The Face in the Frost (8 page)

He pulled a burning stick out of the fire and held it to the painted stone as he carefully recited a spell he could just barely remember. When the face on the stone was completely blackened, the thing turned to an awful viscous mush in his hand, like a potato left in a damp dark cellar. With a disgusted shudder and a quick jerk of his left arm, Prospero threw the pulpy thing into the stream, where it hit with a gulping sound. Now the whole stream began to boil, and out of the lurching, hissing water rose a smoke shape with arms. It moved toward Prospero and settled around him in swaying layers of mist. He felt as if his eyes were made of blank white chalk. And the thing was throbbing, to pump the life out of him. Prospero stared with open eyes into that stony nothingness, and he shouted a word that sorcerers can only speak a few times in their lives. The whiteness began to break, and he could see night through the cracking clouds. Now he began to speak like someone reciting a lesson: “Michael Scott is buried in Melrose Abbey. A light burns in his tomb day and night. And it is stronger than your freezing white. Go! In his name,
go!
”

The mist blew away, and Prospero was standing in a starlit clearing full of the welcome noise of strident crickets. The fire was out, but he stepped on all the embers and made signs in the air over the black sunken heap of sticks. Now he was alone, and he stood panting and sweating as a cool wind smelling of wood smoke blew in his face. With a sudden, stiff, stooping movement, he grabbed his staff and bag and walked back toward the road.

Suddenly he heard a loud noise in the distance, and he was about to get ready for another attack when he recognized the sound. It was a wagon of some kind jolting along the rutty road. Prospero took out his bent and knobby pipe and lit it, and before long, a rattling horse-drawn wagon loaded with split logs came around the bend. By the haloed light of two swaying oil lanterns, Prospero could see the driver, a big, kind-looking man in a fringed green jacket.

“Hello there!” Prospero shouted. “Which way are you going?”

“Briar Hill. I live there. Would you like a ride?”

“I certainly would,” said Prospero.

He threw his satchel into the back and climbed up alongside the driver. Before long, Prospero was telling stories about the great castle which had stood on the site of Briar Hill, and the driver was nodding and listening appreciatively. The road wound more now and began to climb steep rounded hills covered with shaggy grass and bent old apple trees. After several hours of bumping over this twisting trail, they came to the bottom of one hill that was much higher than the rest. It was surrounded at its base by a very thick, cruel-looking thorn hedge, originally the outer wall of the castle that had stood on the hill until the Seven Princes’ War, when it was taken and partially torn down. Many of the houses of Briar Hill were built with stones from this castle, and the sprawling briar tree that gave the town its name still grew in what was once a courtyard. One or two high jagged walls, pierced with cross-shaped loopholes and long narrow windows, still stood in odd places, up against homes or blocking off alleyways. The two openings in the hedge, on the east and west sides of the hill, had once been guarded by bronze doors and low stone watchtowers. But at this time there was only a night watchman, who waved his bull’s-eye lantern at the lumber wagon as it went in.

As the wagon bumped and jolted into the moonlit town square, Prospero looked around at the houses, mostly thatched, comfortable-looking places with half-timbered and overhanging second stories. Between two of these, he saw the roofless, burned-out shell of a one-story stone cottage. The front wall was covered with complicated hex signs that must have been painted and repainted over the years. Above the door was a Gothic
M
with many lines drawn through it in red paint.

“Well,” said the driver, reining in the horses, “here we are. If you want an inn, there’s the Gorgon’s Head over there.”

“Thanks,” said Prospero. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciated that ride.” I can’t tell you, he thought, because if I did, you and the other townsfolk would probably escort me to the west gate. Prospero had a rough idea of the popularity of magicians in a town like this. As the wagon rolled away, he stood in the dusty street a minute, wondering whether he ought to go to Melichus’s house. Well, maybe in the morning.

He crossed the square to the Gorgon’s Head, which was named for something that must have been part of the old castle: a stone monster with bulging eyes and wrinkled protruding tongue. The marvelously ugly head stood in a niche over the inn door, and it was badly copied on a signboard outside. Prospero dearly wanted to reach up with his staff and make the gorgon’s tongue go in and out, but he was afraid someone might be watching him, so he went on inside and arranged for a room. When the landlord brought out the guest book, Prospero thought for a full minute before signing. The man looked at him strangely.

“Oh, come now,” he said. “It can’t take that long to think of your name.”

“Hm? Oh no,” said Prospero. “I was just noticing that rusty old broadsword over the mantel. I’ll bet there’s a story behind that.”

There certainly was, and a very tedious one, but by the time the landlord had finished telling it, Prospero had thought of a name he might use. He didn’t know for sure if the people here had heard of him, but a name like Prospero was not common and it was the kind a magician might have. He signed the guest book as Nicholas Archer of Brakespeare (Brakespeare was the name of the village near Prospero’s home), adding his usual loop-and-squiggle device under the name, in case Roger should come this way looking for him.

Though he was tired, Prospero played several games of tarot and old-man’s-hatchet with the other guests in the common room and, after a supper of crusty veal pie and brown beer, he went up the gritty stone stairs to his bedchamber. It was the end of August, but the night was chilly, so a small fire had been built in the little fireplace, which was carved to look like a gaping toothy mouth. Prospero stood by the window and looked across the square at the tumbled ruins of Melichus’s cottage. He knew what he had to do the next day and he did not like it at all.

But he shrugged and went to his satchel, and from it he took his large manuscript magic book and a mahogany tobacco box. The inn provided a rack of fresh clay pipes; Prospero took one, lit it, and sat down in an ugly but comfortable wooden chair near the fireplace. Villagers then did not usually read in the bedrooms of inns, if they read at all, so there was no lamp other than a single bedside candle in a brass holder. But Prospero had come prepared. He reached into the tobacco box, and out of the shaggy brown strands he pulled a small silver snuffbox. He set it on the floor beside him and rapped it twice with his ring finger. There was a ping, the box popped open, and out of it grew what looked like a copper sunflower stalk, which sprouted to the height of four feet. The stalk burst into bloom, and a hissing gaseous flower started to dance over Prospero’s head, casting a bright yellow light around the man and his chair. He had taken the precaution of closing the inside shutters of the only window, and his staff, though it leaned lightly on the door, was capable of keeping out anyone who did not want to smash his way in with an ax.

Prospero leafed through the book till he came to a section with the black-letter heading “Necromancy.” These pages did not have the grease stains and bottle marks that the others did, because Prospero had never had to use this section of his book. Years before, many years before, he had copied down what Michael Scott had taught him. Now, like a novice, he pored over pentagrams and circles, and his long tobacco-stained forefinger ran back and forth over strange curlicued words and long dark-sounding chants. He read for about an hour, and then, though he was trying to stay awake, he slumped farther and farther forward. The pipe slipped out of his left hand and broke with a little pop on the hearthstone, scattering dots of red ash that soon went out. The book slid off his knees onto the floor, and the light-bloom, now that Prospero did not need it, went out and shrank on withering stalk into its box.

Prospero dreamed at first that he was home, letting himself in the back door on a bright moonlit night. The gargoyles over the back porch shone gray, and one reached down to touch his hat as he went in. He went up the stairs to his bed. But the door of his bedroom kept opening and he had to get up to shut it over and over again. Then a storm arose outside and white things shrieked past the window, scratching at the pane. The door of his room opened again slowly, and the front door flew in with a crash that broke the glass window. Prospero got halfway down the stairs, and from there, he saw a man in the doorway. The man’s shadow stretched across the room, and he was beckoning to Prospero. Then Prospero found himself running through a forest at night, and behind him floated large silent owls. They drifted and hung like paper lanterns, and their impossibly big eyes glowed yellow. When one owl scraped him, he shuddered violently, for it felt like a hollow parchment husk. All of Prospero’s fear of dry insect shells, crackling, peeling, dusty things with skeletal limbs, choked him and made him thrash around in the chair until he woke up.

Immediately, he sat up straight and looked around the dark room. Nothing was wrong. He shook the ashes off his lap and went to the window to open the heavy shutters and let in the chilly night. Across the empty square, the stretched mask of an orange-brown moon was setting behind the wreckage of Melichus’s house. The briar tree hissed and tossed a little, and then was quiet. Prospero left the window and checked the staff, which was still propped against the door. He went to the plain oak bed, turned back the sheets that smelled a little of cedar nuts, and stretched out under the blankets till his feet touched the solid footboard. Prospero slept quietly till morning, dreaming only, as far as he could remember, of floating over housetops in a balloon. He would reach down and spin the weathercocks with his hand.

CHAPTER FIVE

When Prospero awoke the next morning, he stared for a long time at the blinding white clouds that lay along the broken line of gabled rooftops. After a few minutes, his eyes began to hurt, so he rolled over and stared at the white blotches that danced in the black mouth of the stupidly ferocious gargoyle fireplace. He feared the day’s work, and he wanted (half-consciously) to keep his mind unfocused. But as soon as he was aware of what he was doing, he shook his head, shuddered, jumped out of bed, and began mechanically gathering up his belongings, as if he were collecting firewood.

After he had stuffed books, snuffbox, and tobacco box into his green bag, Prospero looked quickly around the homely little room and took his staff away from the door. As he grasped the heavy stick, the knuckles of his right hand rested momentarily against the thick wooden door, and he had an odd sensation in that instant. It seemed that the wood suddenly
gave
under his hand, as if some pressure from outside had suddenly been removed. Prospero stood there for a few seconds, and then he pulled the door inward so violently that it slammed against the whitewashed stone wall. No one was in the hall, which was still dark, though it was morning outside. A couple of burned-out candle ends dripped wax beards from their sconces.

He went back into the room and lit the bedside candle, which he held up close to the outer face of the door. The wood was crisscrossed over and over with long scratches: some of them were needle scrapes, others were wide and deep, and one ended in a ragged gouge that must have gone halfway through the door. Prospero dropped his candle. When he could think clearly again, he began to wonder why the thing hadn’t climbed in through the window. The shutters had been open most of the night.

He turned and went back into the room. The windowsill was the answer to his question: some superstitious (or prudent) traveler, days or weeks ago, had drawn a powerful hex sign on the stone sill in rain-blurred yellow chalk. Prospero thanked him, whoever he was, and sat down on the bed.

“I wonder if the landlord was disturbed by the thing?” he said to himself out loud.

This question, in its turn, was answered by the look on the landlord’s face when Prospero went downstairs to pay the bill.

“Keep your witch’s money,” said the old man, staring hatefully at him. “And take your magic out of this inn and out of this town. Do I look tired? Well, I’ve been up all night, praying. I don’t know what you brought in here last night, but I hope the other guests didn’t hear it or
smell
it the way I did. I’d call the watch and have you put in prison till we could try you and burn you, but they say you can come back after you’re dead. The other one did.”

Prospero would have explained, but he knew that the response would be another tirade. So he took three gold coins out of his pocket and flipped them casually over his shoulder. They shot the length of the room and were imbedded deep in the limestone mantel of the fireplace, where they are to this day. On his way out, for good measure, he crossed the eyes of the stone gorgon.

As he walked across the square, Prospero thought of his planned investigation of the ruined cottage. That would have to be left to Roger if he came this way, assuming he was alive, and Prospero
was
assuming that his best friend was still alive.

It did not take Prospero long to get to the west gate of the town. But once he was outside the thick spiny hedge, he realized that he didn’t have the faintest idea of which way to go. He hardly expected signs, but on the other hand, what was he going to do? Two farmers stood by the city gate, arguing about seed prices. He walked up to them, took off his hat, and bowed.