"And you are sure we are?"
"It's not what I think, Sir Scholar. It is what they think. I only speak their words."
"And who the hell are they?"
"Why, fair sir, must you pretend to so much innocence? If you do not know, there are others of your party who are not so ignorant?"
"You are thinking about Oliver and me," said Sniveley. "I would advise you to be careful of your words. I, as a gnome, and Oliver, as a goblin, here stand on home ground. We can go anywhere we please."
"I am not so sure," said the Gossiper, "you can claim that right. You forsook the Brotherhood."
"You still have not answered me," said Cornwall. "Tell me of the 'they' you talk about."
"You have heard of the Hellhounds?"
"I know of them," said Cornwall.
"The Chaos Beast, perhaps. And He Who Broods Upon the Mountain."
"I have heard of them. In old travelers' tales. No more than bare mention of them."
"Then you should pray," said the Gossiper, "that your acquaintanceship becomes no closer."
Cornwall swiveled around to look at Jones. Jones nodded tightly. "He told me the same thing. But, as you know, I am a coward. I did not go beyond the Witch House."
He said to the Gossiper, "How about a beer?"
"I do believe I will," said the Gossiper. "And a slice of meat when it should be done. I have traveled far, and I hunger and I thirst most excessively."
21
A full moon had risen above the jagged horizon of the trees, paling the stars, filling the glade with light. The fires burned low, for the meal was over, and out on the grass between the camp and road the little people danced in wild abandon to a violin's shrilling music.
For once the food was eaten, the Gossiper had unshipped the sheepskin bundle he carried and, unwrapping the sheepskin, had taken out a fiddle and a bow.
Now he stood, a ragged figure, with the fiddle tucked beneath his chin, the fingers of his left hand flashing on the frets, while his right arm sent the bow skittering on the strings. The moth-eaten raven still maintained a precarious perch on the Gossiper's right shoulder, hopping and skipping to keep its balance, sometimes climbing out on the upper arm, where it clung desperately, uttering dolorous squawks of protest at the insecurity of its perch. Underneath the table the little lame dog slept, replete with the meat it had been thrown by the festive feasters, its tiny paws quivering and twitching as it chased dream rabbits.
"There are such a lot of them," said Mary, meaning the little dancing people. "When we first arrived, there did not seem so many."
Jones chuckled at her. "There are more," he said. "There are all of mine and most of yours."
"You mean they have come out of hiding?"
"It was the food that did it," he said. "The food and beer. You didn't expect them, did you, to stay lurking in the bushes, watching all the others gorge themselves?"
"Then Bromeley must be out there with them. The sneaky little thing! Why doesn't he come and talk with me?"
"He's having too much fun," said Cornwall.
Coon came lumbering out of the swirl of dancers and rubbed against Hal's legs. Hal picked him up and put him on his lap. Coon settled down, wrapping his tail around his nose.
"He ate too much," said Gib.
"He always does," said Hal.
The violin wailed and whined, sang, reaching for the stars. The Gossiper's arm was busy with the bow, and the hopping raven squalled in protest.
"I don't quite understand you," Cornwall said quietly to Jones. "You said you never went beyond the Witch House. I wonder why you didn't. What are you here for, anyhow?"
Jones grinned. "It is strange that you should ask, for we have much in common. You see, Sir Scholar, I am a student, just the same as you."
"But if you are a student, then why don't you study?"
"But I do," said Jones. "And there's enough to study here. Far more than enough. When you study something, you cover one area thoroughly before you move on to the next. When the time comes, I'll move beyond the Witch House»
"Study, you say?"
"Yes. Notes, recordings, pictures. I have piles of notes, miles of tape…"
"Tape? Pictures? You mean paintings, drawings?"
"No," said Jones. "I use a camera."
"You talk in riddles," Cornwall said. "Words I've never heard before."
"Perhaps I do," said Jones. "Would you like to come and see? We need not disturb the others. They can stay here watching."
He rose and led the way to the tent, Cornwall following. At the entrance to the tent Jones put out a hand to halt him. "You are a man of open mind?" he asked. "As a scholar, you should be."
"I've studied for six years at Wyalusing," said Cornwall. "I try to keep an open mind. How otherwise would one learn anything?"
"Good," said Jones. "What date would you say this is?"
"It's October," said Cornwall. "I've lost track of the day. It's the year of Our Lord 1975."
"Fine," said Jones. "I just wanted to make sure. For your information, it is the seventeenth."
"What has the date got to do with it?" asked Cornwall.
"Not too much, perhaps. It may make understanding easier a little later. And it just happens you're the first one I could ask. Here in the Wasteland, no one keeps a calendar."
He lifted the flap of the tent and motioned Cornwall in. Inside, the tent seemed larger than it had from the outside dimensions of it. It was orderly, but crowded with many furnishings and much paraphernalia. A military cot stood in one corner. Next to it stood a desk and chair, with a stubby candlestick holding a rather massive candle standing in the center of the desk. The flame of the lighted candle flared in the air currents. Piled on one corner of the desk was a stack of black leather books. Open boxes stood beside the books. Strange objects sat upon the desk, leaving little room for writing. There was, Cornwall saw in a rapid glance, no quill or inkhorn, no sanding box, and that seemed passing strange.
In the opposite corner stood a large metallic cabinet and next to it, against the eastern wall, an area hung with heavy black drapes.
"My developing room," said Jones. "Where I process my film."
Cornwall said stiffly, "I do not understand."
"Take a look," said Jones. He strode to the desk and lifted a handful of thin squares from one of the open boxes, spread them on the desk top. "There," he said. "Those are the photos I was telling you about. Not paintings—photographs. Go ahead. Pick them up and look."
Cornwall bent above the desk, not touching the so-called photos. Colored paintings stared back at him—paintings of brownies, goblins, trolls, fairies dancing on a magic green, a grinning, vicious horror that had to be a Hellhound, a two-story house standing on a knoll, with a stone bridge in the foreground. Tentatively Cornwall reached out and picked up the painting of the house, held it close for a better look.
"The Witch House," said Jones.
"But these are paintings," Cornwall exploded in impatience. "Miniatures. At the court many artisans turn out paintings of this sort for hour books and other purposes. Although they put borders around the paintings, filled with flowers and birds and insects and many different conceits, which to my mind makes them more interesting. They work long hours at it and most meticulously, sparing no pains to make a perfect picture."
"Look again," said Jones. "Do you see any brush strokes?"
"It proves nothing," Cornwall said stubbornly. "In the miniatures there are no brush strokes. The artisans work so carefully and so well that you can see no brush strokes. And yet, truth to tell, there is a difference here."