“Darn,” he said. “What a night!” Rain buffeted him, wind blew at him. He looked up and down the highway, squinting. There were no cars in sight. He shook his head, locked up the gasoline pumps.
He went back into the building and pulled the door shut behind him. He opened the cash register and counted the money he’d taken in during the day. It was not much.
Not much, but enough for one old man. Enough to buy him tobacco and firewood and magazines, so that he could be comfortable as he waited for the occasional cars to come by. Not very many cars came along the highway any more. The highway had begun to fall into disrepair; there were many cracks in its dry, rough surface, and most cars preferred to take the big state highway that ran beyond the hills. There was nothing in Derryville to attract them, to make them turn toward it. Derryville was a small town, too small to bring in any of the major industries, too small to be very important to anyone. Sometimes hours went by without—
Shadrach tensed. His fingers closed over the money. From outside came a sound, the melodic ring of the signal wire stretched along the pavement.
Dinggg!
Shadrach dropped the money into the till and pushed the drawer closed. He stood up slowly and walked toward the door, listening. At the door, he snapped off the light and waited in the darkness, staring out.
He could see no car there. The rain was pouring down, swirling with the wind; clouds of mist moved along the road. And something was standing beside the pumps.
He opened the door and stepped out. At first, his eyes could make nothing out. Then the old man swallowed uneasily.
Two tiny figures stood in the rain, holding a kind of platform between them. Once, they might have been gaily dressed in bright garments, but now their clothes hung limp and sodden, dripping in the rain. They glanced half-heartedly at Shadrach. Water streaked their tiny faces, great drops of water. Their robes blew about them with the wind, lashing and swirling.
On the platform, something stirred. A small head turned wearily, peering at Shadrach. In the dim light, a rain-streaked helmet glinted dully.
“Who are you?” Shadrach said.
The figure on the platform raised itself up. “I’m the King of the Elves and I’m wet.”
Shadrach stared in astonishment.
“That’s right,” one of the bearers said. “We’re all wet.”
A small group of Elves came straggling up, gathering around their king. They huddled together forlornly, silently.
“The King of the Elves,” Shadrach repeated. “Well, I’ll be darned.”
Could it be true? They were very small, all right, and their dripping clothes were strange and oddly colored.
But Elves?
“I’ll be darned. Well, whatever you are, you shouldn’t be out on a night like this.”
“Of course not,” the king murmured. “No fault of our own. No fault…” His voice trailed off into a choking cough. The Elf soldiers peered anxiously at the platform.
“Maybe you better bring him inside,” Shadrach said. “My place is up the road. He shouldn’t be out in the rain.”
“Do you think we like being out on a night like this?” one of the bearers muttered. “Which way is it? Direct us.”
Shadrach pointed up the road. “Over there. Just follow me. I’ll get a fire going.”
He went down the road, feeling his way onto the first of the flat stone steps that he and Phineas Judd had laid during the summer. At the top of the steps, he looked back. The platform was coming slowly along, swaying a little from side to side. Behind it, the Elf soldiers picked their way, a tiny column of silent dripping creatures, unhappy and cold.
“I’ll get the fire started,” Shadrach said. He hurried them into the house.
Wearily, the Elf King lay back against the pillow. After sipping hot chocolate, he had relaxed and his heavy breathing sounded suspiciously like a snore.
Shadrach shifted in discomfort.
“I’m sorry,” the Elf King said suddenly, opening his eyes. He rubbed his forehead. “I must have drifted off. Where was I?”
“You should retire, Your Majesty,” one of the soldiers said sleepily. “It is late and these are hard times.”
“True,” the Elf King said, nodding. “Very true.” He looked up at the towering figure of Shadrach, standing before the fireplace, a glass of beer in his hand. “Mortal, we thank you for your hospitality. Normally, we do not impose on human beings.”
“It’s those Trolls,” another of the soldiers said, curled up on a cushion of the couch.
“Right,” another soldier agreed. He sat up, groping for his sword. “Those reeking Trolls, digging and croaking—”
“You see,” the Elf King went on,”as our party was crossing from the Great Low Steps toward the Castle, where it lies in the hollow of the Towering Mountains—”
“You mean Sugar Ridge,” Shadrach supplied helpfully.
“The Towering Mountains. Slowly we made our way. A rain storm came up. We became confused. All at once a group of Trolls appeared, crashing through the underbrush. We left the woods and sought safety on the Endless Path—”
“The highway. Route Twenty.”
“So that is why we’re here.” The Elf King paused a moment. “Harder and harder it rained. The wind blew around us, cold and bitter. For an endless time we toiled along. We had no idea where we were going or what would become of us.”
The Elf King looked up at Shadrach. “We knew only this: Behind us, the Trolls were coming, creeping through the woods, marching through the rain, crushing everything before them.”
He put his hand to his mouth and coughed, bending forward. All the Elves waited anxiously until he was done. He straightened up.
“It was kind of you to allow us to come inside. We will not trouble you for long. It is not the custom of the Elves—”
Again he coughed, covering his face with his hand. The Elves drew toward him apprehensively. At last the king stirred. He sighed.
“What’s the matter?” Shadrach asked. He went over and took the cup of chocolate from the fragile hand. The Elf King lay back, his eyes shut.
“He has to rest,” one of the soldiers said. “Where’s your room? The sleeping room?”
“Upstairs,” Shadrach said. “I’ll show you where.”
Late that night, Shadrach sat by himself in the dark, deserted living room, deep in meditation. The Elves were asleep above him, upstairs in the bedroom, the Elf King in the bed, the others curled up together on the rug.
The house was silent. Outside, the rain poured down endlessly, blowing against the house. Shadrach could hear the tree branches slapping in the wind. He clasped and unclasped his hands. What a strange business it was—all these Elves, with their old, sick king, their piping voices. How anxious and peevish they were!
But pathetic, too; so small and wet, with water dripping down from them, and all their gay robes limp and soggy.
The Trolls—what were they like? Unpleasant and not very clean. Something about digging, breaking and pushing through the woods…
Suddenly, Shadrach laughed in embarrassment. What was the matter with him, believing all this? He put his cigar out angrily, his ears red. What was going on? What kind of joke was this?
Elves? Shadrach grunted in indignation. Elves in Derryville? In the middle of Colorado? Maybe there were Elves in Europe. Maybe in Ireland. He had heard of that. But here? Upstairs in his own house, sleeping in his own bed?
“I’ve heard just about enough of this,” he said. “I’m not an idiot, you know.”
He turned toward the stairs, feeling for the banister in the gloom. He began to climb.
Above him, a light went on abruptly. A door opened.
Two Elves came slowly out onto the landing. They looked down at him. Shadrach halted halfway up the stairs. Something on their faces made him stop.
“What’s the matter?” he asked hesitantly.
They did not answer. The house was turning cold, cold and dark, with the chill of the rain outside and the chill of the unknown inside.