The Gossiper ceased his chanting and cried out in a loud voice. "Now, run! Run for your lives!"
Cornwall pushed Mary behind him. "Follow me," he said. "Stay close. I'll open up a path."
He lowered his head and charged, expecting resistance from the press of bodies all about him. But there was no resistance. He plowed through the gnarly men as if they had been a storm of autumn-blown leaves. Ahead of him Jones stumbled and fell, screaming as his mangled arm came in contact with the stone beneath him. Cornwall stooped and caught him, lifting him, slinging him across his shoulder. Ahead of him all the others, including Mary, were racing through the drifts of shadowy gnarly men. Glancing upward, he saw that the harpies were breaking free from the constrictions of the rock walls of the gorge, bursting out into sunlit sky.
Just ahead was light where the gorge ended on what appeared to be a level plain. The gnarly men were gone. He passed the Gossiper who was stumping along as rapidly as he could, grunting with his effort. Ahead of the Gossiper, the little white dog skipped along with a weaving, three-legged gait, Coon loping at his side.
Then they were out of the gorge, running more easily now. Ahead of them, a few miles out on the little plain, which was ringed in by towering mountains, loomed a fairy building—as Jones had said, all froth and lace, but even in its insubstantiality, with a breathtaking grandeur in it.
"You can let me down now," said Jones. "Thank you for the lift."
Cornwall slowed to a halt and lowered him to his feet.
Jones jerked his head at the injured arm. "The whole damn thing's on fire," he said, "and it's pounding like a bell."
He fell into step with Cornwall. "My vehicle's just up ahead," he said. "You can see it there, off to the right. I have a hypodermic— Oh, hell, don't ask me to explain. It's a magic needle. You may have to help me with it. I'll show you how."
Coming across the meadow that lay between them and the fairy building was a group of beings, too distant to be seen with any distinctness except that it could be seen that one of them stood taller than the others.
"Well, I be damned," said Jones. "When I was here before, I wandered all about and there was no one here to greet me, and now look at the multitude that is coming out to meet us."
Ahead of all the others ran a tiny figure that yipped and squealed with joy, turning cartwheels to express its exuberance.
"Mary!" it yipped. "Mary! Mary! Mary!"
"Why," Mary said, astounded, "I do believe it is Fiddlefingers. I have wondered all along where the little rascal went to."
"You mean the one who made mud pies with you?" asked Cornwall.
"The very one," said Mary.
She knelt and cried out to him, and he came in with a rush to throw himself into her arms. "They told me you were coming," he shrieked, "but I could not believe them."
He wriggled free and backed off a way to have a look at her. "You've gone and grown up," he said accusingly. "I never grew at all."
"I asked at the Witch House," said Mary, "and they told me you had disappeared."
"I have been here for years and years," the little brownie said. "I have so many things to show you."
By now the rest of those who were coming in to meet them had drawn close enough for them to see that most of them were little people, a dancing, hopping gaggle of brownies, trolls, elves, and fairies. Walking in their midst was a somber manlike figure clothed in a long black gown, with a black cowl pulled about his head and face. Except that it seemed he really had no face—either that or the shadow of the cowl concealed his face from view. And there was about him a sort of mistiness, as if he walked through a fogginess that now revealed and now concealed his shape.
When he was close to them, he stopped and said in a voice that was as somber as his dress, "I am the Caretaker, and I bid you welcome here. I suspect you had some trouble with the harpies. At times they become somewhat overzealous."
"Not in the least," said Hal. "We gently brushed them off."
"We have disregarded them," said the Caretaker, "because we have few visitors. I believe, my dear," he said, speaking to Mary, "that your parents were here several years ago. Since then, there have been no others."
"I was here a few days ago," said Jones, "and you paid no attention to me. I think you made a deliberate effort to make it seem that this place was deserted."
"We looked you over, sir," said the Caretaker. "Before we made ourselves known to you, we wanted to find out what kind of thing you were. But you left rather hurriedly…»
Mary interrupted him. "You say that they were here," she said, "my parents. Are they here no longer, then?"
"They went to another place," said the Caretaker. "I will tell you of that and much more a little later on. All of you will join us at table, will you not?"
"Now that you speak of it," said the Gossiper, "I believe that I could do with a small bit of nourishment."
38
The Caretaker sat at the head of the table, and now it was apparent that he, indeed, did not have a face. Where the face should have been, underneath the cowl, was what seemed an area of fogginess, although now and then, Cornwall thought, watching him, there was at times faint, paired red sparks that might take the place of eyes.
He did not eat but sat there while they did, speaking to them pleasantly enough but of inconsequential things, asking them about their journey, talking about how the crops had been, discussing the vagaries of the weather—simply making conversation.
And there was about him, Cornwall thought, not only a fogginess about his face but about his entire being, as if he might be some sort of wraith so insubstantial that one would not have been amazed if he had disappeared altogether, blown by the wind.
"I do not know what to make of him," Sniveley said to Cornwall, speaking in a confidential whisper. "He fits in with nothing I've ever heard of as dwelling in the Wasteland. A ghost one might think at first, but he is not a ghost, of that I am quite certain. There is a certain misty character to him that I do not like."
The food was in no way fancy, but it was good and solid fare, and there was plenty of it. The Caretaker kept urging them to eat. "There is plenty of it," he kept saying. "There is enough for all."
But finally it became apparent that everyone had eaten all they could, and the Caretaker said, "Now that we are finished, there is much explanation that is due and there may be some questions you want to ask."
Sniveley piped up hurriedly. "We have been wondering…" But the Caretaker waved him down.
"You're the one who has been wondering what I am," he said, "and I think it is only fair I tell you, which I would have in any case, but in its proper time. I told you I am the Caretaker and, in a sense, I am. But basically I'm what you might call a philosopher, although that is not the word exactly. There is no word in your world that can precisely describe what I am. 'Philosophical engineer, probably would come as close as any, and you, Mr. Jones, and you, Sir Mark, if you wish to make dispute of this, please to wait a while…»
"We'll hold our questions," Cornwall said, "but there is one thing that I demand to know. You are acquainted with our names, but we have never told you them."
"You will not like me when I tell you," the Caretaker said, "but the honest answer is I can see into your minds. Very deeply, should I wish, but to go deeply would be impolite, so I merely brush the surface. Only the surface information: who you are and where you've been. Although should I go deeply and unearth your inmost secrets, you need feel no embarrassment. For I am not of this planet and my values are not entirely your values, and even should they coincide, I would not presume to judge you, for I know from many eons the great diversities of minds—"