With a firm light step, he set off across the common. Lacking a weapon of any sort, he halted to pick up a broken tent-stake: a length of ash something over a foot long, which he concealed under his cape, then proceeded directly to the wagon of Dr. Fidelius.

  As before the wagon was closed, but the team of two-headed horses was hitched to the wagon-pole, as if in readiness for departure.

  Carfilhiot went to the door at the back of the wagon and pressed his ear against the panel. Silence, so far as he could determine, with the noise of the fair behind him.

  He walked around the wagon, and discovered the boy and girl beside a small fire where they toasted skewers of bacon chunks and quartered onion.

  The girl looked up as Carfilhiot approached; the boy kept his attention on the fire. Carfilhiot wondered briefly as to his detachment. A shag of golden-brown curls fell over his face; his features were fine, yet decisive. He was, thought Carfilhiot, a boy of remarkable distinction. His age was perhaps nine or ten. The girl was two or three years older, in the early springtime of her life, as gay and sweet as a daffodil. She looked up, to meet Carfilhiot’s gaze. Her mouth drooped and she became still. She spoke, however, in a polite voice: “Sir, Dr. Fidelius is not here just now.”

  Carfilhiot came slowly forward. The girl rose to her feet. The boy turned to look in Carfilhiot’s direction.

  “When will he be back?” asked Carfilhiot gently.

  “I think very soon,” said the girl.

  “Do you know where he went?”

  “No, sir. He had important business, and we were to be ready to leave when he returned.”

  “Well then, everything is quite in order,” said Carfilhiot. “Jump into the wagon and we will drive directly to Dr. Fidelius.”

  The boy spoke for the first time. Despite his clear features, Carfilhiot had thought him pensive or even a trifle daft. He was taken aback by the ring of authority in the boy’s voice. “We cannot leave here without Dr. Fidelius. And we are cooking our dinner.”

  “Wait in front, sir, if you will,” said the girl and turned her attention back to the sizzling bacon.

  26

  GLYNETH AND DHRUN JOINED DR. FIDELIUS at the Glassblowers Fair in Hazelwood. For the first few days the association was tentative and wary. Glyneth and Dhrun conducted themselves as if walking on eggs, meanwhile watching Dr. Fidelius sidelong that they might anticipate any sudden irrationalities or quick fits of fury. But Dr. Fidelius, assuring their comfort, showed such even and impersonal politeness that Glyneth began to worry that Dr. Fidelius did not like them.

  Shimrod, watching the two with the same surreptitious interest they gave him, was impressed by their composure and charmed by their desire to please him. They were, he thought, an extraordinary pair: clean, neat, intelligent and loving. Glyneth’s native cheerfulness at times broke free into bursts of exuberance which she quickly controlled lest she annoy Dr. Fidelius. Dhrun tended to long periods of silence, while he sat gazing blankly into the sunlight, thinking his private thoughts.

  Upon leaving the Glassblowers Fair, Shimrod turned his wagon north toward the market town Porroigh and the yearly Sheep-sellers Fair. Late in the afternoon Shimrod drove the wagon off the road and halted in a little glen beside a stream. Glyneth gathered sticks and set a fire; Shimrod erected a tripod, hung a kettle and cooked a stew of chicken, onions, turnips, meadow-greens and parsley, with mustard-seed and garlic for seasoning. Glyneth gathered cress for a salad, and found a clump of morels which Shimrod added to the stew. Dhrun sat quietly by, listening to the wind in the trees and the crackle of the fire.

  The three dined well, and sat back to enjoy the dusk. Shimrod looked from one to the other. “I must make a report to you. I have traveled Dahaut now for months, plying from fair to fair, and I never realized my loneliness until these last few days that you two have been with me.”

  Glyneth heaved a small sigh of relief. “That is good news for us, since we like traveling with you. I don’t dare say it’s good luck; I might start up the curse.”

  “Tell me about this curse.”

  Dhrun and Glyneth told their separate tales and together reported the events they had shared. “So now we are anxious to find Rhodion, the king of all fairies, so that he may remove the curse and give Dhrun back his eyes.”

  “He’ll never pass the skirl of fairy pipes,” said Shimrod. “Sooner or later he’ll stop to listen, and, rest assured, I too will keep lookout.”

  Dhrun asked wistfully: “Have you ever yet seen him?”

  “Truth to tell, I have been watching for someone else.”

  Glyneth said: “I know who he is: a man with sore knees, which clack and creak as he walks.”

  “And how have you come by that knowledge?”

  “Because you cry out often about sore knees. When someone comes forward, you look into his face rather than his legs, and you are always disappointed. You give him a jar of salve and send him away still limping.”

  Shimrod showed a wry smile to the fire. “Am I so transparent?”

  “Not really,” said Glyneth modestly. “In fact, I think you are quite mysterious.”

  Shimrod now laughed aloud. “Why do you say that?”

  “Oh, for instance, how did you learn to mix so many medicines?”

  “No mystery whatever. A few are common remedies, known everywhere. The rest are pulverized bone mixed with lard or neat’s-foot oil, with different flavors. They never harm and sometimes they heal. But more than sell medicines I want to find the man with the sore knees. Like Rhodion he comes to fairs and sooner or later I will find him.”

  Dhrun asked: “Then what will happen?”

  “He will tell me where to find someone else.”

  * * *

  From south to north across the land went the wagon of Dr. Fidelius and his two young colleagues, pausing at fairs and festivals from Dafnes on the River Lull to Duddlebatz under the stone barrens of Godelia. There were longs days of traveling by shaded country lanes, up hill and down dale, through dark woods and old villages. There were nights by firelight while the full moon rode through clouds, and other nights under a sky full of stars. One afternoon, as they crossed a desolate heath, Glyneth heard plaintive sounds from the ditch beside the road. Jumping from the wagon and peering among the thistles she discovered a pair of spotted kittens which had been abandoned and left to die. Glyneth called and the kittens ran anxiously to her. She took them to the wagon, in tears over their plight. When Shimrod gave her leave to keep them, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, and Shimrod knew he was her slave forever, even had it not been the case before.

  Glyneth named the kittens Smirrish and Sneezer, and at once set about training them to tricks.

  From the north they fared into the west, through Ammarsdale and Scarhead, to Tins in the Ulfland March, thirty miles north of the awesome Ska fortress at Poëlitetz. This was a grim land and they were happy to turn east once more, along the Murmeil River.

  The summer was long; the days were bittersweet times for each of the three. Strange small misfortunes regularly troubled Dhrun: hot water scalded his hand; rain soaked his bed; as he went to relieve himself behind the hedge he fell into the nettles. Never did he complain, and so earned Shimrod’s respect, and Shimrod, from initial skepticism, began to accept the reality of the curse. One day Dhrun stepped on a thorn, driving it deep into his heel. Shimrod removed it while Dhrun sat silent, biting his lip; and Shimrod was moved to hug him and pat his head. “You’re a brave lad. One way or another we’ll end this curse. At the very worst it can last only seven years.”

  As always, Dhrun thought a moment before speaking. Then he said: “A thorn is only a trifle. Do you know the bad luck I fear? That you should tire of us and put us off the wagon.”

  Shimrod laughed and felt his eyes grow moist. He gave Dhrun another hug. “It would not be by my choice: I promise you that. I could not manage without you.”

  “Still, bad luck is bad luck.”

  “True. No one knows what the future holds.”

  Almost immediately after a spark flew from the fire and landed on Dhrun’s ankle.

  “Ouch,” said Dhrun. “More luck.”

  Each day brought new experiences. At Playmont Fair, Duke Jocelyn of Castle Foire sponsored a magnificent tournament-at-arms, where armoured knights played at combat, and competed in a new sport known as jousting. Mounted on strong horses and wearing full regalia, they charged each other with padded poles, each trying to dislodge his adversary.

  From Playmont they traveled to Long Danns, skirting close by the Forest of Tantrevalles, arriving at noon and finding the fair in full swing. Shimrod unhitched his marvellous two-headed horses, gave them fodder, lowered the side panel of the wagon, to serve as a platform, raised on high a sign:

  DR. FIDELIUS

  THAUMATURGE, PAN-SOPHIST, MOUNTEBANK

  Relief for Cankers, Gripes and Spasms

  SPECIAL TREATMENT OF SORE KNEES

  Expert Advice: Free

  He then retired into the wagon to don his black robes and necromancer’s hat.

  On each side of the platform Dhrun and Glyneth beat drums. They were dressed alike, as page-boys, with low white shoes, tight blue hose and pantaloons, doublets striped vertically in blue and black, with white hearts stitched to the black stripes, and low crush-caps of black velvet.

  Dr. Fidelius stepped out on the platform. He called to the onlookers: “Sirs and ladies!” Here Dr. Fidelius pointed to his sign. “You will observe that I style myself ‘mountebank’. My reason is simple. Who calls a butterfly frivolous? Who insults a cow with the word ‘bovine’? Who will call a self-admitted mountebank a fraud?

  “Then, am I for a fact mountebank, fraud and charlatan?” Glyneth jumped up to stand beside him. “You must judge for yourselves. Notice here my pretty associate—if you have not already noticed her. Glyneth, open wide your mouth. Sirs and ladies, observe this aperture! These are teeth, this is a tongue, beyond is the oral cavity, in its natural state. Watch now, as I insert into this mouth an orange, neither large, nor yet small, but of exact and proper size. Glyneth, close your mouth, if you will, and if you can . . . Excellent. Now, sirs and ladies, observe the girl with the distended cheeks. I tap her on the right and on the left, and hey presto! The cheeks are as before! Glyneth, what have you done with the orange? This is most extraordinary! Open your mouth; we are bewildered!”

  Glyneth obediently opened her mouth and Dr. Fidelius peered within. He exclaimed in surprise. “What is this?” He reached with thumb and forefinger. “It is not an orange; it is a beautiful red rose! What more is here? Look, sirs and ladies! Three fine ripe cherries! What else? What are these? Horse-shoe nails! One, two, three, four, five, six! And what is this! The horse-shoe itself! Glyneth, how is this possible? Have you any more surprises? Open wide your mouth . . . By the moon and sun, a mouse! Glyneth, how can you consume such stuff?”

  Glyneth answered in her bright clear voice: “Sir! I have been taking your digestive pastilles!”

  Dr. Fidelius threw his hands into the air. “Enough! You defeat me at my own trade!” And Glyneth jumped down from the platform.

  “Now then, as to my potions and lotions, my powders, pills and purges; my analepts and anodynes: are they the alleviants I claim them to be? Sirs and ladies, I will make this guarantee: if, upon taking my remedies, you mortify and die, you may return the unused medicine for a partial refund. Where else will you hear such a guarantee?

  “I am particularly expert in the treatment of sore knees, especially those which creak, click, clack, or otherwise complain. If you or someone you know is afflicted with sore knees, then I want to see the sufferer.

  “Now let me present my other associate: the noble and talented Sir Dhrun. He will play you tunes on the fairy-pipes, to make you laugh, to make you cry, to set your heels to twitching. Meanwhile, Glyneth will dispense the medicines while I prescribe. Sirs and ladies, a final word! You are hereby notified that my embrocations burn and tingle as if distilled from liquid flame. My medicines taste vilely, of cimiter, dog-bane and gall: the body quickly returns to robust health so that it need assimilate no more of my foul concoctions! That is the secret of my success. Music, Sir Dhrun!”

  As she circulated through the crowd Glyneth watched carefully for a person in a nut-brown suit and a scarlet feather in his green cap, especially one who heard the music with pleasure; but on this sunny forenoon at Long Danns, hard by the Forest of Tantrevalles, no such person showed himself, nor did any obvious scoundrel, of dark visage and long nose, come to Dr. Fidelius for treatment of his sore knees.

  In the afternoon a breeze began to blow from the west, to set the banners fluttering. Glyneth set out a table with high legs and a tall stool for Dhrun. From the wagon she carried a basket. As Dhrun played a jig on the pipes, Glyneth brought forth her black and white cats. She tapped the table with a baton and the cats raised on their hind legs and danced in time to the music, hopping and skipping back and forth across the table, and a crowd quickly gathered. At the back a fox-faced young man, small and dapper, seemed to be especially enthusiastic. He snapped his fingers to the music, and presently began to dance, kicking this way and that with great agility. He wore, so Glyneth noted, a green cap with a long red feather. Hurriedly she put her cats in the basket and sidling up behind the dancing man, snatched off his cap, and ran to the back of the wagon. In astonishment the young man chased after her. “What are you up to? Give me my hat!”

  “No,” said Glyneth. “Not till you grant my wishes.”

  “Are you mad? What foolishness is this? I can’t grant wishes for myself, let alone you. Now give me my cap, or I’ll have to take it from you, and beat you well in the bargain.”

  “Never,” declared Glyneth bravely. “You are Rhodion. I have your hat, and I will never let it go until you obey me.”

  “We’ll see about that!” The young man seized Glyneth, and they struggled until the horses snorted, reared and showing long white teeth lunged at the young man, who drew back in fear.

  Shimrod jumped down from the wagon and the young man cried out in fury: “This girl of yours is mad! She seizes my cap and runs off with it, and when I ask for it, most civilly, she says no, and names me Rhodion or something similar. My name is Tibbalt; I am chandler at the village Witherwood and I have come to the fair to buy wax. Almost instantly I am snatched hatless by a mad hoyden, who then insists that I obey her! Have you ever heard the like?”

  Shimrod gave his head a grave shake. “She is not a bad girl, just a bit impetuous and full of pranks.” He stepped forward. “Sir, allow me.” He brushed aside Tibbalt’s brown hair. “Glyneth, observe! This gentleman’s ear-lobes are well developed.”

  Glyneth looked and nodded. “That is so.”

  Tibbalt demanded: “What is this to do with my hat?”

  “Allow me one more favor,” said Shimrod. “Show me your hand . . . Glyneth, notice the fingernails; there is no trace of web and the fingernails are not filmy.”

  Glyneth nodded. “I see. So I may give him his hat?”

  “Yes, indeed, especially since the gentleman exudes the odor of bayberry and bee’s-wax.”

  Glyneth returned the hat. “Please, sir, forgive me my prank.”

  Shimrod gave Tibbalt a pottery jar: “With our compliments, please accept this half-gill of hair pomade, which will cause eyebrows, beard and mustache to grow silky and fine.”

  Tibbalt departed in good spirits. Glyneth went back to her table in front of the wagon and reported her mistake to Dhrun, who merely shrugged, and once again began to play the pipes. Glyneth again produced her cats, which hopped and danced with zeal, to the great wonder of those who halted to watch. “Wonderful, wonderful!” declared a portly little gentleman with spindle shanks, thin ankles, long thin feet in green leather shoes with preposterous rolled-up toes. “My lad, where did you learn to play the pipes?”

  “Sir, it is a gift from the fairies.”

  “What a marvel! A true gift of magic!”

  The wind blew a sudden gust; the gentleman’s green hat whisked from his head and fell at Glyneth’s feet. She picked it up and noticed the scarlet feather. Dubiously she looked at the man who smilingly held out his hand. “Thank you, my pretty dear. I will reward you with a kiss.”

  Glyneth looked at the outstretched hand which was pale and plump, with small delicate fingers. The nails were carefully tended and polished milky-pink. Was this film? The flaps of skin between the fingers: was this web? Glyneth slowly looked up and met the gentleman’s eyes. They were fawn-brown. Sparse sandy-red hair curled past his ears. Wind lifted the hair; in fascination Glyneth saw the lobes. They were small: no more than little dimples of pink tissue. She could not see the top of the ears.

  The gentleman stamped his foot. “My hat, if you please!”

  “One moment, sir, while I brush off the dust.” Sneezer and Smirrish once more were popped into the basket, and Glyneth ran off with the hat.

  With notable agility the gentleman bounded after her, and so maneuvered to press her back against the front of the wagon where they could not be seen from the common. “Now, miss, my hat, and then you shall have your kiss.”

  “You may not have your hat until you grant my wishes.”

  “Eh? What nonsense is this? Why should I grant your wishes?”

  “Because, your Majesty, I hold your hat.”

  The gentleman looked at her sidewise. “Who do you think I am?”

  “You are Rhodion, King of the Fairies.”

  “Ha ha hah! And what do you wish me to do?”

  “It is not a great deal. Lift the curse which hangs upon Dhrun and give him back his eyes.”

  “All for my hat?” The portly gentleman advanced upon Glyneth with his arms wide. “Now then, my downy little duckling, I will embrace you; what a sweet little armful you are! Now for the kiss, and perhaps something more . . .”

  Glyneth ducked under his arms, jumped cleverly backward and forward, and ran behind the wagon. The gentleman chased after her, calling out endearments and imploring the return of his hat.