anticipation. The shouts and footfalls grew louder, and the lights of wavering torches hovered in the fog. Then Uncle Helstrom appeared, running out of the mist, pursued by a torch-carrying mob that waved hayforks and coils of rope. In his mouth burned his curved pipe, packed, no doubt, with the smoking, brittle bones of henny-penny men.
Uncle Helstrom, chased! Here was an interesting turn. But then it was clear that no one was chasing the dwarf. They were following him, pursuing the old woman. They closed in on her, snarling and yelling and shoving. She croaked a single protest before they were upon her. She was borne down, tied, then hoisted onto the shoulders of two men, who, at the urging of the dwarf, hauled her along at the head of the mob, up the alley toward the festivities. Her stick clattered to the cobbles and was trod to fragments by a hundred stamping feet. Escargot followed, awash with surprise and confusion.
The cornucopia had been pulled into a great square. Above sat the palace, its gray stone half lost in the hovering fog. The light of countless torches danced and flickered, and the streets, running off away from the square like spokes from the hub of a wheel, were packed with people, pushing forward, dancing in time to foggy rhythms that were the strangely melodic product of a thousand separate musicians. Escargot elbowed along behind the mob from the alley as the crowd parted before them. They were destined, it was clear, for the center of the square, and it had begun to dawn on Escargot why that was. He didn’t at all like it.
From the shadow of the palace stepped four of the wooden puppets that had led the revelers earlier in the evening. One, quite clearly, was intended to be a dwarf, with a waggling beard and an axe in its belt. Another was an elf, thin and grinning and in a pointed cloth cap. A third was a jolly, longlegged linkman, a basket of summer fruit on his back. The fourth was a man in leather boots and a shop coat and spectacles. Appearing behind them, its cornsilk hair afire, a goblin jerked along, its eyes opening and shutting as it bent forward at the waist and then straightened again, bowing to the assembled masses.
The first four plucked long torches from the palace wall and lurched toward the cornucopia, which, as Escargot drew closer, seemed to be almost rectilinear – all angles and joints like a weirdly winding stairway that led to a spiral cavern full of strange autumnal debris. The torches dipped and rose, spilling burning oil onto the dry and brittle wood. The goblin puppet reached into the tangle and wrenched at a great wooden chair built of tree branches. Scores of pumpkins cascaded out onto the roadway, breaking open and scattering candies and coins across the square. People shouted and scurried. A hatch midway back in the side of the cornucopia fell open on hinges, spilling no end of stuffed pumpkins and spraying the night with elf-stars that burst into momentary light when they struck the ground and bounced.
In moments the wooden hulk of the cornucopia was aflame. The goblin puppet straightened, and looked about itself through oddly lit glass eyes. It seemed to see the blind witch, bound, mute, and held up as an offering. It stooped, plucked the witch out of the hands of the cheering crowd, and set her atop the enormous chair as if she were a stuffed doll. The witch’s head swiveled, empty eyes regarding the flames. Escargot slid between hooting men so that he stood directly before the pyre. The flames crept upward, and the hem of the witch’s dusty robe sparked and flickered. Her face was lit in a horrid glow that made it seem as if the milky glaze of her blindness evaporated, and for one repellent moment she gazed down at Escargot through sighted eyes, eyes full of weary despair and longing.
Escargot staggered back. Smithers hadn’t lied. Not a bit. Everything had been there: the lurching puppets, the torchlight, the odd, enchanted music piping in the fog, the
Uncle Helstrom, chased! Here was an interesting turn. But then it was clear that no one was chasing the dwarf. They were following him, pursuing the old woman. They closed in on her, snarling and yelling and shoving. She croaked a single protest before they were upon her. She was borne down, tied, then hoisted onto the shoulders of two men, who, at the urging of the dwarf, hauled her along at the head of the mob, up the alley toward the festivities. Her stick clattered to the cobbles and was trod to fragments by a hundred stamping feet. Escargot followed, awash with surprise and confusion.
The cornucopia had been pulled into a great square. Above sat the palace, its gray stone half lost in the hovering fog. The light of countless torches danced and flickered, and the streets, running off away from the square like spokes from the hub of a wheel, were packed with people, pushing forward, dancing in time to foggy rhythms that were the strangely melodic product of a thousand separate musicians. Escargot elbowed along behind the mob from the alley as the crowd parted before them. They were destined, it was clear, for the center of the square, and it had begun to dawn on Escargot why that was. He didn’t at all like it.
From the shadow of the palace stepped four of the wooden puppets that had led the revelers earlier in the evening. One, quite clearly, was intended to be a dwarf, with a waggling beard and an axe in its belt. Another was an elf, thin and grinning and in a pointed cloth cap. A third was a jolly, longlegged linkman, a basket of summer fruit on his back. The fourth was a man in leather boots and a shop coat and spectacles. Appearing behind them, its cornsilk hair afire, a goblin jerked along, its eyes opening and shutting as it bent forward at the waist and then straightened again, bowing to the assembled masses.
The first four plucked long torches from the palace wall and lurched toward the cornucopia, which, as Escargot drew closer, seemed to be almost rectilinear – all angles and joints like a weirdly winding stairway that led to a spiral cavern full of strange autumnal debris. The torches dipped and rose, spilling burning oil onto the dry and brittle wood. The goblin puppet reached into the tangle and wrenched at a great wooden chair built of tree branches. Scores of pumpkins cascaded out onto the roadway, breaking open and scattering candies and coins across the square. People shouted and scurried. A hatch midway back in the side of the cornucopia fell open on hinges, spilling no end of stuffed pumpkins and spraying the night with elf-stars that burst into momentary light when they struck the ground and bounced.
In moments the wooden hulk of the cornucopia was aflame. The goblin puppet straightened, and looked about itself through oddly lit glass eyes. It seemed to see the blind witch, bound, mute, and held up as an offering. It stooped, plucked the witch out of the hands of the cheering crowd, and set her atop the enormous chair as if she were a stuffed doll. The witch’s head swiveled, empty eyes regarding the flames. Escargot slid between hooting men so that he stood directly before the pyre. The flames crept upward, and the hem of the witch’s dusty robe sparked and flickered. Her face was lit in a horrid glow that made it seem as if the milky glaze of her blindness evaporated, and for one repellent moment she gazed down at Escargot through sighted eyes, eyes full of weary despair and longing.
Escargot staggered back. Smithers hadn’t lied. Not a bit. Everything had been there: the lurching puppets, the torchlight, the odd, enchanted music piping in the fog, the
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