Sitting around the fire at night, Cornwall remembered the disappointment of Mrs. Drood when she had been persuaded that she should not have a farewell party for them, inviting in the marsh people, the gnomes and the hill people to speed them on their way. It would have been a good party, but it would have emphasized their going, which all concerned agreed should be kept as quiet as possible.
Five days of sunny weather, but in the middle of the afternoon of the sixth day rain had begun to fall, at first little more than a gentle mist, but increasing as the hours went on, with a wind developing from the west, until, with night about to fall, the rain poured down steadily, driven by the wind that turned it into needles that stung one's face.
Throughout the afternoon Hal hunted for shelter but had found nothing that would afford more than minimal protection against the driving storm.
Cornwall brought up the rear, following Coon, who humped along disconsolately, his coat of fur plastered down with wetness, his bedraggled tail sweeping the forest floor.
Ahead of Coon, Gib and the rafter goblin walked together, with the marsh-man's wet fur gleaming in the soft light that still remained, the goblin weary and hobbling, walking with an effort. The march, Cornwall realized, had been tougher on the goblin than on any of the others. His days of walking, from Wyalusing to Hal's hollow tree, and now the six days of the march, had played him out. Life in the rafters at the university had not fitted him for this.
Cornwall hurried ahead, passing Coon. He reached down and touched the goblin's shoulder.
"Up, on my back," he said. "You deserve a rest."
The goblin looked up at him. "Kind sir," he said, "there is no need."
"I insist," said Cornwall. He crouched down and the goblin clambered on his shoulder, balancing himself with an arm around the human's neck.
"I am tired," he admitted.
"You have traveled far," said Cornwall, "since that day you came to see me."
The goblin chuckled thinly. "We started a long progression of events," he said, "and not finished yet. You know, of course, that I go into the Wasteland with you."
Cornwall grunted. "I had expected as much. You will be welcome, little one."
"The tenor slowly leaves me," said Oliver, the goblin. "The sky no longer frightens me as much as it did when I started out. I am afraid now I might even grow to like the open. That would be a horrible thing to happen to a rafter goblin."
"Yes, wouldn't it?" said Cornwall.
They plodded along, and there was no sign of Hal. Darkness began to sift down into the forest. Would they keep walking all the night, Cornwall wondered. Was there any end to it? There was no letup in the storm. The slanting rain, coming from the northwest, slashed at his face. The wind seemed to be growing colder and sharper.
Hal materialized in the darkness ahead, moving like a dark ghost out of the darkness of the tree trunks. They stopped, standing in a knot, waiting for him to come up to them.
"I smelled smoke," he said, "and tracked it down. It could have been Beckett and his men, camping for the night; it could have been a charcoal pit or a farmer's homestead. When you smell smoke, you find out what it is."
"Now," said Gib, "that you have sufficiently impressed us, tell us what it was."
"It is an inn," said Hal.
"That does us no good," said Gib. "They'd never let us in, not a marsh-man and a hill-man, a goblin, and a coon."
"They would let Mark in," said Hal. "If he gets too wet and cold, his arm will stiffen up and he'll have no end of trouble."
Cornwall shook his head. "They wouldn't let me in, either. They'd ask to see the color of my coin and I have no coin. In any case, we stick together. I wouldn't enter where they'd not welcome all of you."
"There is a stable," said Hal. "Once it is dark, we can shelter there, be out before the dawn. No one would ever know."
"You found no other shelter?" asked Cornwall. "No cave?"
"Nothing," said Hal. "I think it has to be the stable."
12
There was one horse in the stable. It nickered softly at them when they came through the door.
"The innkeeper's horse," said Hal. "A sorry bag of bones."
"Then there are no guests," said Cornwall.
"None," said Hal. "I peered through the window. Mine host is roaring drunk. He is throwing stools and crockery about. He is in a vicious temper. There is no one there, and he must take it out on the furniture and pottery."
"Perhaps, after all," said Gib, "we are better in the stable."
"I think so," said Cornwall. "The loft, perhaps. There appears to be hay up there. We can burrow into it against the cold."
He reached out a hand and shook the pole ladder that ran up into the loft.
"It seems solid enough," he said.
Coon already was clambering up it.
"He knows where to go," said Hal, delighted.
"And I follow him," said Cornwall.
He climbed the ladder until his head came above the opening into the loft. The storage space, he saw, was small, with clumps of hay here and there upon the floor.
Ahead of him Coon was clambering over the piles of hay and, suddenly, just ahead of him, a mound of hay erupted and a shrill scream split the air.
With a surge Cornwall cleared the ladder, felt the rough boards of the hay mow bending and shifting treacherously beneath his feet. Ahead of him the hay-covered figure beat the air with flailing arms and kept on screaming.
He leaped forward swiftly, reaching for the screamer. He sweated, imagining mine host bursting from the inn and racing toward the stable, adding to the hullabaloo that would arouse the countryside, if there were anyone in this howling wilderness of a countryside to rouse.
The screamer tried to duck away, but he reached out and grabbed her, pulled her tight against him, lifted his free hand and clamped it hard against her mouth. The screaming was shut off. Teeth closed on a finger and he jerked it free, slapped her hard, and clamped down the hand across her mouth. She did not bite again.
"Keep quiet," he told her. "I'll take the hand away. I do not mean to hurt you."
She was small and soft.
"Will you be quiet?" he asked.
She bobbed her head against his chest to say she would. Behind him Cornwall heard the others scrabbling up the ladder.
"There are others here," he said. "They will not hurt you, either. Don't scream."
He took the hand away.
"What's the matter, Mark?" asked Oliver.
"A woman. She was hiding up here. Was that what you were doing, miss?"
"Yes," she said. "Hiding."
The loft was not quite dark. Heavy twilight still filtered through the louvered windows set at each end of the gables.
The woman stepped away from Cornwall, then at the sight of Oliver, shrank back against him. A frightened breath caught in her throat.
"It's all right," he said. "Oliver is a very friendly goblin. He is a rafter goblin. You know what a rafter goblin is?"
She shook her head. "There was an animal," she said.
"That was Coon. He's all right, too."
"Wouldn't hurt a flea," said Hal. "He is so downright friendly that it is disgusting."
"We are fugitives," said Cornwall. "Or very close to fugitives. But non-dangerous fugitives. This is Hal, and over there is Gib. Gib is a marsh-man. Hal is hill people."
She was shivering, but she stepped away from him.
"And you?" she asked. "Who are you?"
"You can call me Mark. I am a student."
"A scholar," said Oliver, with fidgety precision. "Not a student, but a scholar. Six years at Wyalusing."
"We seek shelter from the storm," said Cornwall. "We would have gone to the inn, but they would not have taken us. Besides, we have no money."