up and grabbed the hunter’s arm. “There’s no luck in this,” he said. “It’s a wooden tooth.”
The hunter looked at him, then slowly smiled. “Reckon any fool could see that, once he’s gone hand to claw with adragon,” he said. “But I’m tickled you told me.” He pressed the coin into the boy’s small palm.
“Thank you,” said Jimmy.
Khan took up his arrows and his bow and chose a seat near the fire. Jimmy hovered round him, as close as he could be. He couldn’t look anywhere except at the hunter’s face. The wrinkles round the man’s eyes fascinated him. He could picture Khan always squinting into sun and snow and ice.
Khan put up his feet on the fire grate, inches from the flames.
“Sir?” said Jimmy. “Have you ever been to the swamp?”
“The bottomless swamp? Never seen it, but I know of it,” said the hunter.
“Do you know the witch who lives there?”
“Not personally. Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.” Khan hooked his long bow onto an empty chair to draw it closer. “But take a seat and I’ll tell you what I know.”
Story followed story. The other travelers came down from their rooms and joined the pair at the fire. Jimmy sat with his tiny legs jutting straight out from the chair until Fingal came in and set him to work.
Warmed by the flames, Khan took off his necklaces. He called Jimmy to his side and put around the boy’s neck one of his own charms—a delicate sphere of tiny bones, enclosing the claw of a dragon. “Now,
that
will bring you luck,” he said. “It’s an old Gypsy charm. I got it myself from an old Gypsy.”
The hunter had pushed up his sleeves. Jimmy could see on each arm a blue tattoo that might have been carved with a knife: on his left a fiery dragon, on his right a moon and two stars that seemed to twinkle as his muscles twitched.
“See?” said Dickie. “See, I told you so.”
That night in the basement, when the travelers had gone to their rooms, Fingal gaped as Jimmy emptied his pockets. Out came coin after coin, more than the boy had ever collected in one day in his cradle. A greedy look came to Fingal’s face in the candlelight.
“Where’d you get all that?” he asked. “Did you nick it, boy?”
“No, it’s from the travelers,” said Jimmy. “Khan gave me this one; the mule skinner gave me that one; that tall shepherd, he—”
“For what?”
“For nothing, Father. Just for listening.”
Fingal cackled. He rubbed Jimmy’s hair. “That’s my boy,” he said. “Why, you’re made of money, aren’t you? Keep listening like that and I’ll tell you what: we’ll start your own cache. Why, we’ll start it right now.”
Fingal went into the shadows and rolled out an empty barrel. It was just a two-gallon keg, the smallest there was, but to Jimmy it seemed quite huge. Fingal knocked off the top and stood it upright. He picked up the silver Marcus that Khan had given Jimmy and, with a flick of his thumb, sent it tumbling it into the barrel. It made a lovely, hollow sound as it bounced around the staves.
“That’s for you, boy. Just for you,” he said. “From nowon, every night, you’ll get a share like that. You might say we’re partners now, me and you.”
So Jimmy the giant-slayer grew up in the parlor of the Dragon’s Tooth, hearing the tales of travelers. He tottered from table to table, his eyes just peering over the tops. He carried glasses back and forth, kept the lamps and candles burning, and made himself useful in every way he could.
The travelers would cry out to him: “Jimmy! Over here!” and “Jimmy! Come and have a word!” Round and round he’d go, hoisted now to a minstrel’s lap, now to a woodsman’s massive thigh, and at each stop another coin was pressed into his hand, until he jingled like a Gypsy with every step he took. Fingal was astounded; he began to believe that he had, after all, got the better of the Wishman.
Jimmy loved the parlor when it was full of travelers—full of
The hunter looked at him, then slowly smiled. “Reckon any fool could see that, once he’s gone hand to claw with adragon,” he said. “But I’m tickled you told me.” He pressed the coin into the boy’s small palm.
“Thank you,” said Jimmy.
Khan took up his arrows and his bow and chose a seat near the fire. Jimmy hovered round him, as close as he could be. He couldn’t look anywhere except at the hunter’s face. The wrinkles round the man’s eyes fascinated him. He could picture Khan always squinting into sun and snow and ice.
Khan put up his feet on the fire grate, inches from the flames.
“Sir?” said Jimmy. “Have you ever been to the swamp?”
“The bottomless swamp? Never seen it, but I know of it,” said the hunter.
“Do you know the witch who lives there?”
“Not personally. Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.” Khan hooked his long bow onto an empty chair to draw it closer. “But take a seat and I’ll tell you what I know.”
Story followed story. The other travelers came down from their rooms and joined the pair at the fire. Jimmy sat with his tiny legs jutting straight out from the chair until Fingal came in and set him to work.
Warmed by the flames, Khan took off his necklaces. He called Jimmy to his side and put around the boy’s neck one of his own charms—a delicate sphere of tiny bones, enclosing the claw of a dragon. “Now,
that
will bring you luck,” he said. “It’s an old Gypsy charm. I got it myself from an old Gypsy.”
The hunter had pushed up his sleeves. Jimmy could see on each arm a blue tattoo that might have been carved with a knife: on his left a fiery dragon, on his right a moon and two stars that seemed to twinkle as his muscles twitched.
“See?” said Dickie. “See, I told you so.”
That night in the basement, when the travelers had gone to their rooms, Fingal gaped as Jimmy emptied his pockets. Out came coin after coin, more than the boy had ever collected in one day in his cradle. A greedy look came to Fingal’s face in the candlelight.
“Where’d you get all that?” he asked. “Did you nick it, boy?”
“No, it’s from the travelers,” said Jimmy. “Khan gave me this one; the mule skinner gave me that one; that tall shepherd, he—”
“For what?”
“For nothing, Father. Just for listening.”
Fingal cackled. He rubbed Jimmy’s hair. “That’s my boy,” he said. “Why, you’re made of money, aren’t you? Keep listening like that and I’ll tell you what: we’ll start your own cache. Why, we’ll start it right now.”
Fingal went into the shadows and rolled out an empty barrel. It was just a two-gallon keg, the smallest there was, but to Jimmy it seemed quite huge. Fingal knocked off the top and stood it upright. He picked up the silver Marcus that Khan had given Jimmy and, with a flick of his thumb, sent it tumbling it into the barrel. It made a lovely, hollow sound as it bounced around the staves.
“That’s for you, boy. Just for you,” he said. “From nowon, every night, you’ll get a share like that. You might say we’re partners now, me and you.”
So Jimmy the giant-slayer grew up in the parlor of the Dragon’s Tooth, hearing the tales of travelers. He tottered from table to table, his eyes just peering over the tops. He carried glasses back and forth, kept the lamps and candles burning, and made himself useful in every way he could.
The travelers would cry out to him: “Jimmy! Over here!” and “Jimmy! Come and have a word!” Round and round he’d go, hoisted now to a minstrel’s lap, now to a woodsman’s massive thigh, and at each stop another coin was pressed into his hand, until he jingled like a Gypsy with every step he took. Fingal was astounded; he began to believe that he had, after all, got the better of the Wishman.
Jimmy loved the parlor when it was full of travelers—full of
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