The Giant-Slayer (15 page)

When Jimmy was twelve, the tax man returned to the inn. His carriage was even finer than before. Every inch of it was
covered in gold, and half of the gold was covered again by emeralds, diamonds, and pearls. Six horses pulled it now, in a billowing cloud of dust, while a crew of four attended.

At the front were the footman, thin and lean, and the driver in his scarlet clothes. On top rode a trumpet man with a silver horn that he blew at every bend and building, and on the back rode a wiper in a tall black hat.

The carriage came swaying up the road with the harnesses jingling. Dust boiled from the wheels and the hooves of the horses. It clung to the sweat on the animals’ ribs, outlining every bone and muscle in smears of gray, so that it looked like a team of skeleton horses galloping down the road. The dust swirled so thickly round the carriage that only the heads of the driver and the footman rose above it. They seemed to ride in a bubble of smoke that moved along with a thundering, hammering sound. From its midst, the trumpet man blew a shrill and tingling blast.

Jimmy stood at the door, watching. He could not even dimly remember the last time that the tax man had come, when he had lain gurgling in his cradle on top of the bar. But he knew from Fingal’s stories that the man had measured him and gone away with barrels of gold. And he certainly knew that his father had been furious that day.

Jimmy called to him now, shouting through the door. “Father!”

Fingal came in his apron, wiping his hands. He looked down the road and squinted. All he could make out were the heads of two black horses and a ball of dust that seemed to follow them down the road, as though the animals were trying to outrun a tiny, vicious storm.

The carriage came right to the inn. The footman jumped down from his seat and opened the door. The wiper hopped from his perch, straightened his hat, and went to work with a cloth. He wiped down the carriage, turning a gray lump—one streak at a time—into a gleaming wonder.

When everything was clean and bright, the tax man stepped out of the carriage in buckled shoes and white stockings. He carried his big black book into the parlor, to a table near the bar where the footman was arranging an ink pot and paper. He turned through the pages of his book, stopping where it said,

The tax man dipped his quill in the ink. “Where’s the Woman?”

“Gone to the village,” said Fingal, as though she might be back at any moment.

“Where’s the baby?”

“Right at your elbow,” said Fingal. Under his breath he muttered, “Are you blind?”

The tax man looked at Jimmy. “Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head. “No, no. This won’t do.”

“What do you mean, it won’t do?” asked Fingal.

“This won’t do at all.” The tax man set his quill back in the ink pot. He brought out his folding ruler, snapped
it open, and measured the height of Jimmy the giant-slayer.

“Thirty-two inches.” The tax man squinted. “Minus a quarter.” Then he folded the ruler again, picked up the quill, and made a note in his book. “I’m sorry to say that this will cost you rather dearly,” he said, though he didn’t sound sorry at all.

“I don’t understand,” said Fingal.

“A child has to grow.” The tax man tapped the tabletop. “That’s the law.” He quoted a paragraph of a section of a chapter of an act. “I’m afraid the fine is rather hefty.”

“Ah, well, that’s a problem now,” said Fingal, his little eyes narrowing like a rat’s. “You see, I have nothing. I’ve given it all to the boy.”

“Everything?” said the tax man.

“Lock, stock, and barrel,” said Fingal.

Jimmy grinned at his father. They exchanged a wink. It was a wonderful feeling to be rich, if only temporarily.

“So you have nothing?” The tax man looked suspicious. “Your son is wealthy, while you are penniless?”

Fingal cackled. “That appears to be the state of it.”

“Highly unusual,” said the tax man. “And, for you, somewhat unfortunate. You see, it’s the boy who pays the fine, as he’s the one in contravention.”

“What?” said Fingal.

“Well, it’s hardly your fault that he hasn’t grown,” said the tax man. “Is it?”

Fingal sighed. He certainly wouldn’t admit that he’d brought a curse upon his own son. There was an enormous tax on curses.

The tax man snapped his fingers to summon the driver and footman, the trumpet man and the wiper. All five went down to the basement, where the tax man began to levy his fine in barrels of coins. He stood aside, watching, as the men carted the barrels up the stairs and rolled them across the parlor floor. The wiper kept knocking his tall hat against the ceiling beams, so he was forever setting it straight.

The tax man took every barrel but one. He took the knives and forks and spoons, four of Fingal’s shirts, and one stick of firewood. He even took the wooden dragon’s tooth that had hung twenty-three years in its chains.

The carriage was loaded inside and out. Then the men climbed aboard and, with a snap of his whip, the driver pulled away. He cried out to the horses: “Gee up!” And the trumpet man blew his horn. “Gee up! Gee up!” shouted the driver.

The carriage gathered speed, and the dust whirled up from the wheels. Then a thin arm poked out through a window, and a white hand waved goodbye.

Fingal could hear his money jingling in the barrels. As soon as the carriage was out of sight he looked down at Jimmy and gave him a clout on the head.

“This is your fault,” he said. “You little squirm, do you see what you’ve done?” His face was purple, his voice full of fury. “You’ve put me in the poorhouse!”

“I’m sorry, Father,” said Jimmy.

“Sorry? Why, you certainly are,” said Fingal. “You’re a sorry excuse, that’s what you are.” He was shouting now. “You’re a ruination. And a runt to boot. You’re a horrible runt of a ruination.”

Jimmy shrank even smaller than he was. He looked as withered and bowed as a trampled sapling, and the words seem to fall like weights on his shoulders. Fingal was actually screaming, hopping up and down on the road.

Jimmy started crying. “I am sorry, Father,” he said.

“There’s no use blubbering,” shouted Fingal. “You great babby.”

“I’m not a baby,” said Jimmy the giant-slayer.

“Oh, yes you are,” roared Fingal. “A babby you were born, and a babby you’ll always be. I wish the gryphons had got you.” He spat on the road at Jimmy’s feet, then turned and stalked away.

“He’s so mean,” said Dickie. “How can he say things like that?”

“He’s a bit like my dad,” said James Miner. He was crammed in the corner, all but forgotten. On the floor in front of him, the magazine was still open. “Where’s that little boy’s mother?”

“She went away,” said Chip.

James nodded. “That’s like
my
mom.”

To look at him, Laurie had to lean from the chair and peer under the curve of the respirators. “Why don’t you come closer?” she said.

“Okay.” The boy tucked the magazine onto his platform and pushed himself across the floor.

Carolyn watched him too. The boy skidded sideways on his platform.

“That’s keen, that thing,” said Laurie. “It’s like that deal a mechanic uses, when he slides under a car.”

“A creeper,” said Chip.

Laurie laughed. “That’s what they’re called? Creepers?”

“For mechanics,” Chip said. “For polios, they’re treatment boards.”

James maneuvered into place. “It’s supposed to exercise my arms and legs,” he said.

“It’s your mouth that gets the exercise,” said Carolyn.

“Shut up. You’re as mean as Fingal,” said James Miner. But he was smiling. “So what happened next?”

Jimmy stayed where he was for a long while. He watched the glob of his father’s spit melt away into the dust, a dark stain like a black sunburst on the Great North Road. Then he went up to his room, drew the shutters on his window, and sat all alone in the gloomy shadows.

That night, when it was dark, Jimmy the giant-slayer filled a small bag. He put in a few clothes, and a locket that had belonged to his mother. He made certain that the hunter’s charm was round his neck, though he had never tried to take it off. Then he crept down the stairs and out through the parlor, under the dangling chains where the wooden tooth had been.

The moon was half full. Jimmy walked out to the meeting of the roads and stood right in the middle. To the east and the west were hamlets and towns, markets and shops. To the north were the woods, the mountains and swamp, the giants, the dragons, the gnomes.

It seemed to Jimmy that if he was really a baby he would go east or go west. But if he was a man, or bound to become one, he had to go north instead. So that was the way he went, up the very middle of the Great North Road. In a few minutes he was among the trees, and in a few minutes more he could no longer see his own feet. The moon was hidden, the road invisible.

Just half an hour of walking took Jimmy farther from the inn than he had ever been before. For the first time in his life he was alone in the woods at night. And every sound scared him.

He heard shrieks and groans. He heard the snapping of twigs, the rustle of branches. He turned to the left; to the right. He looked up and down and all around.

Every story that the travelers had told him came to his mind in terrible fragments. “They found his head in a tree, his feet in a river.” “The dragon turned him to ash as quick as a wink.” “They say his ghost sits by the road, holding his own bloody head.” Jimmy heard the voices of the travelers in his mind, and saw their faces loom before him. “Gryphons go for the eyes.” “A hydra can smell you a mile away.” “If a manticore comes after you, play dead. But if it’s a troll, run for your life.”

An owl hooted nearby. Something swooped past Jimmy’s head with a rush of air.

“There’s a dead man for every mile of forest.” “Trolls lie by the road and grab your ankles.” “Burned him alive, the poor devil.”

Jimmy ran. He scampered along the road with his little bag thumping against him. But in the darkness he blundered into
the bushes. He screamed, thinking that the many heads of a hydra had taken hold of him. In the dark, he wrestled with the bush. Twigs lashed at his face, as though trying to pluck out his eyes. Thorns stuck into his skin like teeth. Jimmy kicked and punched; he tore away fistfuls of leaves.

When he realized that it was only a bush that had him, Jimmy let himself fall to the ground. Snared in the branches, frightened and lonely, he shivered and waited for dawn.

At first light he untangled himself and went along on his way.

His little feet made little tracks along the Great North Road. The woods that had terrified him in the night seemed quite pleasant in the daytime. Squirrels chattered from tree branches. Small lizards, green and orange, crouched on rocks at the roadside, blinking as he passed.

At noon, Jimmy rounded a bend and saw a sight that he knew very well from the tales of the travelers. So many had spoken of it that seemed familiar right away. It was an enormous tree fallen right across the road, its trunk so massive that a tunnel had been chopped right through it.