The precious steel was speckled with rust, and Tim didnt have to test with his thumb to see that the blades were dull. Nells new husband occasionally honed his current ax, but hadnt bothered with these spare heads for a long time. By the time he needed them, they would probably be useless. Tucked into one corner of the trunk were a small deerskin bag and an object wrapped in fine chamois cloth. Tim took this latter up, unwrapped it, and beheld the likeness of a woman with a sweetly smiling face. Masses of dark hair tumbled over her shoulders. Tim didnt remember Millicent Kellshe would have been no more than three or four when she passed into the clearing where we must all eventually gatherbut he knew it was she. He rewrapped it, replaced it, and picked up the little bag. From the feel there was only a single object inside, small but quite heavy. Tim pulled the drawstring with his fingers and tipped the bag. More thunder boomed, Tim jerked with surprise, and the object which had been hidden at the very bottom of Kellss trunk fell out into Tims hand. It was his fathers lucky coin. Tim put everything but his fathers property back into the trunk, loading the toolbox in, returning the tools hed removed to lighten it, and then piling in the clothes. He refastened the straps. All well enough, but when he tried the silver key, it turned without engaging the tumblers. Useless as dirt. Tim gave up and covered the trunk with the old piece of blanket again, fussing with it until it looked more or less as it had. It might serve. Hed often seen his new steppa pat the trunk and sit on the trunk, but only infrequently did he open the trunk, and then just to get his honing bar. Tims burglary might go undiscovered for a little while, but he knew better than to believe it would go undiscovered forever. There would come a daymaybe not until next month, but more likely next week (or even tomorrow!), when Big Kells would decide to get his bar, or remember that he had more clothes than the ones hed brought in his kickbag. He would discover the trunk was unlocked, hed dive for the deerskin bag, and find the coin it had contained was gone. And then? Then his new wife and new stepson would take a beating. Probably a fearsome one. Tim was afraid of that, but as he stared at the familiar reddishgold coin on its length of silver chain, he was also truly angry for the first time in his life. It was not a boys impotent fury but a mans rage. He had asked Old Destry about dragons, and what they might do to a fellow. Did it hurt? Would there be . . . well . . . parts left? The farmer had seen Tims distress and put a kindly arm around his shoulders. Nar to both, son. Dragons fire is the hottest fire there isas hot as the liquid rock that sometimes drools from cracks in the earth far south of here. So all the stories say. A man caught in dragonblast is burned to finest ash in but a secondclothes, boots, buckle and all. So if youre asking did yer da suffer, set yer mind at rest. Twas over for him in an instant. Clothes, boots, buckle and all. But Das lucky coin wasnt even smudged, and every link of the silver chain was intact. Yet he didnt take it off even to sleep. So what had happened to Big Jack Ross? And why was the coin in Kellss trunk? Tim had a terrible idea, and he thought he knew someone who could tell him if the terrible idea was right. If Tim were brave enough, that was. Come at night, for this jillys son likes to sleep in the day when he gets the chance. It was night now, or almost. His mother was still sleeping. By her hand Tim left his slate. On it he had written I WILL BE BACK. DONT WORRY ABOUT ME. Of course, no boy who ever lived can comprehend how useless such a command must be when addressed to a mother. Tim wanted nothing to do with either of Kellss mules, for they were illtempered. The two his father had raised from guffins were just the opposite. Misty and Bitsy were mollies, unsterilized females theoretically capable of bearing offspring, but Ross had kept them so for sweetness of temper rather than for breeding. Perish the thought, he had told Tim when Tim was old enough to ask about such things. Animals like Misty and Bitsy werent meant to breed, and almost never give birth to truethreaded offspring when they do. Tim chose Bitsy, who had ever been his favorite, leading her down the lane by her bridle and then mounting her bareback. His feet, which had ended halfway down the mules sides when his da had first lifted him onto her back, now came almost to the ground. At first Bitsy plodded with her ears lopped dispiritedly down, but when the thunder faded and the rain slackened to a drizzle, she perked up. She wasnt used to being out at night, but she and Misty had been cooped up all too much since Big Ross had died, and she seemed eager enough to Maybe hes not dead. This thought burst into Tims mind like a skyrocket and for a moment dazzled him with hope. Maybe Big Ross was still alive and wandering somewhere in the Endless Forest Yar, and maybe the moons made of green cheese, like Mama used to tell me when I was wee. Dead. His heart knew it, just as he was sure his heart would have known if Big Ross were still alive. Mamas heart would have known, too. She would have known and never married that . . . that . . . That bastard. Bitsys ears pricked. They had passed the Widow Smacks house now, which was at the end of the high street, and the woodland scents were stronger the light and spicy aroma of blossiewood and, overlaying that, the stronger, graver smell of ironwood. For a boy to go up the trail alone, with not so much as an ax to defend himself with, was madness. Tim knew it and went on just the same. That hitting bastard. This time he spoke in a voice so low it was almost a growl. Bitsy knew the way, and didnt hesitate when Tree Road narrowed at the edge of the blossies. Nor did she when it narrowed again at the edge of the ironwood. But when Tim understood he was truly in the Endless Forest, he halted her long enough to rummage in his pack and bring out a gaslight hed filched from the barn. The little tin bulb at the base was heavy with fuel, and he thought it would give at least an hours light. Two, if he used it sparingly. He popped a sulphur match with a thumbnail (a trick his da had taught him), turned the knob where the bulb met the gaslights long, narrow neck, and stuck the match through the little slot known as the marygate. The lamp bloomed with a bluewhite glow. Tim raised it and gasped. He had been this far up the Ironwood several times with his father, but never at night, and what he saw was awesome enough to make him consider going back. This close to civilization the best irons had been cut to stumps, but the ones that remained towered high above the boy on his little mule. Tall and straight and as solemn as Manni elders at a funeral (Tim had seen a picture of this in one of the Widows books), they rose far beyond the light thrown by his puny lamp. They were completely smooth for the first forty feet or so. Above that, the branches leaped skyward like upraised arms, tangling the narrow trail with a cobweb of shadows. Because they were little more than thick black stakes at ground level, it would be possible to walk among them. Of course it would also be possible to cut your throat with a sharp stone. Anyone foolish enough to wander off the Ironwood Trailor go beyond itwould quickly be lost in a maze, where he might well starve. If he were not eaten first, that was. As if to underline this idea, somewhere in the darkness a creature that sounded big uttered a hoarse chuckling sound. Tim asked himself what he was doing here when he had a warm bed with clean sheets in the cottage where he had grown up. Then he touched his fathers lucky coin (now hanging around his own neck), and his resolve hardened. Bitsy was looking around as if to ask, Well? Which way? Forward or back? Youre the boss, you know. Tim wasnt sure he had the courage to extinguish the gaslight until it was done and he was in darkness again. Although he could no longer see the ironwoods, he could feel them crowding in. Still forward. He squeezed Bitsys flanks with his knees, clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and Bitsy got moving again. The smoothness of her gait told him she was keeping to the righthand wheelrut. The placidity of it told him she did not sense danger. At least not yet, and honestly, what did a mule know of danger? From that he was supposed to protect her. He was, after all, the boss. Oh, Bitsy, he thought. If thee only knew. How far had he come? How far did he still have to go? How far would he go before he gave this madness up? He was the only thing in the world his mother had left to love and depend on, so how far? It felt like hed ridden ten wheels or more since leaving the fragrant aroma of the blossies behind, but he knew better. As he knew that the rustling he heard was the Wide Earth wind in the high branches, and not some nameless beast padding along behind him with its jaws opening and closing in anticipation of a small evening snack. He knew this very well, so why did that wind sound so much like breathing? Ill count to a hundred and then turn Bitsy around, he told himself, but when he reached a hundred and there was still nothing in the pitch black save for him and his brave little molliemule (plus whatever beast treads behind us, closer and closer, his traitorous mind insisted on adding), he decided he would go on to two hundred. When he reached one hundred and eightyseven, he heard a branch snap. He lit the gaslight and whirled around, holding it high. The grim shadows seemed first to rear up, then leap forward to clutch him. And did something retreat from the light? Did he see the glitter of a red eye? Surely not, but Tim hissed air through his teeth, turned the knob to shut off the gas, and clucked his tongue. He had to do it twice. Bitsy, formerly placid, now seemed uneasy about going forward. But, good and obedient thing that she was, she gave in to his command and once more began walking. Tim resumed his count, and reaching two hundred didnt take long. Ill count back down to ought, and if I see no sign of him, I really will go back. He had reached nineteen in this reverse count when he saw an orangered flicker ahead and to his left. It was a campfire, and Tim was in no doubt of who had built it. The beast stalking me was never behind, he thought. Its ahead. Yon flicker may be a campfire, but its also the eye I saw. The red eye. I should go back while theres still time. Then he touched the lucky coin lying against his breast and pushed on. He lit his lamp again and lifted it. There were many short sidetrails, called stubs, shooting off from either side of the main way. Just ahead, nailed to a humble birch, was a wooden board marking one of these. Daubed on it in black paint was COSINGTONMARCHLY. Tim knew these men. Peter Cosington (who had suffered his own ill luck that year) and Ernest Marchly were cutters who had come to supper at the Ross cottage on many occasions, and the Ross family had many times eaten at one or the other of theirs. Fine fellows, but they wont go deep, Big Ross told his son after one of these meals. Theres plenty of good ironwood left in close to the blossie, but the true treasurethe densest, purest woodis in deep, close to where the trail ends at the edge of the Fagonard. So perhaps I only did come a wheel or two, but the dark changes everything. He turned Bitsy up the CosingtonMarchly stub, and less than a minute later entered a clearing where the Covenant Man sat on a log before a cheery campfire. Why, heres young Tim, he said. Youve got balls, even if there wont be hair on em for another year or three. Come, sit, have some stew. Tim wasnt entirely sure he wanted to share whatever this strange fellow ate for his supper, but hed had none of his own, and the smell wafting from the pot hung over the fire was savory. Reading the cast of his young visitors thoughts with an accuracy that was unsettling, the Covenant Man said Itll not poison thee, young Tim. Im sure not, Tim said . . . but now that poison had been mentioned, he wasnt 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 hosts black horse. The stallion briefly touched the humble mules 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 splintersthe 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 strangers gunna. It was hard for Tim to believe his mother had been right about ita basin made of silver would be worth a fortunebut it certainly looked like silver. How many knucks would have to be melted and smelted to make such a thing? The Covenant Mans bootheel encountered a root. From beneath his cloak he produced a knife almost as long as Tims 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 youll find out. Perhaps you wont. I think you will. Have you finished your meal? Aye, and say thankya. Tim tapped his throat three times. It was fine. Good. Kissin dont last, cookin do. So say the Mannifolk. I see you admiring my basin. Its fine, isnt 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, youve 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. Tata, shasha, nana. Save thy imaginings. For now, take the basin and fetch me water. Youll find it at the edge of the clearing. Youll want your little lamp, for the glow of the fire doesnt reach so far, and theres a pooky in one of the trees. Hes fair swole, which means hes eaten not long ago, but I still wouldnt 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 fathers 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 dont want this water, sai, its stagnant. Dont tell me what I do or dont 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 moments 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 spadeshaped head, bigger than his mamas 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 couldnt. 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. Youre joking, sai! Its foul! The world is foul, young Tim, but we build up a resistance, dont 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 onethe strongestwas 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. Americas economy car, young Tim. Whats America? A kingdom filled with toyloving 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 Tims 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 theell see nothing! The Covenant Man passed his makeshift wand over the basin yet a third time, and Tims reflection disappeared just as the bugs and the murk had. What replaced it was a shivery vision of Tims 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 shed had on when Tim last saw her. Kellss eyes were redrimmed 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 didnt fall, and when Nell once more tried to run, he seized the heavy ceramic jug that stood by the sinkthe same waterjug Tim had poured from earlier to ease her hurtand 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. NO! Tim screamed. His breath ruffled the water and the vision was gone. Tim sprang to his feet and lunged toward Bitsy, who was looking at him in surprise. In his mind, the son of Jack Ross was already riding back down the Ironwood Trail, urging Bitsy with his heels until she was running fullout. In reality, the Covenant Man seized him before he could manage three steps, and hauled him back to the campfire. Tata, nana, young Tim, be not so speedy! Our palavers well begun but far from done. Let me loose! Shes dying, if he aint killed her already! Unless . . . was it a glam? Your little joke? If so, Tim thought, it was the meanest joke ever played on a boy who loved his mother. Yet he hoped it was. He hoped the Covenant Man would laugh and say I really pulled your snout that time, didnt I, young Tim? The Covenant Man was shaking his head. No joke and no glammer, for the basin never lies. Its already happened, I fear. Terrible what a man in drink may do to a woman, isnt it? Yet look again. This time thee may find some comfort. Tim fell on his knees in front of the basin. The Covenant Man flicked his steel stick over the water. A vague mist seemed to pass above it . . . or perhaps it was only a trick of Tims eyes, which were filled with tears. Whichever it was, the obscurity faded. Now in the shallow pool he saw the porch of their cottage, and a woman who seemed to have no face bending over Nell. Slowly, slowly, with the newcomers help, Nell was able to get to her feet. The woman with no face turned her toward the front door, and Nell began taking shuffling, painful steps in that direction. Shes alive! Tim shouted. My mamas alive! So she is, young Tim. Bloody but unbowed. Well . . . a bit bowed, praps. He chuckled. This time Tim had shouted across the basin rather than into it, and the vision remained. He realized that the woman helping his mother appeared to have no face because she was wearing a veil, and the little burro he could see at the very edge of the wavering picture was Sunshine. He had fed, watered, and walked Sunshine many times. So had the other pupils at the little Tree school; it was part of what the headmistress called their tuition, but Tim had never seen her actually ride him. If asked, he would have said she was probably unable. Because of her shakes. Thats the Widow Smack! Whats she doing at our house? Perhaps youll ask her, young Tim. Did you send her, somehow? Smiling, the Covenant Man shook his head. I have many hobbies, but rescuing damsels in distress isnt one of them. He bent close to the basin, the brim of his hat shading his face. Oh, dearie me. I believe shes still in distress. Which is no surprise; it was a terrible beating she took. People say the truth can be read in a persons eyes, but look at the hands, I always say. Look at your mamas, young Tim! Tim bent close to the water. Supported by the Widow, Nell crossed the porch with her spread hands held out before her, and she was walking toward the wall instead of the door, although the porch was not wide and the door right in front of her. The Widow gently corrected her course, and the two women went inside together. The Covenant Man used his tongue to make a tchtch sound against the roof of his mouth. Doesnt look good, young Tim. Blows to the head can be very nasty things. Even when they dont kill, they can do terrible damage. Lasting damage. His words were grave, but his eyes twinkled with unspeakable merriment. Tim barely noticed. I have to go. My mother needs me. Once again he started for Bitsy. This time he got almost half a dozen steps before the Covenant Man laid hold of him. His fingers were like rods of steel. Before you go, Timand with my blessing, of courseyou have one more thing to do. Tim felt as if he might be going mad. Maybe, he thought, Im in bed with tick fever and dreaming all this. Take my basin back to the stream and dump it. But not where you got it, because yon pooky has begun to look far too interested in his surroundings. The Covenant Man picked up Tims gaslight, twisted the feedknob fully open, and held it up. The snake now hung down for most of its length. The last three feet, howeverthe part ending in the pookys spadeshaped headwas raised and weaving from side to side. Amber eyes stared raptly into Tims blue ones. Its tongue lashed outsloooopand for a moment Tim saw two long curved fangs. They sparkled in the glow cast by the gaslight. Go to the left of him, the Covenant Man advised. I shall accompany you and stand watch. Cant you just dump it yourself? I want to go to my mother. I need to Your mother isnt why I brought you here, young Tim. The Covenant Man seemed to grow taller. Now do as I say. Tim picked up the basin and cut across the clearing to his left. The Covenant Man, still holding up the gaslight, kept between him and the snake. The pooky had swiveled to follow their course but made no attempt to follow, although the ironwoods were so close and their lowest branches so intertwined, it could have done so with ease. This stub is part of the CosingtonMarchly stake, the Covenant Man said chattily. Perhaps thee read the sign. Aye. A boy who can read is a treasure to the Barony. The Covenant Man was now treading so close to Tim that it made the boys skin prickle. You will pay great taxes some dayalways assuming you dont die in the Endless Forest this night . . . or the next . . . or the night after that. But why look for storms that are still over the horizon, eh? You know whose stake this is, but I know a little more. Discovered it when I made my rounds, along with news of Frankie Simonss broken leg, the Wyland babys milksick, the Riverlys dead cowsabout which theyre lying through their few remaining teeth, if I know my business, and I doand all sorts of other interesting fiddlededum. How people talk! But heres the point, young Tim. I discovered that, early on in Full Earth, Peter Cosington was caught under a tree that fell wrong. Trees will do that from time to time, especially ironwood. I believe that ironwood trees actually think, which is where the tradition of crying their pardon before each days chopping comes from. I know about sai Cosingtons accident, Tim said. In spite of his anxiety, he was curious about this turn of the conversation. My mama sent them a soup, even though she was in mourning for my da at the time. The tree fell across his back, but not square across. That would have killed him. What of it? Hes better these days. They were near the water now, but the smell here was less strong and Tim heard none of those smacking bugs. That was good, but the pooky was still watching them with hungry interest. Bad. Yar, Square Fella Cosies back to work and we all say thankya. But while he was laid upfor two weeks before your da met his dragon and for six weeks afterthis stub and all the others in the CosingtonMarchly stake were empty, because Ernie Marchlys not like your steppa. Which is to say, he wont come cutting in the Endless Forest without a pard. But of coursealso not like your steppaSlow Ernie actually has a pard. Tim remembered the coin lying against his skin, and why hed come on this mad errand in the first place. There was no dragon! If thered been a dragon, it would have burned up my das lucky coin with the rest of him! And why was it in Kellss trunk? Dump out my basin, young Tim. I think youll find there are no bugs in the water to trouble thee. No, not here. But I want to know Close thy clam and dump my basin, for youll not leave this clearing while its full. Tim knelt to do as he was told, wanting only to complete the chore and be gone. He cared nothing about Peter Square Fella Cosington, and didnt believe the man in the black cloak did, either. Hes teasing me, or torturing me. Maybe he doesnt even know the difference. But as soon as this damn basin is empty, Ill mount Bitsy and ride back as fast as I can. Let him try to stop me. Just let him tr Tims thoughts broke as cleanly as a dry stick under a bootheel. He lost his hold on the basin and it fell upsyturvy in the matted underbrush. There were no bugs in the water here, the Covenant Man was right about that; the stream was as clear as the water that flowed from the spring near their cottage. Lying six or eight inches below the surface was a human body. The clothes were only rags that floated in the current. The eyelids were gone, and so was most of the hair. The face and arms, once deeply tanned, were now as pale as alabaster. But otherwise, the body of Big Jack Ross was perfectly preserved. If not for the emptiness in those lidless, lashless eyes, Tim could have believed his father might rise, dripping, and fold him into an embrace. The pooky made its hungry sloooop. Something broke inside of Tim at the sound, and he began to scream. The Covenant Man was forcing something into Tims mouth. Tim tried to fend him off, but it did no good. The Covenant Man simply seized Tims hair at the back of his head, and when Tim yelled, the mouth of a flask was shoved between his teeth. Some fiery liquid gushed down his throat. Not redeye, for instead of making him drunk, it calmed him. Moreit made him feel like an icy visitor in his own head. That will wear off in ten minutes, and then Ill let you go your course, the Covenant Man said. His jocularity was gone. He no longer called the boy young Tim; he no longer called him anything. Now dig out thy ears and listen. I began to hear stories in Tavares, forty wheels east of here, of a woodsman whod been cooked by a dragon. It was on everyones lips. A bitch dragon as big as a house, they said. I knew it was bullshit. I believe there might still be a tyger somewhere in the forest At that the Covenant Mans lips twitched in a rictus of a grin, there and gone almost too quickly to see. but a dragon? Never. There hasnt been one this close to civilization for years ten times ten, and never one as a big as a house. My curiosity was aroused. Not because Big Ross is a taxpayeror wasalthough thats what Idve told the toothless multitude, were any member of it trig enoughand brave enoughto ask. No, it was curiosity for its own sake, because wanting to know secrets has always been my besetting vice. Someday twill be the death of me, I have no doubt. I was camped on the Ironwood Trail last night, toobefore I started my rounds. Only last night I went all the way to the trails end. The signs on the last few stubs before the Fagonard Swamp say Ross and Kells. There I filled my basin at the last clear stream before the swamp begins, and what did I see in the water? Why, a sign reading CosingtonMarchly. I packed up my gunna, mounted Blackie, and rode him back here, just to see what I might see. There was no need to consult the basin again; I saw where yon pooky would not venture and where the bugs hadnt polluted the stream. The bugs are voracious flesheaters, but according to the old wives, theyll not eat the flesh of a virtuous man. The old wives are often wrong, but not about that, it seems. The chill of the water has preserved him, and he appears to be unmarked, because the man who murdered him struck from behind. I saw the riven skull when I turned him over, and have put him back as you see him now to spare you that sight. The Covenant Man paused, then added And so hed see you, I suppose, if his essence lingers near his corse. On that, the old wives reach no consensus. Still all right, or would you like another small dose of nen? Im all right. Never had he told such a lie. I felt quite sure of who the culprit wasas you do, I reckonbut any remaining doubts were put to rest at Gittys Saloon, my first stop in Tree. The local boozers always good for a dozen knucks come tax time, if not more. There I found out that Bern Kells had slipped the rope with his dead partners widow. Because of you, Tim said in a monotone that didnt sound like his own voice at all. Because of your godsdamned taxes. The Covenant Man laid a hand on his breast and spoke in wounded tones.


You wrong me! Twasnt taxes that kept Big Kells burning in his bed all these years, aye, even when he still had a woman next to him to quench his torch. He went on, but the stuff he called nen was wearing off, and Tim lost the sense of the words. Suddenly he was no longer cold but hot, burning up, and his stomach was a churning bag. He staggered toward the remains of the campfire, fell on his knees, and vomited his supper into the hole the Covenant Man had been digging with his bootheel. There! the man in the black cloak said in a tone of hearty selfcongratulation. I thought that might come in handy. Youll want to go and see your mother now, said the Covenant Man when Tim had finished puking and was sitting beside the dying campfire with his head down and his hair hanging in his eyes. Good son that you are. But I have something you may want. One more minute. Itll make no difference to Nell Kells; she is as she is. Dont call her so! Tim spat. How can I not? Is she not wed? Marry in haste, repent at leisure, the old folken say. The Covenant Man squatted once more in front of his heaped gunna, his cloak billowing around him like the wings of an awful bird. They also say whats slipped cannot be unslipped, and they say true. An amusing concept called divorce exists on some levels of the Tower, but not in our charming little corner of MidWorld. Now let me see . . . its here somewhere . . . I dont understand why Square Peter and Slow Ernie didnt find him, Tim said dully. He felt deflated, empty. Some emotion still pulsed deep in his heart, but he didnt know what it was. This is their plot . . . their stake . . . and theyve been back cutting ever since Cosington was well enough to work again. Aye, they cut the iron, but not here. Theyve plenty of other stubs. Theyve left this one fallow for a bit. Does thee not know why? Tim supposed he did. Square Peter and Slow Ernie were good and kindly, but not the bravest men ever to log the iron, which was why they didnt go much deeper into the forest than this. Theyve been waiting for the pooky to move on, I wot. Its a wise child, the Covenant Man said approvingly. He wots well. And how does thee think thy steppa felt, knowing yon treeworm might move on at any time, and those two come back? Come back and find his crime, unless he screws up enough gut to come himself and move the body deeper into the woods? The new emotion in Tims heart was pulsing more strongly now. He was glad. Anything was better than the helpless terror he felt for his mother. I hope he feels bad. I hope he cant sleep. And then, with dawning understanding Its why he went back to the drink. A wise child indeed, wise beyond his Ah! Here it is! The Covenant Man turned toward Tim, who was now untying Bitsy and preparing to mount up. He approached the boy, holding something beneath his cloak. He did it on impulse, sure, and afterward he must have been in a panic. Why else would he concoct such a ridiculous story? The other woodsmen doubt it, of that you may be sure. He built a fire and leaned into it as far as he dared and for as long as he could take it, scorching his clothes and blistering his skin. I know, because I built my fire on the bones of his. But first he threw his dead pards gunna across yon stream, as far into the woods as his strength would allow. Did it with your das blood not yet dry on his hands, I warrant. I waded across and found it. Most of its useless mickle, but I saved thee one thing. It was rusty, but my pumice stone and honing bar have cleaned it up very well. From beneath his cloak he produced Big Rosss handax. Its freshly sharpened edge glittered. Tim, now astride Bitsy, took it, brought it to his lips, and kissed the cold steel. Then he shoved the handle into his belt, blade turned out from his body, just as Big Ross had taught him, once upon a bye. I see you wear a rhodite double around your neck. Was it your das? Mounted, Tim was almost eyetoeye with the Covenant Man. It was in that murdering bastards trunk. You have his coin; now you have his ax, as well. Where will you put it, I wonder, if ka offers you the chance? In his head. The emotionpure ragehad broken free of his heart like a bird with its wings on fire. Back or front, either will do me fine. Admirable! I like a boy with a plan! Go with all the gods you know, and the Man Jesus for good measure. Then, having wound the boy to his fullest stop, he turned to build up his fire. I may bide along the Iron for another night or two. I find Tree strangely interesting this Wide Earth. Watch for the green sighe, my boy! She glows, so she does! Tim made no reply, but the Covenant Man felt sure he had heard. Once they were wound to the fullest stop, they always did. The Widow Smack must have been watching from the window, for Tim had just led a footsore Bitsy up to the porch (in spite of his growing anxiety he had walked the last halfmile to spare her) when she came rushing out. Thank gods, thank gods. Your mother was three quarters to believing you were dead. Come in. Hurry. Let her hear and touch you. The import of these words didnt strike Tim fully until later. He tied Bitsy beside Sunshine and hurried up the steps. How did you know to come to her, sai? The Widow turned her face to him (which, given her veil, was hardly a face at all). Has thee gone soft in the head, Timothy? You rode past my house, pushing that mule for all she was worth. I couldnt think why youd be out so late, and headed in the direction of the forest, so I came here to ask your mother. But come, come. And keep a cheery voice, if you love her. The Widow led him across the living room, where two seners burned low. In his mothers room another sener burned on the bed table, and by its light he saw Nell lying in bed with much of her face wrapped in bandages and anotherthis one badly bloodstainedaround her neck like a collar. At the sound of their footsteps, she sat up with a wild look upon her face. If its Kells, stay away! Youve done enough! Its Tim, Mama. She turned toward him and held out her arms. Tim! To me, to me! He knelt beside the bed, and the part of her face not covered by bandages he covered with kisses, crying as he did so. She was still wearing her nightgown, but now the neck and bosom were stiff with rusty blood. Tim had seen his steppa fetch her a terrible lick with the ceramic jug, and then commence with his fists. How many blows had he seen? He didnt know. And how many had fallen on his hapless mother after the vision in the silver basin had disappeared? Enough so he knew she was very fortunate to be alive, but one of those blowslikely the one dealt with the ceramic jughad struck his mother blind. Twas a concussive blow, the Widow Smack said. She sat in Nells bedroom rocker; Tim sat on the bed, holding his mothers left hand. Two fingers of the right were broken. The Widow, who must have been very busy since her fortuitous arrival, had splinted them with pieces of kindling and flannel strips torn from another of Nells nightgowns. Ive seen it before. Theres swelling to the brain. When it goes down, her sight may return. May, Tim said bleakly. There will be water if God wills it, Timothy. Our water is poisoned now, Tim thought, and it was none of any gods doing. He opened his mouth to say just that, but the Widow shook her head. Shes asleep. I gave her an herb drinknot strong, I didnt dare give her strong after he cuffed her so around the headbut its taken hold. I wasnt sure twould. Tim looked down at his mothers faceterribly pale, with freckles of blood still drying on the little exposed skin the Widows bandagements had leftand then back up at his teacher. Shell wake again, wont she? The Widow repeated, There will be water if God wills it. Then the ghostmouth beneath the veil lifted in what might have been a smile. In this case, I think there will be. Shes strong, your ma. Can I talk to you, sai? For if I dont talk to someone, Ill explode. Of course. Come out on the porch. Ill stay here tonight, by your leave. Will you have me? And will you stable Sunshine, if so? Aye, Tim said. In his relief, he actually managed a smile. And say thankya. The air was even warmer. Sitting in the rocker that had been Big Rosss favorite roost on summer nights, the Widow said, It feels like starkblast weather. Call me crazyyou wouldnt be the firstbut so it does. Whats that, sai? Never mind, its probably nothing . . . unless you see Sir Throcken dancing in the starlight or looking north with his muzzle upraised, that is. There hasnt been a starkblast in these parts since I was a weebee, and thats many and manya year agone. Weve other things to talk about. Is it only what that beast did to your mother that troubles you so, or is there more? Tim sighed, not sure how to start. I see a coin around your neck that I believe Ive seen around your fathers. Perhaps thats where youll begin. But theres one other thing we have to speak of first, and thats protecting your ma. Id send you to Constable Howards, no matter its late, but his house is dark and shuttered. I saw that for myself on my way here. No surprise, either. Everyone knows that when the Covenant Man comes to Tree, Howard Tasley finds some reason to make himself scarce. Im an old woman and youre but a child. What will we do if Bern Kells comes back to finish what he started? Tim, who no longer felt like a child, reached down to his belt. My fathers coin isnt all I found tonight. He pulled Big Rosss handax and showed it to her. This was also my das, and if he dares to come back, Ill put it in his head, where it belongs. The Widow Smack began to remonstrate, but saw a look in his eyes that made her change direction. Tell me your tale, said she. Leave out not a word. When Tim had finishedminding the Widows command to leave nothing out, he made sure to tell what his mother had said about the peculiar changelessness of the man with the silver basinhis old teacher sat quietly for a moment . . . although the night breeze caused her veil to flutter eerily and made her look as though she were nodding. Shes right, you know, she said at last. Yon chary man hasnt aged a day. And tax collectings not his job. I think its his hobby. Hes a man with hobbies, aye. He has his little pastimes. She raised her fingers in front of her veil, appeared to study them, then returned them to her lap. Youre not shaking, Tim ventured. No, not tonight, and thats a good thing if Im to sit vigil at your mothers bedside. Which I mean to do. You, Tim, will make yourself a pallet behind the door. Twill be uncomfortable, but if your steppa comes back, and if youre to have a chance against him, youll have to come at him from behind. Not much like Brave Bill in the stories, is it? Tims hands rolled shut, the fingernails digging into his palms. Its how the bastard did for my da, and all he deserves. She took one of his hands in her own and soothed it open. Hell probably not come back, anyway. Certainly not if he thinks hes done for her, and he may. There was so much blood. Bastard, Tim said in a low and choking voice. Hes probably lying up drunk somewhere. Tomorrow you must go to Square Peter Cosington and Slow Ernie Marchly, for its their patch where your da now lies. Show them the coin you wear, and tell how you found it in Kellss trunk. They can round up a posse and search until Kells is found and locked up tight in the jailhouse. It wont take them long to run him down, I warrant, and when he comes back sober, hell claim he has no idea of what hes done. He may even be telling the truth, for when it gets in some men, strong drink draws down a curtain. Ill go with them. Nay, its no work for a boy. Bad enough you have to watch for him tonight with your das handax. Tonight you need to be a man. Tomorrow you can be a boy again, and a boys place when his mother has been badly hurt is by her side. The Covenant Man said he might bide along the Ironwood Trail for another night or two. Maybe I should The hand that had soothed moments before now grasped Tims wrist where the flesh was thin, and hard enough to hurt. Never think it! Hasnt he done damage enough? What are you saying? That he made all this happen? It was Kells who killed my da, and it was Kells who beat my mama! But twas the Covenant Man who gave you the key, and theres no telling what else he may have done. Or will do, if he gets the chance, for he leaves ruin and weeping in his wake, and has for time out of mind. Do you think people only fear him because he has the power to turn them out on the land if they cant pay the barony taxes? No, Tim, no. Do you know his name? Nay, nor need to, for I know what he ispestilence with a heartbeat. Once upon a bye, after hed done a foul business here Id not talk about to a boy, I determined to find out what I could. I wrote a letter to a great lady I knew long ago in Gileada woman of discretion as well as beauty, a rare combinationand paid good silver for a messenger to take it and bring a reply . . . which my correspondent in the great city begged me to burn. She said that when Gileads Covenant Man is not at his hobby of collecting taxesa job that comes down to licking the tears from the faces of poor working folkhes an advisor to the palace lords who call themselves the Council of Eld. Although its only themselves who claim they have any blood connection to the Eld. Tis said hes a great mage, and there may be at least some truth in that, for youve seen his magic at work. So I have, Tim said, thinking of the basin. And of the way sai Covenant Man seemed to grow taller when he was wroth. My correspondent said there are even some who claim hes Maerlyn, he who was court mage to Arthur Eld himself, for Maerlyn was said to be eternal, a creature who lives backward in time. From behind the veil came a snorting sound. Just thinking of it makes my head hurt, for such an idea makes no earthly sense. But Maerlyn was a white magician, or so the stories do say. Those who claim the Covenant Mans Maerlyn in disguise say he was turned evil by the glam of the Wizards Rainbow, for he was given the keeping of it in the days before the Elden Kingdom fell. Others say that, during his wanderings after the fall, he discovered certain artyfax of the Old People, became fascinated by them, and was blackened by them to the bottom of his soul. This happened in the Endless Forest, they say, where he still keeps in a magic house where time stands still. Doesnt seem too likely, Tim said . . . although he was fascinated by the idea of a magic house where clock hands never moved and sand never fell in the glass. Bullshit is what it is! And, noting his shocked look Cry your pardon, but sometimes only vulgarity will serve. Even Maerlyn couldnt be two places at the same time, mooning around the Endless Forest at one end of the Northrd Barony and serving the lords and gunslingers of Gilead at the other. Nay, the tax mans no Maerlyn, but he is a magiciana black one. So said the lady I once taught, and so I believe. Thats why you must never go near him again. Any good he offers to do you will be a lie. Tim considered this, then asked Do you know what a sighe is, sai? Of course. The sighe are the fairyfolk, who supposedly live in the deep woods. Did the dark man speak of them? No, twas just some story Straw Willem told me one day at the sawmill. Now why did I lie? But deep in his heart, Tim knew. Bern Kells didnt come back that night, which was for the best. Tim meant to stay on guard, but he was just a boy, and exhausted. Ill close my eyes for a few seconds, to rest them, was what he told himself when he lay down on the straw pallet he made for himself behind the door, and it felt like no more than a few seconds, but when he opened them again, the cottage was filled with morning light. His fathers ax lay on the floor beside him, where his relaxing hand had dropped it. He picked it up, put it back in his belt, and hurried into the bedroom to see his mother. The Widow Smack was fast asleep in the Tavares rocker, which she had drawn up close to Nells bed, her veil fluttering with her snores. Nells eyes were wide open, and they turned toward the sound of Tims steps. Who comes? Tim, Mama. He sat beside her on the bed. Has your sight come back? Even a little? She tried to smile, but her swollen mouth could do little more than twitch. Still dark, Im afraid. Its all right. He raised the hand that wasnt splinted and kissed the back of it. Probably still too early. Their voices had roused the Widow. He says true, Nell. Blind or not, next year well be turned out for sure, and then what? Nell turned her face to the wall and began to cry. Tim looked at the Widow, not sure what to do. She motioned for him to leave. Ill give her something to calm hertis in my bag. You have men to see, Tim. Go at once, or theyll be off to the woods. He might have missed Peter Cosington and Ernie Marchly anyway, if Baldy Anderson, one of Trees big farmers, hadnt stopped by the pairs storing shed to chat as they hitched their mules and prepared for the day. The three men listened to his story in grim silence, and when Tim finally stumbled to a halt, telling them his mother was still blind this morning, Square Peter gripped Tim by the upper arms and said, Count on us, boy. Well rouse every axman in town, those who work the blossies as well as those who go up the Ironwood. Therell be no cutting in the forest today. Anderson said, And Ill send my boys around to the farmers. To Destry and to the sawmill, as well. What about the constable? Slow Ernie asked, a trifle nervously. Anderson dipped his head, spat between his boots, and wiped his chin with the heel of his hand. Gone up Tavares way, I hear, either looking for poachers or visiting the woman he keeps up there. Makes no difference. Howard Tasley ent never been worth a fart in a high wind. Well do the job ourselves, and have Kells jugged by the time he comes back. With a pair of broken arms, if he kicks up rough, Cosington added. Hes never been able to hold his drink or his temper. He was all right when he had Jack Ross to rein im in, but look what its come to! Nell Ross beaten blind! Big Kells always kept a warm eye for her, and the only one who didnt know it was Anderson hushed him with an elbow, then turned to Tim, bending forward with his hands on his knees, for he was tallish. Twas the Covenant Man who found your das corse? Aye. And you saw the body yourself. Tims eyes filled, but his voice was steady enough. Aye, so I did. On our stake, Slow Ernie said. Tback of one of our stubs. The one where the pookys set up housekeeping. Aye. I could kill him just for that, Cosington said, but well bring him alive if we can. Ernie, you n med best ride up there and bring back the . . . you know, remains . . . before we get in on the search. Baldy, can you get the word around on your own? Aye. Well gather at the mercantile. Keep a good eye out along the Ironwood Trail as you go, boys, but my best guess is that well find the booger in town, laid up drunk. And, more to himself than to the others I never believed that dragon story. Start behind Gittys, Slow Ernie said. Hes slept it off there more than once. So we will. Baldy Anderson looked up at the sky. I dont care much for this weather, tell ya true. Its too warm for Wide Earth. I hope it dont bring a storm, and I hope to gods it dont bring a starkblast. Thatd cap everything. Wouldnt be none of us able to pay the Covenant Man when he comes next year. Although if its true what the boy says, hes turned a bad apple out of the basket and done us a service. He didnt do my mama one, Tim thought. If he hadnt given me that key, and if I hadnt used it, shed still have her sight. Go on home now, Marchly said to Tim. He spoke kindly, but in a tone that brooked no argument. Stop by my house on the way, do ya, and tell my wife theres ladies wanted at yours. Widow Smack must need to go home and rest, for shes neither young nor well. Also . . . He sighed. Tell her theyll be wanted at Stokess burying parlor later on. This time Tim had taken Misty, and she was the one who had to stop and nibble at every bush. By the time he got home, two wagons and a ponytrap had passed him, each carrying a pair of women eager to help his mother in her time of hurt and trouble. He had no more than stabled Misty next to Bitsy before Ada Cosington was on the porch, telling him he was needed to drive the Widow Smack home. You can use my ponytrap. Go gentle where theres ruts, for the poor womans fair done up. Has she got her shakes, sai? Nay, I think the poor things too tired to shake. She was here when she was most needed, and may have saved your mamas life. Never forget that. Can my mother see again? Even a little? Tim knew the answer from sai Cosingtons face before she opened her mouth. Not yet, son. You must pray. Tim thought of telling her what his father had sometimes said Pray for rain all you like, but dig a well as you do it. In the end, he kept silent. It was a slow trip to the Widows house with her little burro tied to the back of Ada Cosingtons ponytrap. The unseasonable heat continued, and the sweetsour breezes that usually blew from the Endless Forest had fallen still. The Widow tried to say cheerful things about Nell, but soon gave up; Tim supposed they sounded as false to her ears as they did to his own. Halfway up the high street, he heard a thick gurgling sound from his right. He looked around, startled, then relaxed. The Widow had fallen asleep with her chin resting on her birdlike chest. The hem of her veil lay in her lap. When they reached her house on the outskirts of the village, he offered to see her inside. Nay, only help me up the steps and after that Ill be fineo. I want tea with honey and then my bed, for Im that tired. You need to be with your mother now, Tim. I know half the ladies in town will be there by the time you get back, but its you she needs. For the first time in the five years hed had her as a schoolteacher, she gave Tim a hug. It was dry and fierce. He could feel her body thrumming beneath her dress. She wasnt too tired to shake after all, it seemed. Nor too tired to give comfort to a boya tired, angry, deeply confused boywho badly needed it. Go to her. And stay away from that dark man, should he appear to thee. Hes made of lies from boots to crown, and his gospels bring nothing but tears. On his way back down the high street, he encountered Straw Willem and his brother, Hunter (known as Spot Hunter for his freckles), riding to meet the posse, which had gone out Tree Road. They mean to search every stake and stub on the Ironwood, Spot Hunter said excitedly. Well find him. The posse hadnt found Kells in town after all, it seemed. Tim had a feeling theyd not find him along the Iron, either. There was no basis for the feeling, but it was strong. So was his feeling that the Covenant Man hadnt finished with him yet. The man in the black cloak had had some of his fun . . . but not all of it. His mother was sleeping, but woke when Ada Cosington ushered him in. The other ladies sat about in the main room, but they had not been idle while Tim was away. The pantry had been mysteriously stockedevery shelf groaned with bottles and sacksand although Nell was a fine country housekeeper, Tim had never seen the place looking so snick. Even the overhead beams had been scrubbed clean of woodsmoke. Every trace of Bern Kells had been removed. The awful trunk had been banished to beneath the back porch stoop, to keep company with the spiders, fieldmice, and moortoads. Tim? And when he put his hands in Nells, which were reaching out, she sighed with relief. All right? Aye, Mama, passing fine. This was a lie, and they both knew it. We knew he was dead, didnt we? But its no comfort. Its as if hes been killed all over again. Tears began to spill from her sightless eyes. Tim cried, himself, but managed to do it silently. Hearing him sob would do her no good. Theyll bring him to the little burying parlor Stokes keeps out behind his smithy. Most of these kind ladies will go to him there, to do the fitting things, but will you go to him first, Timmy? Will you take him your love and all of mine? For I cant. The man I was fool enough to marry has lamed me so badly I can hardly walk . . . and of course I cant see anything. What a kamai I turned out to be, and what a price weve paid! Hush. I love you, Mama. Of course Ill go. But because there was time, he went first to the barn (there were far too many women in the cottage for his taste) and made a jackleg bed with hay and an old mule blanket. He fell asleep almost at once. He was awakened around three of the clock by Square Peter, who held his hat clasped to his breast and wore an expression of sad solemnity. Tim sat up, rubbing his eyes. Have you found Kells? Nay, lad, but weve found your father, and brought him back to town. Your mother says youll pay respects for the both of you. Does she say true? Aye, yes. Tim stood up, brushing hay from his pants and shirt. He felt ashamed to have been caught sleeping, but his rest the previous night had been thin, and haunted by bad dreams. Come, then. Well take my wagon. The burying parlor behind the smithy was the closest thing the town had to a mortuary in a time when most country folk preferred to see to their own dead, interring them on their own land with a wooden cross or a slab of roughly carved stone to mark the grave. Dustin Stokesinevitably known as Hot Stokesstood outside the door, wearing white cotton pants instead of his usual leathers. Over them billowed a vast white shirt, falling all the way to the knees so it looked almost like a dress. Looking at him, Tim remembered it was customary to wear white for the dead. He understood everything in that moment, realizing the truth in a way that not even looking at his fathers openeyed corse in running water had been able to make him realize it, and his knees loosened. Square Peter bore him up with a strong hand. Canee do it, lad? Ifee cant, theres no shame. He was your da, and I know you loved him well. We all did. Ill be all right, Tim said. He couldnt seem to get enough air into his lungs, and the words came out in a whisper. Hot Stokes put a fist to his forehead and bowed. It was the first time in his life that Tim had been saluted as a man. Hile, Tim, son of Jack. His kas gone into the clearing, but whats left is here. Willee come and see? Yes, please. Square Peter stayed behind, and now it was Stokes who took Tims arm, Stokes not dressed in his leather breeches and cursing as he fanned an open furnacehole with his bellows, but clad in ceremonial white; Stokes who led him into the little room with forest scenes painted on the walls all around; Stokes who took him to the ironwood bier in the centerthat open space that had ever represented the clearing at the end of the path. Big Jack Ross also wore white, although his was a fine linen shroud. His lidless eyes stared raptly at the ceiling. Against one painted wall leaned his coffin, and the room was filled with the sour yet somehow pleasant smell of it, for the coffin was also of ironwood, and would keep this poor remnant very well for a thousand years and more. Stokes let go of his arm, and Tim went forward on his own. He knelt. He slipped one hand into the linen shrouds overlap and found his das hand. It was cold, but Tim did not hesitate to entwine his warm and living fingers with the dead ones. This was the way the two of them had held hands when Tim was only a sma one, and barely able to toddle. In those days, the man walking beside him had seemed twelve feet tall, and immortal. Tim knelt by the bier and beheld the face of his father. When he came out, Tim was startled by the declining angle of the sun, which told him more than an hour had passed. Cosington and Stokes stood near the manhigh ash heap at the rear of the smithy, smoking rollups. There was no news of Big Kells. Praps hes thowd hisself in the river and drownded, Stokes speculated. Hop up in the wagon, son, Cosington said. Ill driveee back to yer mas. But Tim shook his head. Thankee, Ill walk, if its all the same to you. Need time to think, is it? Well, thats fine. Ill go on to my own place. Itll be a cold dinner, but Ill eat it gladly. No one begrudges your ma at a time like this, Tim. Never in life. Tim smiled wanly. Cosington put his feet on the splashboard of his wagon, seized the reins, then had a thought and bent down to Tim. Have an eye out for Kells as ye walk, is all. Not that I think yell see im, not in daylight. And therell be two or three strong fellas posted around yer homeplace tonight. Thankeesai. Nar, none of that. Call me Peter, lad. Youre old enough, and Id have it. He reached down and gave Tims hand a brief squeeze. So sorry about yer da. Dreadful sorry. Tim set out along Tree Road with the sun declining red on his right side. He felt hollow, scooped out, and perhaps it was better so, at least for the time being. With his mother blind and no man in the house to bring a living, what future was there for them? Big Rosss fellow woodcutters would help as much as they could, and for as long as they could, but they had their own burdens. His da had always called the homeplace a freehold, but Tim now saw that no cottage, farm, or bit of land in Tree Village was truly free. Not when the Covenant Man would come again next year, and all the years after that, with his scroll of names. Suddenly Tim hated faroff Gilead, which for him had always seemed (when he thought of it at all, which was seldom) a place of wonders and dreams. If there were no Gilead, there would be no taxes. Then they would be truly free. He saw a cloud of dust rising in the south. The lowering sun turned it into a bloody mist. He knew it was the women who had been at the cottage. They were bound in their wagons and traps for the burying parlor Tim had just left. There they would wash the body that had already been washed by the stream into which it had been cast. They would anoint it with oils. They would put birch bark inscribed with the names of his wife and son in the dead mans right hand. They would put the blue spot on his forehead and place him in his coffin. This Hot Stokes would nail shut with short blows of his hammer, each blow terrible in its finality. The women would offer Tim their condolences with the best will in the world, but Tim didnt want them. Didnt know if he could bear them without breaking down once again. He was so tired of crying. With that in mind, he left the road and walked overland to the little chuckling rivulet known as Stape Brook, which would in short order bring him to its sourcepoint the clear spring between the Ross cottage and barn. He trudged in a halfdream, thinking first of the Covenant Man, then of the key that would work only once, then of the pooky, then of his mothers hands reaching toward the sound of his voice . . . Tim was so preoccupied that he almost passed the object jutting up from the path that followed the course of the stream. It was a steel rod with a white tip that looked like ivory. He hunkered, staring at it with wide eyes. He remembered asking the Covenant Man if it was a magic wand, and heard the enigmatic reply It started life as the gearshift of a Dodge Dart. It had been jammed to half its length in the hardpan, something that must have taken great strength. Tim reached for it, hesitated, then told himself not to be a fool, it was no pooky that would paralyze him with its bite and then eat him alive. He pulled it free and examined it closely. Steel it was, fineforged steel of the sort only the Old Ones had known how to make. Very valuable, for sure, but was it really magic? To him it felt like any other metal thing, which was to say cold and dead. In the proper hand, the Covenant Man whispered, any object can be magic. Tim spied a frog hopping along a rotted birch on the far side of the stream.


He pointed the ivory tip at it and said the only magic word he knew abbakadabba. He halfexpected the frog to fall over dead or change into . . . well, something. It didnt die and it didnt change. What it did was hop off the log and disappear into the high green grass at the edge of the brook. Yet this had been left for him, he was sure of it. The Covenant Man had somehow known hed come this way. And when. Tim turned south again, and saw a flash of red light. It came from between their cottage and the barn. For a moment Tim only stood looking at that bright scarlet reflection. Then he broke into a run. The Covenant Man had left him the key; the Covenant Man had left him his wand; and beside the spring where they drew their water, he had left his silver basin. The one he used in order to see. Only it wasnt the basin, just a battered tin pail. Tims shoulders slumped and he started for the barn, thinking he would give the mules a good feed before he went in. Then he stopped and turned around. A pail, but not their pail. Theirs was smaller, made of ironwood, and equipped with a blossie handle. Tim returned to the spring and picked it up. He tapped the ivory knob of the Covenant Mans wand against the side. The pail gave back a deep and ringing note that made Tim leap back a step. No piece of tin had ever produced such a resonant sound. Now that he thought of it, no old tin pail could reflect the declining sun as perfectly as this one had, either. Did you think Id give up my silver basin to a halfgrown sprat like you, Tim, son of Jack? Why would I, when any object can be magic? And, speaking of magic, havent I given you my very own wand? Tim understood that this was but his imagination making the Covenant Mans voice, but he believed the man in the black cloak would have said much the same, if he had been there. Then another voice spoke in his head. Hes made of lies from boots to crown, and his gospels bring nothing but tears. This voice he pushed away and stooped to fill the pail that had been left for him. When it was full, doubt set in again. He tried to remember if the Covenant Man had made any particular series of passes over the waterwerent mystic passes part of magic?and couldnt. All Tim could remember was the man in black telling him that if he disturbed the water, he would see nothing. Doubtful not so much of the magic wand as of his ability to use it, Tim waved the rod aimlessly back and forth above the water. For a moment there was nothing. He was about to give up when a mist clouded the surface, blotting out his reflection. It cleared, and he saw the Covenant Man looking up at him. It was dark wherever the Covenant Man was, but a strange green light, no bigger than a thumbnail, hovered over his head. It rose higher, and by its light Tim saw a board nailed to the trunk of an ironwood tree. ROSSKELLS had been painted on it. The bit of green light spiraled up until it was just below the surface of the water in the pail, and Tim gasped. There was a person embedded in that green lighta tiny green woman with transparent wings on her back. Its a sigheone of the fairyfolk! Seemingly satisfied that she had his attention, the sighe spun away, lighted briefly on the Covenant Mans shoulder, then seemed to leap from it. Now she hovered between two posts holding up a crossbar. From this there hung another sign, and, as was the case with the lettering on the sign marking out the RossKells stake, Tim recognized his fathers careful printing. IRONWOOD TRAIL ENDS HERE, the sign read. BEYOND LIES FAGONARD. And below this, in larger, darker letters TRAVELER, BEWARE! The sighe darted back to the Covenant Man, made two airy circles around him that seemed to leave spectral, fading trails of greenglow behind, then rose and hovered demurely beside his cheek. The Covenant Man looked directly at Tim; a figure that shimmered (as Tims own father had when Tim beheld the corse in the water) and yet was perfectly real, perfectly there. He raised one hand in a semicircle above his head, scissoring the first two fingers as he did so. This was sign language Tim knew well, for everyone in Tree used it from time to time Make haste, make haste. The Covenant Man and his fairy consort faded to nothing, leaving Tim staring at his own wideeyed face. He passed the wand over the pail again, barely noticing that the steel rod was now vibrating in his fist. The thin caul of mist reappeared, seeming to rise from nowhere. It swirled and disappeared. Now Tim saw a tall house with many gables and many chimneys. It stood in a clearing surrounded by ironwoods of such great girth and height that they made the ones along the trail look small. Surely, Tim thought, their tops must pierce the very clouds. He understood this was deep in the Endless Forest, deeper than even the bravest axman of Tree had ever gone, and by far. The many windows of the house were decorated with cabalistic designs, and from these Tim knew he was looking at the home of Maerlyn Eld, where time stood still or perhaps even ran backward. A small, wavering Tim appeared in the pail. He approached the door and knocked. It was opened. Out came a smiling old man whose white waistlength beard sparkled with gems. Upon his head was a conical cap as yellow as the Full Earth sun. WaterTim spoke earnestly to WaterMaerlyn. WaterMaerlyn bowed and went back inside his house . . . which seemed to be constantly changing shape (although that might have been the water). The mage returned, now holding a black cloth that looked like silk. He lifted it to his eyes, demonstrating its use a blindfold. He handed it toward WaterTim, but before that other Tim could take it, the mist reappeared. When it cleared, Tim saw nothing but his own face and a bird passing overhead, no doubt wanting to get home to its nest before sunset. Tim passed the rod across the top of the pail a third time, now aware of the steel rods thrumming in spite of his fascination. When the mist cleared, he saw WaterTim sitting at WaterNells bedside. The blindfold was over his mothers eyes. WaterTim removed it, and an expression of unbelieving joy lit WaterNells face. She clasped him to her, laughing. WaterTim was laughing, too. The mist overspread this vision as it had the other two, but the vibration in the steel rod ceased. Useless as dirt, Tim thought, and it was true. When the mist melted away, the water in the tin pail showed him nothing more miraculous than the dying light in the sky. He passed the Covenant Mans wand over the water several more times, but nothing happened. That was all right. He knew what he had to do. Tim got to his feet, looked toward the house, and saw no one. The men who had volunteered to stand watch would be here soon, though. He would have to move fast. In the barn, he asked Bitsy if she would like to go for another evening ride. The Widow Smack was exhausted by her unaccustomed labors on Nell Rosss behalf, but she was also old, and sick, and more disturbed by the queerly unseasonable weather than her conscious mind would admit. So it was that, although Tim did not dare knock loudly on her door (knocking at all after sunset took most of his resolve), she woke at once. She took a lamp, and when by its light she saw who stood there, her heart sank. If the degenerative disease that afflicted her had not taken the ability of her remaining eye to make tears, she would have wept at the sight of that young face so full of foolish resolve and lethal determination. You mean to go back to the forest, said she. Aye. Tim spoke low, but firmly. In spite of all I told thee. Aye. Hes fascinated you. And why? For gain? Nay, not him. He saw a bright light in the darkness of this forgotten backwater, thats all, and nothing will do for him but to put it out. Sai Smack, he showed me Something to do with your mother, I wot. He knows what levers move folk; aye, none better. He has magic keys to unlock their hearts. I know I cant stop thee with words, for one eye is enough to read your face. And I know I cant restrain thee with force, and so do you. Why else was it me you came to for whatever it is you want? At this Tim showed embarrassment but no flagging of resolve, and by this she understood he was truly lost to her. Worse, he was likely lost to himself. What is it you want? Only to send word to my mother, will it please ya. Tell her Ive gone to the forest, and will return with something to cure her sight. Sai Smack said nothing to this for several seconds, only looked at him through her veil. By the light of her raised lamp, Tim could see the ruined geography of her face far better than he wanted to. At last she said, Wait here. Dont skitter away wiout taking leave, lest youd have me think thee a coward. Be not impatient, either, for thee knows Im slow. Although he was in a fever to be off, Tim waited as she asked. The seconds seemed like minutes, the minutes like hours, but she returned at last. I made sure you were gone, said she, and the old woman could not have wounded Tim more if she had whipped his face with a quirt. She handed him the lamp she had brought to the door. To light your way, for I see you have none. It was true. In his fever to be off, he had forgotten. Thankeesai. In her other hand she held a cotton sack. Theres a loaf of bread in here. Tisnt much, and two days old, but for provender tis the best I can do. Tims throat was temporarily too full for speech, so he only tapped his throat three times, then held out his hand for the bag. But she held it a moment longer. Theres something else in here, Tim. It belonged to my brother, who died in the Endless Forest almost twenty years ago now. He bought it from a roving peddler, and when I chafed him about it and called him a fool easily cozened, he took me out to the fields west of town and showed me it worked. Ay, gods, such a noise it made! My ears rang for hours! From the bag she brought a gun. Tim stared at it, wideeyed. He had seen pictures of them in the Widows books, and Old Destry had on the wall of his parlor a framed drawing of a kind called a rifle, but he had never expected to see the real thing. It was about a foot long, the gripping handle of wood, the trigger and barrels of dull metal. The barrels numbered four, bound together by bands of what looked like brass. The holes at the end, where whatever it shot came out, were square. He fired it twice before showing me, and its never been fired since the day he did, because he died soon after. I dont know if it still will fire, but Ive kept it dry, and once every yearon his birthdayI oil it as he showed me. Each chamber is loaded, and there are five more projectiles. Theyre called bullets. Pullets? Tim asked, frowning. Nay, nay, bullets. Look you. She handed him the bag to free both of her gnarled hands, then turned to one side in the doorway. Joshua said a gun must never be pointed at a person unless you want to hurt or kill him. For, he said, guns have eager hearts. Or perhaps he said evil hearts? After all these years, I no longer remember. Theres a little lever on the side . . . just here . . . There was a click, and the gun broke open between the handle and the barrels. She showed him four square brass plates. When she pulled one from the hole where it rested, Tim saw that the plate was actually the base of a projectilea bullet. The brass bottom remains after you fire, said she. You must pull it out before you can load in another. Do you see? Aye. He longed to handle the bullets himself. More; he longed to hold the gun in his hand, and pull the trigger, and hear the explosion. The Widow closed the gun (again it made that perfect little click) and then showed him the handle end. He saw four small cocking devices meant to be pulled back with the thumb. These are the hammers. Each one fires a different barrel . . . if the cursed thing still fires at all. Do you see? Aye. Its called a fourshot. Joshua said it was safe as long as none of the hammers were drawn. She reeled a bit on her feet, as if she had come over lightheaded. Giving a gun to a child! One who means to go into the Endless Forest at night, to meet a devil! Yet what else can I do? And then, not to Tim But he wont expect a child to have a gun, will he? Mayhap theres White in the world yet, and one of these old bullets will end up in his black heart. Put it in the bag, do ya. She held the gun out to him, handle first. Tim almost dropped it. That such a small thing could be so heavy seemed astounding. And, like the Covenant Mans magic wand when it had passed over the water in the pail, it seemed to thrum. The extra bullets are wrapped in cotton batting. With the four in the gun, you have nine. May they do you well, and may I not find myself cursed in the clearing for giving them to you. Thank . . . thankeesai! It was all Tim could manage. He slipped the gun into the bag. She put her hands to the sides of her head and uttered a bitter laugh. Youre a fool, and Im another. Instead of bringing you my brothers fourshot, I should have brought my broom and hit you over the head wi it. She voiced that bitter, despairing laugh again. Yet twould do no good, with my old womans strength. Will you take word to my mama in the morning? For it wont be just a little way down the Ironwood Trail Ill be going this time, but all the way to the end. Aye, and break her heart, likely. She bent toward him, the hem of her veil swinging. Has thee thought of that? I see by your face thee has. Why do you do this when you know the news of it will harrow her soul? Tim flushed from chin to hairline, but held his ground. In that moment he looked very much like his goneon father. I mean to save her eyesight. He has left me enough of his magic to show me how its to be done. Black magic! In support of lies! Of lies, Tim Ross! So you say. Now his jaw jutted, and that was also very like Jack Ross. But he didnt lie about the keyit worked. He didnt lie about the beatingit happened. He didnt lie about my mama being blindshe is. As for my da . . . thee knows. Yar, she said, now speaking in a harsh country accent Tim had never heard before. Yar, and each o his truths has worked two ways they hurtee, and theyve baited his trap foree. He said nothing to this at first, only lowered his head and studied the toes of his scuffed shorboots. The Widow had almost allowed herself to hope when he raised his head, met her eyes, and said, Ill leave Bitsy tethered uptrail from the CosingtonMarchly stake. I dont want to leave her at the stub where I found my da, because theres a pooky in the trees. When you go to see Mama, will you ask sai Cosington to fetch Bitsy home? A younger woman might have continued to argue, perhaps even to pleadbut the Widow was not that woman. Anything else? Two things. Speak. Will you give my mama a kiss for me? Aye, and gladly. Whats the other? Will you set me on with a blessing? She considered this, then shook her head. As for blessings, my brothers fourshot is the best I can do. Then it will have to be enough. He made a leg and brought his fist to his forehead in salute; then he turned and went down the steps to where the faithful little mollie mule was tethered. In a voice almostbut not quitetoo low to hear, the Widow Smack said, In Gans name, I bless thee. Now let ka work. The moon was down when Tim dismounted Bitsy and tethered her to a bush at the side of the Ironwood Trail. He had filled his pockets with oats ere leaving the barn, and he now spread them before her as hed seen the Covenant Man do for his horse the previous night. Be easy, and sai Cosington will come for thee in the morning, Tim said. An image of Square Peter finding Bitsy dead, with a gaping hole in her belly made by one of the predators of the forest (perhaps the very one hed sensed behind him on his pasear down the Ironwood the night before) lit up his mind. Yet what else could he do? Bitsy was sweet, but not smart enough to find her way home on her own, no matter how many times shed been up and down this same trail. Theell be passing fine, he said, stroking her smooth nose . . . but would she? The idea that the Widow had been right about everything and this was just the first evidence of it came to his mind, and Tim pushed it aside. He told me the truth about the rest; surely he told the truth about this, too. By the time he was three wheels farther up the Ironwood Trail, he had begun to believe this. You must remember he was only eleven. He spied no campfire that night. Instead of the welcoming orange glow of burning wood, Tim glimpsed a cold green light as he approached the end of the Ironwood Trail. It flickered and sometimes disappeared, but it always came back, strong enough to cast shadows that seemed to slither around his feet like snakes. The trailfaint now, because the only ruts were those made by the wagons of Big Ross and Big Kellsswept left to skirt an ancient ironwood with a trunk bigger than the largest house in Tree. A hundred paces beyond this curve, the way forward ended in a clearing. There was the crossbar, and there the sign. Tim could read every word, for above it, suspended in midair by virtue of wings beating so rapidly they were all but invisible, was the sighe. He stepped closer, all else forgotten in the wonder of this exotic vision. The sighe was no more than four inches tall. She was naked and beautiful. It was impossible to tell if her body was as green as the glow it gave off, for the light around her was fierce. Yet he could see her welcoming smile, and knew she was seeing him very well even though her upturned, almondshaped eyes were pupilless. Her wings made a steady low purring sound. Of the Covenant Man there was no sign. The sighe spun in a playful circle, then dived into the branches of a bush. Tim felt a tingle of alarm, imagining those gauzy wings torn apart by thorns, but she emerged unharmed, rising in a dizzy spiral to a height of fifty feet or moreas high as the first upreaching ironwood branchesbefore plunging back down, right at him. Tim saw her shapely arms cast out behind her, making her look like a girl who dives into a pool. He ducked, and as she passed over his head close enough to stir his hair, he heard laughter. It sounded like bells coming from a great distance. He straightened up cautiously and saw her returning, now somersaulting over and over in the air. His heart was beating fiercely in his chest. He thought he had never seen anything so lovely. She flew above the crossbar, and by her firefly light he saw a faint and mostly overgrown path leading into the Endless Forest. She raised one arm. The hand at the end of it, glowing with green fire, beckoned to him. Enchanted by her otherworldly beauty and welcoming smile, Tim did not hesitate but at once ducked beneath the crossbar with never a look at the last two words on his dead fathers sign TRAVELER, BEWARE. The sighe hovered until he was almost close enough to reach out and touch her, then whisked away, down the remnant of path. There she hovered, smiling and beckoning. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders, sometimes concealing her tiny breasts, sometimes fluttering upward in the breeze of her wings to reveal them. The second time he drew close, Tim called out . . . but low, afraid that if he hailed her in a voice too loud, it might burst her tiny eardrums. Where is the Covenant Man? Another silvery tinkle of laughter was her reply. She barrelrolled twice, knees drawn all the way up to the hollows of her shoulders, then was off, pausing only to look back and make sure Tim was following before darting onward. So it was that she led the captivated boy deeper and deeper into the Endless Forest. Tim didnt notice when the poor remnant of path disappeared and his course took him between tall ironwood trees that had been seen by the eyes of only a few men, and that long ago. Nor did he notice when the grave, sweetsour smell of the ironwoods was replaced by the far less pleasant aroma of stagnant water and rotting vegetation. The ironwood trees had fallen away. There would be more up ahead, countless leagues of them, but not here. Tim had come to the edge of the great swamp known as the Fagonard. The sighe, once more flashing her teasing smile, flew on. Now her glow was reflected up at her from murky water. Somethingnot a fishbroke the scummy surface, stared at the airy interloper with a glabrous eye, and slid back below the surface. Tim didnt notice. What he saw was the tussock above which she was now hovering. It would be a long stride, but there was no question of not going. She was waiting. He jumped just to be safe and still barely made it; that greenglow was deceptive, making things look closer than they actually were. He tottered, pinwheeling his arms. The sighe made things worse (unintentionally, Tim was sure; she was just playing) by spinning rapid circles around his head, blinding him with her aura and filling his ears with the bells of her laughter. The issue was in doubt (and he never saw the scaly head that surfaced behind him, the protruding eyes, or the yawning jaws filled with triangular teeth), but Tim was young and agile. He caught his balance and was soon standing on top of the tussock. Whats thy name? he asked the glowing sprite, who was now hovering just beyond the tussock. He wasnt sure, in spite of her tinkling laughter, that she could speak, or that she would respond in either the low speech or the high if she could. But she answered, and Tim thought it was the loveliest name hed ever heard, a perfect match for her ethereal beauty. Armaneeta! she called, and then was off again, laughing and looking flirtatiously back at him. He followed her deeper and deeper into the Fagonard. Sometimes the tussocks were close enough for him to step from one to the next, but as they progressed onward, he found that more and more frequently he had to jump, and these leaps grew longer and longer. Yet Tim wasnt frightened. On the contrary, he was dazzled and euphoric, laughing each time he tottered. He did not see the Vshapes that followed him, cutting through the black water as smoothly as a seamstresss needle through silk; first one, then three, then half a dozen. He was bitten by suckerbugs and brushed them off without feeling their sting, leaving bloody splats on his skin. Nor did he see the slumped but more or less upright shapes that paced him on one side, staring with eyes that gleamed in the dark. He reached for Armaneeta several times, calling, Come to me, I wont hurt thee! She always eluded him, once flying between his closing fingers and tickling his skin with her wings. She circled a tussock that was larger than the others. There were no weeds growing on it, and Tim surmised it was actually a rockthe first one hed seen in this part of the world, where things seemed more liquid than solid. Thats too far! Tim called to Armaneeta. He looked for another steppingstone, but there was none. If he wanted to reach the next tussock, he would have to leap onto the rock first. And she was beckoning. Maybe I can make it, he thought. Certainly she thinks I can; why else would she beckon me on? There was no space on his current tussock to back up and get a running start, so Tim flexed his knees and broadjumped, putting every ounce of his strength into it. He flew over the water, saw he wasnt going to make the rockalmost, but not quiteand stretched out his arms. He landed on his chest and chin, the latter connecting hard enough to send bright dots flocking in front of eyes already dazzled by fairyglow. There was a moment to realize it wasnt a rock he was clutchingnot unless rocks breathedand then there was a vast and filthy grunt from behind him. This was followed by a great splash that spattered Tims back and neck with warm, buginfested water. He scrambled up on the rock that was not a rock, aware that he had lost the Widows lamp but still had the bag. Had he not knotted the neck of it tightly around one wrist, he would have lost that, too. The cotton was damp but not actually soaked. At least not yet. Then, just as he sensed the thing behind him closing in, the rock began to rise. He was standing on the head of some creature that had been taking its ease in the mud and silt. Now it was fully awake and not happy. It let out a roar, and greenorange fire belched from its mouth, sizzling the reeds poking up from the water just ahead. Not as big as a house, no, probably not, but its a dragon, all right, and oh, gods, Im standing on its head! The creatures exhalation lit this part of the Fagonard brightly. Tim saw the reeds bending this way and that as the critters that had been following him made away from the dragons fire as fast as they could. Tim also saw one more tussock. It was a little bigger than the ones he had hopscotched across to arrive at his currentand very perilouslocation. There was no time to worry about being eaten by an oversize cannibal fish if he landed short, or being turned into a charcoal boy by the dragons next breath if he actually reached the tussock. With an inarticulate cry, Tim leaped. It was by far his longest jump, and almost too long. He had to grab at handfuls of sawgrass to keep from tumbling off the other side and into the water. The grass was sharp, cutting into his fingers. Some bunches were also hot and smoking from the irritated dragons broadside, but Tim held on. He didnt want to think about what might be waiting for him if he tumbled off this tiny island. Not that his position here was safe. He rose onto his knees and looked back the way he had come. The dragontwas a bitch, for he could see the pink maidenscomb on her headhad risen from the water, standing on her back legs. Not the size of a house, but bigger than Blackie, the Covenant Mans stallion. She fanned her wings twice, sending droplets in every direction and creating a breeze that blew Tims sweatclotted hair off his forehead. The sound was like his mothers sheets on the clothesline, snapping in a brisk wind. She was looking at him from beady, redveined eyes. Ropes of burning saliva dropped from her jaws and hissed out when they struck the water. Tim could see the gill high up between her plated breasts fluttering as she pulled in air to stoke the furnace in her guts. He had time to think how strange it wasalso a bit funnythat what his steppa had lied about would now become the truth. Only Tim would be the one cooked alive. The gods must be laughing, Tim thought. And if they werent, the Covenant Man probably was. With no rational consideration, Tim fell to his knees and held his hands out to the dragon, the cotton sack still swinging from his right wrist. Please, my lady! he cried. Please dont burn me, for I was led astray and cry your pardon! For several moments the dragon continued to regard him, and her gill continued to pulse; her fiery spittle went on dripping and hissing. Then, slowlyto Tim it seemed like inches at a timeshe began to submerge again. Finally there was nothing left but the top of her head . . . and those awful, staring eyes. They seemed to promise that she would not be merciful, should he choose to disturb her repose a second time. Then they were gone, too, and once more all that Tim could see was something that might have been a rock. Armaneeta? He turned around, looking for her greenglow, knowing he would not see it. She had led him deep into the Fagonard, to a place where there were no more tussocks ahead and a dragon behind. Her job was done. Nothing but lies, Tim whispered. The Widow Smack had been right all along. He sat down on the hummock, thinking he would cry, but there were no tears. That was fine with Tim. What good would crying do? He had been made a fool of, and that was an end to it. He promised himself he would know better next time . . . if there was a next time. Sitting here alone in the gloom, with the hidden moon casting an ashy glow through the overgrowth, that didnt seem likely. The submerged things that had fled were back. They avoided the dragons watery boudoir, but that still left them plenty of room to maneuver, and there could be no doubt that the sole object of their interest was the tiny island where Tim sat. He could only hope they were fish of some kind, unable to leave the water without dying. He knew, however, that large creatures living in water this thick and shallow were very likely airbreathers as well as waterbreathers. He watched them circle and thought, Theyre getting up their courage to attack. He was looking at death and knew it, but he was still eleven, and hungry in spite of everything. He took out the loaf, saw that only one end was damp, and had a few bites. Then he set it aside to examine the fourshot as well as he could by the chancy moonlight and the faint phosphorescent glow of the swampwater. It looked and felt dry enough. So did the extra shells, and Tim thought he knew a way to make sure they stayed that way. He tore a hole in the dry half of the loaf, poked the spare bullets deep inside, plugged the cache, and put the loaf beside the bag. He hoped the bag would dry, but he didnt know. The air was very damp, and And here they came, two of them, arrowing straight for Tims island. He jumped to his feet and shouted the first thing to come into his head. You better not! You better not, cullies! Theres a gunslinger here, a true son of Gilead and the Eld, so you better not! He doubted if such beasts with their pea brains had the slightest idea what he was shoutingor would care if they didbut the sound of his voice startled them, and they sheared off. Ware you dont wake yon firemaiden, Tim thought. Shes apt to rise up and crisp you just to stop the noise. But what choice did he have? The next time those living underwater boats came charging at him, the boy clapped his hands as well as shouted. He would have pounded on a hollow log if hed had a log to pound on, and Naar take the dragon. Tim thought that, should it come to the push, her burning death would be more merciful than what he would suffer in the jaws of the swimming things. Certainly it would be quicker. He wondered if the Covenant Man was somewhere close, watching this and enjoying it. Tim decided that was halfright. Watching, yes, but the Covenant Man wouldnt dirty his boots in this stinking swamp. He was somewhere dry and pleasant, watching the show in his silver basin with Armaneeta circling close. Perhaps even sitting on his shoulder, her chin propped on her tiny hands. By the time a dirty dawnlight began to creep through the overhanging trees (gnarled, mosshung monstrosities of a sort Tim had never seen before), his tussock was surrounded by two dozen of the circling shapes. The shortest looked to be about ten feet in length, but most were far longer. Shouting and clapping no longer drove them away. They were going to come for him. If that wasnt bad enough, there was now enough light coming through the greenroof for him to see that his death and ingestion would have an audience. It wasnt yet bright enough for him to make out the faces of the watchers, and for this Tim was miserably glad. Their slumped, semihuman shapes were bad enough. They stood on the nearest bank, seventy or eighty yards away. He could make out half a dozen, but thought there were more. The dim and misty light made it hard to tell for sure. Their shoulders were rounded, their shaggy heads thrust forward. The tatters hanging from their indistinct bodies might have been remnants of clothing or ribbons of moss like those hanging from the branches. To Tim they looked like a small tribe of mudmen who had risen from the watery floor of the swamp just to watch the swimmers first tease and then take their prey. What does it matter? Im a goner whether they watch or not. One of the circling reptiles broke from the pack and drove at the tussock, tail lashing the water, prehistoric head raised, jaws split in a grin that looked longer than Tims whole body.