The Giant-Slayer Page 7

  FIVE

  THE SADDEST WISH OF ALL

  The sun was as high now as it would get that day. On the grass below the window, the shadow of the hospital was a dark slab on the green. The radio antenna on the roof cast a thin arrow pointing straight at Piper’s Pond.

  Laurie stared out, saddened that another argument was under way behind her.

  “Dickie, you’re a dope,” said Carolyn.

  “I am not,” he said. “Quit saying that.”

  “You are if that’s your wish,” she said.

  “Oh, yeah? What would you wish for, Carolyn?”

  “That I never had to come here.”

  “Why?” asked Dickie. “It’s not so bad.”

  “What’s to like?”

  “I got to meet Chip. And you,” he said. “And Miss Freeman. And all the others. Boy, we have fun sometimes. It’s like being at camp. But you never have to go home. Like we’re lying in bunk beds talking.”

  “Aw, shut up, Dumbo.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  He was nearly crying now, and Laurie hated to hear that. If he had to spend his days in an iron lung, it didn’t seem right that he had be sad. “I guess it is a bit like camp,” she said. “If you think about it. Isn’t it, Chip?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “But you’ve been to camp.”

  He shook his head. “No, I haven’t.”

  “But there’s a picture.” She pointed at his iron lung, and then went up beside it. She ran her hand across the crazy mat of photographs. “I saw it here.”

  It had shown the boy holding a little tomahawk like Dickie’s, trying to look fierce in a headdress made of paper feathers and a cardboard band. Above him was a wooden arch that said Camp Hiawatha in letters made from nailed-together sticks. Laurie was certain that she’d seen it, but there were so many pictures half covered by others that she couldn’t find it again.

  Chip seemed annoyed that she was looking. If he could have reached out of the iron lung and pushed her away, he would have done it—she was sure of that. She pretended not to notice, but soon took her hand from the pictures and wandered off.

  Dickie had a funny half smile now. He was looking up at his comic but not reading it. “What would you wish for, Chip?” he asked. “If there were Wishmen.”

  “I dunno,” said Chip. “I guess maybe to be somebody else.”

  “Oh, who?” asked Laurie, pleased to change the subject.

  “I dunno,” he said again.

  “Like someone famous, you mean?” She was already back at the window, a sentry at her post. “Like Elvis Presley?”

  Chip shook his head. “Just anybody else. It doesn’t matter who.”

  That seemed the saddest wish of all to Laurie. The boy in the pictures was so happy, so busy. When he went into hospital he must have left a dozen things unfinished, like that strange car in the garage. Laurie could imagine skeletons of balsa airplanes waiting for their skin, roofless wooden bird-houses, go-carts without wheels. Didn’t he ache to get home and finish those things? Why didn’t he wish, like Carolyn, just to be the child he’d been before?

  “Let’s forget it,” he said now. “What about the Wishman? Was he real? Or was he fake?”

  Fingal wasn’t certain at first if the Wishman had kept his promise. His son looked just the same, of course; that was the point of the wish. Every morning, as he popped Jimmy into the cradle, he looked anxiously at the boy’s small feet. He stretched out the little legs, like the tax man’s folding ruler, to see how close they came to the end of the barrel.

  There were days when he was certain that Jimmy was still growing, and others when he swore the boy was shrinking.

  And then the Woman, pausing in her work one day, rocked the infant in the cradle. She rubbed his stomach, something that always made his feet kick crazily, his fists swing as wildly as a fighter’s. He writhed and laughed. Then the Woman turned to Fingal.

  “There’s something wrong with him,” she said. “He used to grow like a bean sprout. But not anymore. He’s no bigger than he was a month ago.”

  If hearts could sing, Fingal’s surely did that day. He was so happy that he poured himself a small nubbin of brandy and drank a toast to the Wishman. “Here’s to you, my friend, wherever you may be,” he said. And he meant it so sincerely that he brought a tear to his own eye.

  Soon even Fingal could see that it was true. Jimmy the giant-slayer was stuck at thirty-one and three-quarters inches high. He grew older; he grew smarter and stronger. But he grew no bigger, not even by a smidgen.

  On his sixth birthday, he was exactly the same. And he still spent his days in the cradle.

  At nine years of age Jimmy the giant-slayer could read and write and do his numbers better than his father. “You’re a little man now, with little jobs to do,” said Fingal.

  Every night, Jimmy emptied his cradle and the offering box. He carried the coins down to the basement, though it sometimes took three trips. He sorted and counted the money, then entered the totals into the ledger, making sure that he carried the sum to the next day’s page.

  “You’ll be running the inn before long,” Fingal told him proudly. “I’ll spend my last years sitting by the fire—me and the Woman—and you’ll tend to us, you will, and a fine job you’ll do.”

  Fingal was beaming at his boy. It was very early in the morning, and the four travelers who had taken rooms were still in their beds. Jimmy had already carried in the day’s wood and got the fire started. Now he was taking a moment with his father, who had hoisted him up to the top of the bar, where he sat at the edge, drumming his feet on its front.

  “I’m proud of you, Jimmy,” said Fingal. “You’re doing so well that I think it’s time to reward you with another trust.”

  “What is it, Father?” asked Jimmy.

  “The dragon’s tooth,” said Fingal. “From now on, that great old tooth will be in your care, yours to dust and polish.”

  “Really?” asked Jimmy. He kicked his small feet happily against the bar.

  “Now you will learn the secret. And mind it stays a secret, understand? It’s only for me and you to know.”

  Jimmy nodded solemnly. “What’s the secret, Father?”

  “Look at the tooth.”

  Little Jimmy peered across the parlor at the huge dragon’s tooth hanging in its chains. It was white at the tip, mushroom-colored higher up, streaked down its length with stains of brown and yellow. It reminded him of smiling Smoky Jack, the minstrel who was never without a pipe.

  Though the room was empty, Fingal still spoke in a whisper. “I made it myself, Jimmy. That tooth is only wood. It’s just a bit of pine.”

  Jimmy stopped swinging his feet. All his life that tooth had hung there. He had watched a thousand travelers reach up to touch it. He had heard some of them saying they had seen the dragon that had grown it. There was one who’d claimed he’d killed the beast himself. They all, every one, swore by the luck in that dragon’s tooth, and believed that a touch had kept them safe on the Great North Road. They had filled barrels and barrels and barrels of coins in trade for that safety. And now he was told that all of them were fools? The great tooth was only wood?

  Jimmy giggled. Then he laughed, and soon he was doubled over, his head nearly touching his knees. Fingal was roaring beside him, father and son laughing together at the foolishness of travelers.

  They nearly laughed themselves into ruin, for neither heard the blacksmith coming down the stairs until it was nearly too late.

  “Quick!” cried Fingal. “Into your cradle!”

  Jimmy squirmed through the mouth of the barrel. Fingal had to give his heels a push, and the boy vanished just as the wandering blacksmith came through the doorway.

  “Good morning, sir,” said Fingal loudly. “Before you get on your way today, mind you tip the babby.” He gave the cradle a push that set it rocking.

  In the barrel, Jimmy sloshed the coins to make them jingle. He let out a babyis
h laugh, then settled back, smiling. He had a book to read, and a sandwich for later, and thought he was a very lucky boy.

  The blacksmith came to the bar in his big boots. He was an enormous man, with a beard that was nearly the size of a blanket. He looked into the cradle, and Jimmy looked back, making silly faces, shaking his tiny fists.

  This usually charmed the travelers. But the blacksmith looked disgusted. He made a horrible face, then turned away, shouting, “This is no baby. A small boy in a barrel, that’s all he is!”

  So the Wishman was right in the end. Fingal had got what he wanted, only to learn that he didn’t really want it at all.

  The blacksmith was livid. “I’m not putting coins in your blasted crib,” he said. “I’m not tipping your baby or touching your tooth; I’m not even paying for my room.”

  He stomped upstairs and fetched his things; he stomped back down again. On his heels came the other three travelers. But they stopped at the foot of the stairs as the blacksmith blocked their way. Red-faced, holding his anvil, his hammers and tongs, the smithy shouted at the innkeep. “You’re a cheat and a liar, Fingal,” he said. “I’ve half a mind to take the boy with me.”

  “If you had the other half, I’d give him to you,” said Fingal. “He’s no good to me now, is he?”

  “Boy, that’s mean,” said Dickie. “Did Jimmy hear him say that?”

  “Yes, he did,” said Laurie. “He had been so happy, remember? Laughing with his dad. Now he felt just terrible. He lay in his cradle and cried.”

  “Did the blacksmith take him away?”

  “No.” Laurie could see him in her mind, as broad as an ox, so tall that he couldn’t stand upright in the parlor. The huge anvil under one arm, the tools under the other, he stood wondering what he would do with a tiny boy.

  “Then the Woman came in,” said Laurie. “She heard all the noise and the shouting, and she ran into the parlor.”

  “Fingal, what’s wrong?” the Woman said. “A body can’t hear herself think.”

  “It’s him.” Fingal pointed at the blacksmith. “He won’t pay for his room.”

  “Oh, is that so?” She turned to the smithy, putting her hands on her hips. “Now you listen to me, you big oaf.”

  “No, you listen to me,” said the blacksmith. His voice was like booming thunder. “That boy’s got a curse on him. Or he’s a changeling or something.”

  “Here, that’s enough,” said Fingal. But no one heard him, because the Woman was shrieking. “How dare you?” she cried. “There’s nothing wrong with my baby.”

  She ran to the bar. She snatched little Jimmy from the cradle and held him in her arms.

  “He’s not quite plumb,” said the blacksmith. “He’s not on the right lines.”

  Even in her fury, the Woman could see that the smithy was right. Jimmy was nine years old but no bigger than an infant. He couldn’t reach up to the top of the bar.

  “He may be cursed or he may not,” said the blacksmith. “But there’s one thing for certain. If he was mine, I’d be consulting a witch.”

  “Get out!” said the Woman.

  “All right, I’m going.” The blacksmith moved toward the door, stooped below the big beams of the parlor. With his arms full of tools, he couldn’t work the latch. Another traveler, a pieman, squeezed past and opened the door.

  “I’d go to the swamp,” said the blacksmith. “If he was mine, that’s what I’d do.”

  “Get out!” she cried. And he did.

  Fingal waited until the door closed, then slapped his hands together. “Well, I’m glad to see the back of him. That’s the end of that, isn’t it? Now, let’s put wee Jimmy into his cradle and —”

  The Woman held on to her son. “Is he a changeling?” she asked.

  Fingal was left standing there with his arms out. The three travelers were watching.

  “Is he?” she said. “Tell me!”

  “Don’t be daft, Woman. Does he look like a changeling?”

  Well, he did, in a way. His ears were maybe a little too big to be normal, his nose a touch too long.

  “Bah!” said Fingal. “You took precautions. I remember that. You had your coat hanging inside out for day after day, so he can’t be a changeling, can he?”

  “Then we have to go the swamp,” she said.

  Jimmy looked up at her face. “Mother, what’s at the swamp?”

  “It’s where the Swamp Witch lives,” she said.

  Jimmy cried, “I don’t want to see a witch.”

  “And you won’t,” said Fingal. “No son of mine is going anywhere near the swamp.”

  “I’ll go myself,” said the Woman.

  “It’s bottomless,” warned Fingal.

  “I don’t care.”

  The Woman was determined. That very day she put on her good shoes and her lipstick and set off for the swamp. She didn’t know exactly where it was, nor what she’d find when she got there. But she went on her way nonetheless, following the sun down the High Road, with the thought of striking north when she met the first river.

  The Woman was gone a week. She was gone a month. She was gone a year and a half. When the first snow of another winter fell over the inn, there was still no sign of the Woman.

  In the morning the snow covered the ground three feet deep, and Jimmy looked out in despair. “Father, how far away is that swamp?” he asked.

  “Now why do you want to know that?” said Fingal.

  The travelers were in their beds. The fire was burning, but the parlor was still cold. Jimmy was standing at the top of a ladder, polishing the wooden dragon’s tooth, while Fingal swept the floor. The boy could see out the window to the Great North Road, its white coating as smooth as plaster, not broken yet by tracks.

  “I just want to know,” he said. “Is the swamp beyond the mountains?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “How long does it take to get there?”

  Fingal stopped sweeping. He leaned on his broom. “Jimmy,” he said, “it’s time to face facts. The Woman’s never coming home.”

  “Why not?” asked Jimmy.

  “Who can say?” asked Fingal. “A gryphon got her, for all I know. A giant squished her; a dragon scorched her; the trolls took her down in the caves. What does it matter? She’s not coming back.”

  “Father, don’t say that.” Jimmy tilted sideways to look as far up the road as he could. “She might be coming out of the woods right now.” But she wasn’t. “Or right now,” he said sharply.

  But nothing moved at the edge of the woods. The trees were like hunched men covered with snow. “She could be coming … right … now!” said Jimmy again. He believed that saying it would make it happen, if he wanted it badly enough, if he willed it to happen. “Right … now!” he cried.

  At just that moment, a shadow moved in the forest. It was as though a branch of one of those snowy trees had broken loose and sprouted legs, and now was trudging toward him. Behind it came another shadow that loomed over the first enormously. The two of them together had six legs moving, six feet kicking through the snow.

  Jimmy peered through the window until the shadows made sense. He was disappointed at first to see a man instead of his mother, a fellow on foot, leading a huge white horse piled with snow-capped bundles. But his disappointment soon vanished.

  The man was mysterious and wonderful. His long coat was made of silvery fur, his boots of scaly skin. His hat was the fearsome head of a hydra, its jaws jutting out above his face to make a brim, its tiny eyes blinded by clots of snow.

  He carried a long bow and a leather quiver. His arrows were flecked with the fiery feathers of a phoenix.

  “Holy man,” said Dickie. “Who was it, Laurie?”

  “A hunter. His name was—”

  “Khan!” cried Dickie. He was twisting his head on the pillow, trying as hard as he could to look back. “His name was Khan, wasn’t it?”

  “Sure. Khan the hunter,” said Laurie. She liked the name. It made her think of G
enghis Khan, of wild warriors on horseback.

  Dickie was grinning in that odd way of his. “I bet he looked like Davy Crockett.”

  “Well, I guess he did,” said Laurie.

  “And he was after unicorns, wasn’t he?”

  “Actually, he was,” said Laurie, surprised. It was unicorns she’d been thinking of herself. She had imagined her hunter in a coat sewn of unicorn hides.

  “He’s wearing the skin of one now, isn’t he?” said Dickie.

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  THE MAN WHO HUNTED UNICORNS

  Early on Sunday morning, with breakfast just over, Miss Freeman stood outside the respirator room, listening with a smile. She had heard the children talk of many things—mostly of rockets and cars and candy—but never of unicorns. She doubted if unicorns had ever been discussed in there before.

  There was another nurse beside her—Mrs. Glass with red and curly hair—and they stood by the open door, just listening. Dickie was saying that unicorns were huge animals, bigger than plow horses, and then Carolyn—without being rude at all—said she didn’t think that he was right.

  “They’re small,” she said. “Like little lambs.”

  Miss Freeman hurried into the room as though she had just arrived. Mrs. Glass came behind her, pulling a metal cart laden with supplies.

  “What’s everyone talking about?” Miss Freeman asked.

  “Unicorns, Miss Freeman,” said Dickie. “Do you think they’re big or little?”

  “Oh, in between, I guess,” said Miss Freeman. She always tried to please everybody. “Now, it’s time to get you cleaned up.”

  “Aw, gee,” said Dickie.

  “It’s not so bad as that, is it?” Miss Freeman didn’t wait for an answer. “Laurie should be here in an hour, so we’d better hurry.”

  The nurses started with Carolyn. They stood at each side of her iron lung. “Ready?” asked Miss Freeman.

  “Okay,” said Carolyn.

  Miss Freeman turned off the iron lung. Her hand was resting on the big curve of metal, and she felt the thing go dead as the bellows stopped moving, as the machine stopped breathing. She unfastened the clasps around the front of the respirator.