willowood hove into view on a distant headland. The wharf, which had once been the center of most of the valley’s river trade, was smashed to bits. Broken pilings jutted through the shallow river water but supported nothing but birds. Only a small section of dock remained whole, and it had been hacked up and was leaning in such a way as to make it of doubtful use. But it was the only place to dock so Jonathan angled in toward it. Dooly perched on the bow with the painter, ready to leap ashore and tie up.
For a moment Jonathan considered the possibility of tieing up to one of the pilings twenty or thirty feet off shore and paddling the coracle ashore. The raft would be a bit safer from deviltry that way. But then it was true that whatever sort of fiends were likely to be lurking about the station could just as easily steal the coracle and paddle out to the raft, so Jonathan figured it wasn’t worth the trouble. They tied up at the dock.
The Professor lay on the bunk covered with several blankets against the chill. He had a mug of tea, some cheese, and a wrinkled apple for lunch. Beside the bunk was a good, stout oak truncheon should there be uninvited guests. Dooly and Jonathan stuck their heads in at the door and waved goodbye, then tromped off along the path toward the remains of the station.
The boathouse beyond the dock was a wreck. The roof had caved in and it looked as if someone had set in to build a cabin and then slipped up and put the roof of a lean-to on it. The windows were absolutely gone. There were only a few shards of glass laying about. Planks of ship-lap had been torn out of the walls and dashed to bits; they lay scattered outside. All in all, the boathouse wasn’t much good any longer.
The several buildings that had been Willowood Station were in much the same condition as the boathouse. Roofs had collapsed, doors were broken and dangling from ruined hinges, walls were caved in, and the wind blew along through everything as if it were meant to. Nothing remained in the houses but broken furniture and ragged curtains. Food and clothing and everything of value had disappeared. Dark weeds sprouted through collapsed stoops and stairways, and forest vines crept in and out of broken windows and chimneys as if the forest were reclaiming the town for its own. And over all hung a dreadful silence that was broken only by the cries of an occasionakbird. Dooly was certain ghosts were about but didn’t let on to Jonathan for fear that he would agree.
‘What do you suppose, Mr Cheeser, sir, about this here wreckage? Was it a hurricane that came through?’
‘I don’t believe so, Dooly,’ Jonathan replied. ‘Although I rather wish it were. But what confounds me
Old, fallen hemlocks,’ Jonathan wrote dutifully, ‘underside. How large are these fungi, Professor?’
‘About the diameter of a man’s head, when they’re ripe. If you find them much larger they’re useless. They go all to slime when you touch them. Slimy ones are no good at all.’
‘No slime,’ wrote Jonathan.
‘And then I’ll need a jar of cobweb – dusty cobweb if you can manage – and a half dozen little axolotls, preferably speckled ones.’
Jonathan shook his head as if amazed. ‘Will this accomplish the cure, Professor, all this vegetation and such?’
‘I hope so. I got the recipe from a wandering bunjo man who came through town years ago. Claimed he had beans that would grow into houses. A lot of foolery I told him.’
Of course,’ said Jonathan. Of course.’
‘But I couldn’t argue with his poultice. No one can deny the curative properties of fungi and axolotls.’
‘No one would dare,’ Jonathan assented.
No sooner had they settled on the recipe list than Willowood hove into view on a distant headland. The wharf, which had once been the center of most of the valley’s river trade, was smashed to bits. Broken pilings jutted through the shallow river water but supported nothing but birds. Only a small section of dock remained whole, and it had been hacked up and was leaning in such a way as to make it of doubtful use. But it was the only place to dock so Jonathan angled in toward it. Dooly perched on the bow with the painter, ready to leap ashore and tie up.
For a moment Jonathan considered the possibility of tieing up to one of the pilings twenty or thirty feet off shore and paddling the coracle ashore. The raft would be a bit safer from deviltry that way. But then it was true that whatever sort of fiends were likely to be lurking about the station could just as easily steal the coracle and paddle out to the raft, so Jonathan figured it wasn’t worth the trouble. They tied up at the dock.
The Professor lay on the bunk covered with several blankets against the chill. He had a mug of tea, some cheese, and a wrinkled apple for lunch. Beside the bunk was a good, stout oak truncheon should there be uninvited guests. Dooly and Jonathan stuck their heads in at the door and waved goodbye, then tromped off along the path toward the remains of the station.
The boathouse beyond the dock was a wreck. The roof had caved in and it looked as if someone had set in to build a cabin and then slipped up and put the roof of a lean-to on it. The windows were absolutely gone. There were only a few shards of glass laying about. Planks of ship-lap had been torn out of the walls and dashed to bits; they lay scattered outside. All in all, the boathouse wasn’t much good any longer.
The several buildings that had been Willowood Station were in much the same condition as the boathouse. Roofs had collapsed, doors were broken and dangling from ruined hinges, walls were caved in, and the wind blew along through everything as if it were meant to. Nothing remained in the houses but broken furniture and ragged curtains. Food and clothing and everything of value had disappeared. Dark weeds sprouted through collapsed stoops and stairways, and forest vines crept in and out of broken windows and chimneys as if the forest were reclaiming the town for its own. And over all hung a dreadful silence that was broken only by the cries of an occasionakbird. Dooly was certain ghosts were about but didn’t let on to Jonathan for fear that he would agree.
‘What do you suppose, Mr Cheeser, sir, about this here wreckage? Was it a hurricane that came through?’
‘I don’t believe so, Dooly,’ Jonathan replied. ‘Although I rather wish it were. But what confounds me
Similar Books
