“We can shout, I suppose,” said Geoffrey, “but he’ll never see us in here. We might try poking a cloth out on a stick.”
“I could wriggle along and poke my head out. Lift me up.”
“Don’t get stuck. It isn’t worth it.”
She squirmed into the opening, working herself along with toes and elbows. When she stopped Geoffrey could only just reach her feet. The folds of the tabard completely filled the square, blotting out the sunlight and the noise of the ratchet. He was mad to let her go in without taking it off — it would ruck up as she came back and make it twice as hard for her to get out if she stuck.
“Mr. Furbeloo-ow! Mr. Furbeloo-ow! Please can you come and let us out?”
Faintly Geoffrey heard an answering shout, and Sally began to wriggle back. He reached into the hole and pulled at the hem of the tabard so that it couldn’t bundle itself up and cork her in. She slid to the floor grinning.
“He nearly dropped the tray. He’s gone into the house but he says he’ll be coming in a minute. Have I messed myself up?”
“Not too bad. Your cheek's dirty. I’ll go and get some water.”
“Use lick. I don’t mind.”
They went down and waited by the big doors. At last there was a squeaking and rattling outside and when Geoffrey shoved the door groaned slowly open. Mr. Furbelow looked tired, but was gushingly apologetic.
“My dear young things, I am so sorry. I am in the habit of shutting the dogs in, you see, and to tell the truth I had completely forgotten your presence here. On the days when I have to visit him I find it hard to think of anything else. I do apologize. And goodness, it must be nearly lunchtime. I hope he left some food for your breakfast. Shall we eat at once?”
“Please, Mr. Furbelow,” said Sally, “may I go and see if Maddox is all right? And could I let him out into the courtyard for a bit?”
“Of course, my dear, of course. How well that attire suits you, like a little Maid Marian. You two go and look after your pony, and then come and join me for a bite of food.”
Maddox was in a bitter temper, snarling at Geoffrey and trying to work him into a corner where he could be properly bitten. Sally pretended not to notice, scratched him between the ears, found another cube of horse bait and led him out into the courtyard, where he yawned at the magic tower, sneered at the delicious sunlight and began to scratch his sagging belly with a hind hoof. Then he noticed some green grass growing between cobbles and cheered up. They left him systematically weeding the whole paved area and walked into the cavern of the tower.
Mr. Furbelow was talking baby talk with a funny Welsh lilt to one of the wolfhounds; the uncouth monster lay on its back, legs waggling in an ecstasy of adoration, while he rubbed its chest with his foot.
“Aren’t you afraid of them?” said Geoffrey. “They frightened me stiff this morning when I came down to get some food.”
“Oh dear me, no, I’m not afraid. I love dogs, though I really wanted Corgis but I couldn’t make him understand. But in any case he wouldn’t let me be hurt — he said so. If you tried to hit me on the head or your pony tried to kick me he’d prevent it.”
“Would he stop you hurting yourself —by accident?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t thought of that. But I don’t think it’s likely to happen. Shall we have a go at this side of beef. They seemed to prefer it rather high, I’m afraid, but sometimes you can eat it. Oh dear. I think we won’t risk it. You take that end, Geoffrey, and I’ll take this, and we’ll drag it to the fire for the dogs. Don’t try to do it all yourself, it’s much too heavy. Oh dear, what it is to be young and strong. I must ask you to give me a hand with one or two things this afternoon, too trivial to bother him about. Now, let’s see.”
He walked down the long table sniffing suspiciously at the mighty slabs of meat, muttering and clucking and shaking his head, and eventually settled for a peacock with all its tailfeathers in place. The dark meat was chewy but pleasant, but the stuffing was disgusting. Most of the strawberries had gone moldy overnight, but there were some delicious apricots. Mr. Furbelow insisted that they must peel these, as they had probably been ripened on dungheaps.
“Did he make all this food out of nothing?” asked Geoffrey. “Or does it come from somewhere? I boiled some water in a helmet this morning and when I’d finished there was another helmet on the wall. Did he really make this tower all at once, just like that?”
“Oh dear, I don’t know how he does. it. The tower came in a night, and he took my cottage away but I made him get it back because it had my medicines in it. I think this is all a copy of something; bits of it look so used and all those clothes seem to belong to real people. I think it’s the same with the food. Sometimes these big pastry things look as if they’d been made for a special occasion. I often think they’re not even copies — they’re the real things and he’s just moved them about in time.”
“Then why aren’t there any people?” said Sally.
“Oh dear, it is difficult, isn’t it? I’ve asked him that, before I lost him completely, and he said something about ‘natural I think he meant it was wrong somehow to do to people what he’s done to the tower and the food — it’s against nature. I suppose that’s why he doesn’t stop the food going bad, too, but he is so difficult now, and he gets so impatient when I have to look things up in the dictionary, and it’s all so different from everything I meant.”
“Would you like me to come and help?” said Sally. “I could do the Latin if you’d tell me what to say.”
The old chemist, who’d been practically sniveling with misery at the end of his last speech, opened his mouth to say “no,” but instead he made a funny sucking noise, and sat for several seconds with his mouth wide open, staring at her. He looked as if he were going to cry, but instead he shook his head and sighed.
“Too late, too late. If you’d come four years ago, perhaps. But you cannot get through to him now, and even if you could . . .”
The old despairing voice dwindled into mumblings.
“If you could?” said Geoffrey at last.
“I don’t know ” said Mr. Furbelow irritably. “How can I know? There’s nothing to go on. I’ve interrupted a process I don’t understand — no body could understand it — especially as I was waking him in gradual stages and he wouldn’t let me continue once he was partially awake — he's wavering between two worlds, you might say, and now if I try to interfere again it will only make him worse, and then I don’t know what he mightn’t do, I really don’t.”
“Does he understand what’s happened, do you think?” said Geoffrey. (Really it was a very awkward conversation, trying to lead the old man on into telling them more, but not to seem too inquisitive. Like a guessing game, not knowing who “he” was or what he did.)
“Sometimes, I suppose,” said Mr. Furbelow. He’d lost his irritation and his voice had returned to its normal dazed lilt. “But a lot of the time it’s not as if he were in this world at all. When he has a lucid interval, though . . . No, I doubt even then. It must be very difficult for him down there.”
“Then,” said Sally, “he probably doesn’t know what he’s done to the rest of us — how many people he’s made leave their homes and run away.”
“How many people have been killed,” said Geoffrey.
“Is he good or bad?” said Sally.
“Oh, he’s good” said Mr. Furbelow, leaning forward across the table with such earnestness that his beard trailed through the greasy juices on his plate. “There’s no doubt about that, none at all. You can feel it even when he’s at his most completely lost.”
“Then couldn’t I try to explain to him?” said Sally. “About what’s happened, I mean, and how much harm he’s doing?”