So perhaps I only did come a wheel or two, but the dark changes everything.
He turned Bitsy up the Cosington-Marchly stub, and less than a minute later entered a clearing where the Covenant Man sat on a log before a cheery campfire. “Why, here’s young Tim,” he said. “You’ve got balls, even if there won’t be hair on em for another year or three. Come, sit, have some stew.”
Tim wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to share whatever this strange fellow ate for his supper, but he’d had none of his own, and the smell wafting from the pot hung over the fire was savory.
Reading the cast of his young visitor’s thoughts with an accuracy that was unsettling, the Covenant Man said: “It’ll not poison thee, young Tim.”
“I’m sure not,” Tim said… but now that poison had been mentioned, he wasn’t sure at all. Nevertheless, he let the Covenant Man ladle a goodly helping onto a tin plate, and took the offered tin spoon, which was battered but clean.
There was nothing magical about the meal; the stew was beef, taters, carrots, and onions swimming in a flavorsome gravy. While he squatted on his hunkers and ate, Tim watched Bitsy cautiously approach his host’s black horse. The stallion briefly touched the humble mule’s nose, then turned away (rather disdainfully, Tim thought) to where the Covenant Man had spread a moit of oats on ground which had been carefully cleared of splinters-the leavings of sais Cosington and Marchly.
The tax collector made no conversation while Tim ate, only kicked repeatedly into the ground with one bootheel, making a small hole. Beside it was the basin that had been tied on top of the stranger’s gunna. It was hard for Tim to believe his mother had been right about it-a basin made of silver would be worth a fortune-but it certainly looked like silver. How many knucks would have to be melted and smelted to make such a thing?
The Covenant Man’s bootheel encountered a root. From beneath his cloak he produced a knife almost as long as Tim’s forearm and slit it at a stroke. Then he resumed with his heel: thud and thud and thud.
“Why does thee dig?” asked Tim.
The Covenant Man looked up long enough to flash the boy a thin smile. “Perhaps you’ll find out. Perhaps you won’t. I think you will. Have you finished your meal?”
“Aye, and say thankya.” Tim tapped his throat three times. “It was fine.”
“Good. Kissin don’t last, cookin do. So say the Manni-folk. I see you admiring my basin. It’s fine, isn’t it? A relic of Garlan that was. In Garlan there really were dragons, and bonfires of them still live deep in the Endless Forest, I feel sure. There, young Tim, you’ve learned something. Many lions is a pride; many crows is a murder; many bumblers is a throcket; many dragons is a bonfire.”
“A bonfire of dragons,” Tim said, tasting it. Then the full sense of what the Covenant Man had said came home to him. “If the dragons of the Endless Forest are in deep-”
But the Covenant Man interrupted before Tim could finish his thought. “Ta-ta, sha-sha, na-na. Save thy imaginings. For now, take the basin and fetch me water. You’ll find it at the edge of the clearing. You’ll want your little lamp, for the glow of the fire doesn’t reach so far, and there’s a pooky in one of the trees. He’s fair swole, which means he’s eaten not long ago, but I still wouldn’t draw water from beneath him.” He flashed another smile. Tim thought it a cruel one, but this was no surprise. “Although a boy brave enough to come into the Endless Forest with only one of his father’s mules for company must do as he likes.”
The basin was silver; it was too heavy to be anything else. Tim carried it clumsily beneath one arm. In his free hand he held up the gaslight. As he approached the far end of the clearing, he began to smell something brackish and unpleasant, and to hear a low smacking sound, like many small mouths. He stopped.
“You don’t want this water, sai, it’s stagnant.”
“Don’t tell me what I do or don’t want, young Tim, just fill the basin. And mind the pooky, do ya, I beg.”
The boy knelt, set the basin down in front of him, and looked at the sluggish little stream. The water teemed with fat white bugs. Their oversize heads were black, their eyes on stalks. They looked like waterborne maggots and appeared to be at war. After a moment’s study, Tim realized they were eating each other. His stew lurched in his stomach.
From above him came a sound like a hand gliding down a long length of sandpaper. He raised his gaslight. In the lowest branch of an ironwood tree to his left, a huge reddish snake hung down in coils. Its spade-shaped head, bigger than his mama’s largest cooking pot, was pointed at Tim. Amber eyes with black slit pupils regarded him sleepily. A ribbon of tongue, split into a fork, appeared, danced, then snapped back, making a liquid sloooop sound.
Tim filled the basin with the stinking water as fast as he could, but with most of his attention fixed on the creature looking at him from above, several of the bugs got on his hands, where they immediately began to bite. He brushed them off with a low cry of pain and disgust, then carried the basin back to the campfire. He did this slowly and carefully, determined not to spill a drop on himself, because the foul water squirmed with life.
“If this is to drink or to wash…”
The Covenant Man looked at him with his head cocked to one side, waiting for him to finish, but Tim couldn’t. He just put the basin down beside the Covenant Man, who seemed to have done with his pointless hole.
“Not to drink, not to wash, although we could do either, if we wanted to.”
“You’re joking, sai! It’s foul!”
“The world is foul, young Tim, but we build up a resistance, don’t we? We breathe its air, eat its food, do its doings. Yes. Yes, we do. Never mind. Hunker.”
The Covenant Man pointed to a spot, then rummaged in his gunna. Tim watched the bugs eating each other, revolted but fascinated. Would they go on until only one-the strongest-was left?
“Ah, here we are!” His host produced a steel rod with a white tip that looked like ivory, and squatted so the two of them faced each other above the lively brew in the basin.
Tim stared at the steel rod in the gloved hand. “Is that a magic wand?”
The Covenant Man appeared to consider. “I suppose so. Although it started life as the gearshift of a Dodge Dart. America’s economy car, young Tim.”
“What’s America?”
“A kingdom filled with toy-loving idiots. It has no part in our palaver. But know this, and tell your children, should you ever be so unfortunate as to have any: in the proper hand, any object can be magic. Now watch!”
The Covenant Man threw back his cloak to fully free his arm, and passed the wand over the basin of murky, infested water. Before Tim’s wide eyes, the bugs fell still… floated on the surface… disappeared. The Covenant Man made a second pass and the murk disappeared, as well. The water did indeed now look drinkable. In it, Tim found himself staring down at his own amazed face.
“Gods! How did-”
“Hush, stupid boy! Disturb the water even the slightest bit and thee’ll see nothing!”
The Covenant Man passed his makeshift wand over the basin yet a third time, and Tim’s reflection disappeared just as the bugs and the murk had. What replaced it was a shivery vision of Tim’s own cottage. He saw his mother, and he saw Bern Kells. Kells was walking unsteadily into the kitchen from the back hall where he kept his trunk. Nell was standing between the stove and the table, wearing the nightgown she’d had on when Tim last saw her. Kells’s eyes were red-rimmed and bulging in their sockets. His hair was plastered to his forehead. Tim knew that, if he had been in that room instead of only watching it, he would have smelled redeye jackaroe around the man like a fog. His mouth moved, and Tim could read the words as they came from his lips: How did you open my trunk?
No! Tim wanted to cry. Not her, me! But his throat was locked shut.
“Like it?” the Covenant Man whispered. “Enjoying the show, are you?”
Nell first shrank back against the pantry door, then turned to run. Kells seized her before she could, one hand gripping her shoulder, the other wrapped in her hair. He shook her back and forth like a Rag Sally, then threw her against the wall. He swayed back and forth in front of her, as if about to collapse. But he didn’t fall, and when Nell once more tried to run, he seized the heavy ceramic jug that stood by the sink-the same water-jug Tim had poured from earlier to ease her hurt-and brought it crashing into the center of her forehead. It shattered, leaving him holding nothing but the handle. Kells dropped it, grabbed his new wife, and began to rain blows upon her.