The third rider pointed toward Gil and said, “Sire, ’tis he! Stinking and swaggering, this son of a dirt pile, exiled of Eden, accursed, baseborn, and low, has the effrontery to intrude into our solemn tourney! How shall the oracle of victory be read if the fight was meddled with?”
The Elf-King Alberec turned his helm toward Gil. His faceplate was carven into a solemn mask of a hawk-nosed and bearded youth of craggy features; perhaps this was a true image of the face beneath, or perhaps not. There was no eyehole on the right. The eye within the lefthand eyehole was as green as the sea. “Unhand that knight!”
Gil tightened his grip until the silver-clad knight groaned and fainted. Gil opened his arms, and the body fell into the underbrush with a great clash of armor and did not rise.
Gil said boldly, “Your Majesty, with all due respect, your knight called my mother a name too vile to repeat, and I demand he stand against me for it and satisfy my honor!”
The Elfking Alberec turned his head and said to the bear steed, “What is he?”
The bear was still crouching tensely, his nose pointed at Gil. It said, “I don’t know. He smells a bit like a human and a bit like something else—but a bear taught him to fight, and that is not normal.”
The Elfking Alberec turned back to Gil and said, “Sir Dornar of Corbenec is the son of Alain le Gros, who is the son of Garis. In his veins runs the blood of the Fisher King. Why can he not call a man of no birth whatever hard names he will? Of what birth can you boast? Whose son are you?”
Gil said, “Sir, I cannot say.” But he now picked up the dropped sword and shield of Sir Grimnir.
The second rider, who bore a crescent above the cup on his shield said, “What discourtesy is this? Why does this mortal son of the dirt befoul the celestially tempered weapons of elfland, rune-begirt and gem-beset, with the touch of his hand of clay?”
Gil said, “Pardon my impatience. I could wait until Sir Grimnir wakes and faces the choice either to yield them to me or to forfeit his very life, but I fear traitorous and unvaliant attack might come at any moment from your discourteous and rash brothers, Sir Knight.”
The second rider said, “Discourteous, indeed?”
“Your brother Sir Dornar sought to spear me. There was no call, no challenge given, no defiance, no equality of weapons; I was merely set upon as a farmer might set his dogs upon a chicken thief. I would be imprudent to speak with rogues and highwaymen without a weapon in hand since there are no knights here to defend the innocent.”
The first rider, with a growl of anger, now lowered his lance. “Is Sir Aglovale of Corbenec a rogue? The slander is not to be borne!” Gil, his face frowning but unafraid, held up the shield and gripped the sword as he had seen Sir Grimnir do, holding the blade back behind his spine. He set his feet so that his shoulders were pointed in a line toward his enemy.
“Halt!” cried Alberec, and with his knees urged his huge black horse to step between Gil and Aglovale. Gil now stood with sword and shield in hand, a tree bole at his back, and a dazed knight at his feet, and the great black horse before him. The gold-trimmed green cloak of the king fell across the steed’s flanks like a tent. The three knights, Aglovale, Lamorak, and Dornar, were on the far side of the horse, and Gil could only see their plumes and spears.
Turning his golden mask toward Gil, the Elfking said, “Why comes this mortal here, who dares to trespass where the feet of the Sons of Adam are unwelcome and the eyes are blind?”
“Majesty! I climbed yonder tree to behold the splendor and courtesy of your knights, harming none and willing ill to none, and was suddenly beset by your loyal minion, who no doubt mistook me for an interloper.”
“You say you came to gaze upon our splendor and courtesy. How is this not a trespass?”
“Sir, I was invited.”
“By whom?”
“Sir, by the rumors in the forest, who praised the glory and greatness of your knights. I will not insult Your Majesty by claiming I had any ability to resist such an invitation, sir, since that would imply your glory is less than irresistible.”
“You speak in a comely fashion, more elfin than mortal. But why did the rumors lure? What are the knights of Elfinland to you?”
“Sir, I seek to be a knight.”
There was a murmur of laughter from the knights there, and even the bear steed snorted. Alberec, however, did not laugh, and his expression beneath his gold-faced mask could not be seen.
Alberec said, “We are Oberon son of Uther, called Alberec and Liosalberec, Elfking and Lightelfking. Child, you address one greater than any monarch of earth. Remove your cap.”
“Pardon the discourtesy, Majesty, but I was beset by your knights in an unmannerly and uncouth fashion. I did not have a free hand.” Gil brushed the cap off his head with his wrist, not releasing the sword in his hand. The cap fell to the grass.
Gil’s silver hair shined in the gloom. The king’s eye narrowed, but the other knights saw not what he stared at, for the king’s huge mount blocked their view.
The first rider called out, “Sire! Why do you bandy words with this creature made of clay? What is he, that he claims we owe him courtesy?”
Alberec said, “Mortal boy, depart this place. Our world is not your world. Our ways are not your ways. Leave the weapons you took on the ground; Sir Grimnir did not yield them to you. Yet I see, even now he stirs. I hear his groan. You have been gracious enough to spare his life. It would ill beseem if a king of the summer elfs did not return the grace in like kind. I grant you your life.”
But Sir Dornar spoke up, “Sire! If I may! That worm spoke proudly to me! I wish to smite him!”
Alberec said, “The eagle does not catch flies, Sir Dornar. Exchange pardons with him and grant him peace.”
Sir Dornar said, “Sire! That is a command I cannot obey. Is it not honor that demands a vassal obey his lord the same that cannot accept such slights from lowly born?”
Gil threw down the sharp sword and shining shield he held. “I will obey the word of the king even if his own ruffians dressed as knights do not. Sir Dornar, I both beg pardon from you and grant it.”
Sir Dornar sang out a word of rage in a strange language and spurred his steed, which lowered its horned head but could not charge because the king’s tall horse was in the way. He began to circle around, trying to find a way to come at Gil.
But Alberec sang a song as well, words that hissed like snakes and climbed note by note through strange warbling pitches. The steed of Dornar staggered and fell, fast asleep, into a heap right at Gil’s astonished feet, and the elf knight also sagged in the saddle, toppled slowly, and collapsed to the grass. Snoring came from his helm.
Gil saw what he thought were green snakes writhing and reaching upward, but then he saw they were vines of ivy. The king’s song grew wild and strange, rich with passion, and mount and rider alike were twined in vines, hidden beneath ivy leaves.
Gil looked up. A mist blowing along the ground covered up the elfking and his knights. When the mist passed, they were gone, and the winter knight as well, steed and all. Only Dornar was left, breathing softly beneath a shroud of innocent-seeming leaves.
Gil picked up his baseball cap and retreated down the slope. He heard the noise of trumpets and the clash of arms in the distance, but he was not tempted to look.
When he came to the stream, he spent a while looking for Nerea but did not find her. From the stars, he knew it was after midnight, and her charm granting him the power to breathe water was gone.
He hiked across the hilltops beneath the stars, heading home.
Chapter Seven: The Glass-Knobbed Door
1. The Shop
He walked without sleep, hour after hour under the stars. He returned first to the waterfall and the cave. By moonlight, it seemed so very empty that Gil knew Bruno the bear would not be back. Ruff was not in the cave. It took Gil only moments to pack his gear.
Gilberec Moth carried the folded-up cot on his back carefully through the empty street
s of Blowing Rock, opened the door to the YMCA with his key, left the key and the cot in their proper places, and returned into the night.
He had marched through the night already; and he had another two to go before he reached his mother’s apartment above the garage. The streets were eerie without any pedestrians, cars, or noise. Rows of unlit windows looked down blindly on the deserted streets. When the traffic lights all changed in unison from green to red or from red to green, Gil thought it strange that there was no one to stop or go.
He saw lights in one window halfway down the street, in a little shop crammed between two larger buildings. The front door was set back from the sidewalk by a small plot of carefully tended garden, including a line of pots in which miniature bonsai trees grew. Three gold balls hung above the door.
Gil pushed open the door, which set the small bell above the threshold ringing. Inside was a crowded shop that reminded Gil of the inside of the principal’s contraband locker. It contained shelves overflowing with gizmos whose names he did not know, but also fur coats, wristwatches, umbrellas, toolboxes, appliances. There was a glass counter displaying jewelry to the left, beneath a line of hanging jars, vials, glasses, and bottles. An old oriental man with long white hair, longer white eyebrows, his face as wrinkled as a prune, gazed at him with bright eyes. He wore an immaculate black suit with a thin black tie. A pair of pince-nez glasses, tied to his top button by a long black ribbon, was perched on the very tip of his nose.
“Welcome to Yung’s Very Good Fortune Pawn Shop. I am Mr. Yung. How may I serve you?” he said in flawless English.
“You’re open really late,” said Gil. “Or really early.”
The wizened old man nodded, his wrinkled mouth puckered into a polite smile. “Some of my customers prefer the nocturnal hours, for they are discreet and wish to avoid indelicate questions.”
“Are you human or elfin?”
The little old man nodded again. “This is one of those questions where the question is more interesting than the answer. I am human, most human, sadly so. Are you seeking to pawn or buy?”
Gil unfolded the gold hair needle from his handkerchief and laid it on the counter. The old man tilted his head backward and stared through the glasses balanced precariously on his nose.
“This is fine workmanship, young man. May I?” he said, pulling a very bright goose-necked lamp with a built-in loupe in its hood over to peer at the ornament.
The old man swabbed a fluid from a bottle on the needle and peered again. He took up the needle and weighed it on a delicate balance scale against weights as small as flakes he dropped onto the other pan with tweezers. He placed the needle in a metered flask, drew out some water with an eyedropper, and weighed this against an empty eyedropper. “The alloy is also fine quality. The pearl is unusually large.” He rubbed the pearl against his front tooth, licked his teeth, and peered at the ornament closely.
Eventually, he sighed, and spoke: “Aha. I would be remiss, young sir, if I did not tell you that there are others who could offer you far more than I can, such as the acquisition agent for a jewelry shop or a private auction house. Far more.”
“A mermaid gave it to me.”
The old man nodded sagely, his face showing no surprise. “Jewelry, I hold for thirty days. During those thirty days, anyone who returns with your ticket and the redemption value may take possession. After, the item is mine, and I may sell it to anyone I wish at any price I wish. You understand?” The gaze of the old man became sharp and cold, staring Gil squarely in the eye, unsmiling. “If you return here one minute after midnight on the thirtieth day, young man, the item is no longer yours, but mine, and you have no claim on it. I wish there to be no mistakes, no ill feeling.”
“I understand. All charms end at midnight. But I would be remiss myself, Mr. Yung, if I did not warn you that the elfs take steps to hide their existence from men. I do not know if this needle will attract their attention or what they will do if it does.”
The old man nodded again, “Sad memories, curses, and misfortune often follow pawned goods or adverse claims of ownership. For this reason, I have adorned all walls and windows, roof and floor, with many talismans and images of good luck, painted in lucky colors on lucky days. But if an elf returns with the ticket and the redemption price within thirty days, it is his.”
Mr. Yung used no cash register. He wrote out the receipt ticket in a crisp, clear hand on a slip of paper adorned with frogs and dragons. Then, from a locked metal box in the floor, he counted out five hundred dollars in twenties, fives, ones, and Susan B. Anthony coins, and insisted Gil count the amount again so that there was no mistake. He had Gil countersign the receipt and pushed the money across the counter to him.
Gil put the coins in his pocket and swept the money into his cap, which he plopped on his head. He stepped toward the door, paused, and looked over his shoulder. “Mr. Yung, if I may ask: you do not seem surprised.”
“One gets a wide variety of clients in shops like this, at hours like mine. One soon develops an acute instinct for honesty and a stronger instinct not to be curious about whatever strange persons enter the shop on nights when the haunted lights of Brown Mountain are seen.” He sighed sadly. “I have lived in many odd corners of the world and met many odd persons, including those who cast shadows that do not match their shapes. I do not ask them if they are not human as you so boldly did. I dare not.”
“Why not?”
“Count out the possibilities. Either he lies, or he does not. Either I believe him, or I do not. If he lies and I believe him, I am a fool and do not know it. If he lies and I do not, I know he thinks me a fool, and I am shamed. If he does not lie and I disbelieve him, I am doubly a fool.”
“And what if he tells the truth and you do believe him? How is that bad?”
“I may hear an answer that those who walk in the night hours would prefer I had not.” The old man took off his eyeglasses and wiped them carefully on his shirttail. “My life is behind me; therefore what little remains, I wish to remain unexceptional and uninteresting. No man can draw the tear back into his eye. Your fate is otherwise.”
Gil said, “What is my fate?”
“Your fate is something you cannot pawn. As I said, I have lived here and there in the world. The places where the old tales are remembered are best, of course, but the very oldest tales are very sad. And it may be that the old ones are also found in such places, who draw near to hear what tales men tell of them. It is wise to be polite to all. Good morning.”
2. The Homecoming
It was dark, and even the earliest of birds sang no song in the hour when Gilberec Moth returned home. He climbed the creaking, vine-choked stairs, shuddering with the memory of seeing vines something like these close over the snoring helm of Sir Dornar. The gnarled old Cornelian Cherry tree tossed its branches in an unexpected night wind, dropping hard berries on him, and the leaves whispered. Gil flinched with the desire to throw himself prone and to play dead, but he restrained it.
He opened the door with his latchkey, stepped over to the kitchen counter, sighed, and set his knapsack down on the tile floor. He did not turn on any lights. He piled four hundred of the dollars neatly on the counter. One hundred he put in his pocket.
He saw that there were jars on the counter and also on the folding chairs that were now sitting on the kitchen floor. It looked like every cup and bowl they owned was sitting out, all covered with Saran Wrap. In the gloom he could not see what was in them. He picked one up and stepped over to the sink. He put the jar into the beam of moonlight falling in through the window above the sink. A honeycomb floated in the thick fluid inside.
In the sink was a papery shell or broken sphere. He realized it was a beehive that had been hollowed out. It was the wages he had been promised by Bruno the one-eyed bear. No doubt the hive had been left on his doorstep, as promised, and his Mom had laboriously put all the honey and honeycomb in containers to preserve it. How she had shooed away the bees, he did not know.
br /> He put the jar on top of the money as a paperweight.
Gil stepped into the corridor, hoping to see the mysterious glass-knobbed door. It was the night of a full moon after all. But the blank spot of wall below the light socket was only a wall. He put his hand on his mother’s door and listened. He could hear her soft breathing beyond. He raised his fist to knock, but hesitated, and then lowered his hand again.
He found his room. Already he thought of it as ‘his old room.’ In the gloom, it seemed too square and too stuffy compared with his cave, and the wooden floor was harder than sand. He carefully avoided stepping on the floorboards he knew squeaked and climbed into bed. The bed was much softer than any cot, and he was asleep instantly.
3. The Next Morning
He woke, bone tired, at the sound of his mother in the kitchen. He sat up and saw that he had forgotten to undress when he had fallen into bed. He was still wearing the same clothes, wrinkled, damp, torn, and muddy, he had worn during the long swim upriver to Brown Mountain and during his fight with elf and bear.
Gil fought off the impulse to roll over and go back to sleep. Instead, he rose, changed, combed his hair with his fingers, and walked into the front room. His mother was dressed in her waitress uniform, her hair hidden in a scarf. She was cutting fruit and bread with precise, delicate motions of her hand and packing herself a lunchbag. The lunchbag already held a jar of honey.
“Welcome home, my son,” she said. “Why are you here? Were you fired?”
He said, “No. My boss quit.”
“It was not clear from your letters or what you said on Sundays, exactly what your job was.”
“Knight,” he said heavily. He looked around for a place to sit, but all the folding chairs had bottles and bowls of honey on them. He hopped up onto the counter and sat on that, his shoulders sagging wearily. “I am a knight.”
His mother froze in mid-motion, her eyes wide.
He saw her look, and said, “Sorry, Mom! Didn’t mean to scare you.”