“It can’t be. What if I’m…but I…” The troll leaned his fishing rod against the railing and sat down, his legs dangling over the edge. “Not real. None of it. Made for your Game. Hah. Clockwork and gears.” He reached up slowly and put his hand to where his heart beat. “Clockwork and gears. Pistons.” Brian sat next to him. The troll didn’t look up, but merely said, “Available while supplies last. Limited warranty.” Angrily, he added, “It’s not true. It’s not!”
Brian stared guiltily at the water. He urged, without much conviction, “We’re…we’re all machines, really, Kalgrash. That’s the thing. Our heart’s just a machine, too—a biological machine. No magic whatsoever. Our brain—it’s just electrical signals. See, it’s not that different. I mean, you at least have magic worked into your system. We don’t. We’re just plain matter.”
“Yeah…yeah. Thank you,” said the troll, subdued, nodding. He stood up. “Excuse me,” he said quietly. “I’m…I’m going for a little walk. Go in and get yourselves something to eat or something and I’ll…I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“We’ll—why don’t we come back here in a couple of hours?” said Brian. “We have to go to the house to get something to solve a riddle. On the way back, we’ll stop here and see…how you’re…doing.”
“If you want to,” said the troll. “If.” He nodded. He slowly walked to the end of the bridge and tromped off along the shore.
Gregory turned and looked after him, hands in pockets, then moved to stand next to Brian. Brian moved the other way. He didn’t want to watch the troll. He could tell the troll didn’t want to be watched.
“Let’s keep walking,” said Brian.
They headed toward the mansion.
Brian was miserable. “We shouldn’t have told him,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Gregory. “We should have let it drop.”
“Why did you tell him in the first place?”
Gregory kicked his way through the leaves. Neither of them spoke.
They kept walking toward the house.
The troll wandered down along the river, picking his way over boulders and browning moss, leaping over rivulets. Dead leaves were flying downstream, dipping and twirling as they bounced through pools and over currents.
Kalgrash thought about what he should do. He could race up the mountain, ax in his hand, and find the elf who had been so callous as to create him just for a Game. He knew that would be a troll’s solution. Most people like to take apart their problems, look at them in smaller, more manageable pieces. Trolls, he mused, simply take this to the extreme. Trolls get a certain satisfaction out of seeing their enemies made insignificant and ridiculous—harm-less pieces, spread over a room. No, he decided, not that. He was not a troll, after all. He was a bad imitation.
A sour sickness came over him at the thought of his pathetic jokes, his stupid innocence—he had been made to be silly, been made imperfect. Every thought was a whir of gears; even the thought that every thought was a whir of gears was just a whir of gears. He could break down, like the stove or plumbing, frizzled by lightning or local spell-casting interference. He watched his knees work as he walked, his arms shift to balance him, and thought, What spindly, ridiculous little limbs. What a stupid shape.
The last of the geese were flying overhead, honking in V-formation.
Kalgrash walked along on a path he had made over the last few years that rambled beside the moss-covered slabs surrounding the river. He broke out of the forest into a field where, sometimes, there were cows kept by a farm nearby. The cows weren’t there.
Kalgrash crossed the field, the dead yellow grasses thrashing around his legs. Under a shadowy stand of maples, there was a plot marked out with an old black iron fence. As Kalgrash forced open the rusty gate, he plucked off the leaves that were impaled on the spikes of the fence.
He stood inside the plot, looking from stone to leaf-clogged stone. His eyes passed from Elijah Newcastle to Betty Newcastle without registering the names. He walked between the slate markers to two wooden crosses jammed into the ground at lopsided angles. His father and mother. What, he wondered, would he find if he dug down? Didn’t he remember digging them, one by one, on wintry days?
All I have is memories, he mused. But if his parents had been real—if bodies had really been lying there inert in those graves, beneath those crosses—if there had been a mother who wore a flowered apron and spoke softly with a Scandinavian accent, a father who wore cologne and carved oak grizzlies for tourists with his ax—even if these things he remembered were true—then still, all he would have would be memories. They were good memories.
The flowers were withering on his fake mother’s grave. He would have to bring her some more. They would curl and brown above the empty earth where she didn’t lie.
The geese were passing over. Great storm clouds were gathering in the south—he could feel them—and they would sweep north, leaving winter wherever they passed.
The last time they had seen the house, it had been night, and it had been swarming with half-seen beasts. Now it stood tall and quiet in the cold autumn air, the sun throwing stripes across the roofs from the many chimneys.
The boys faced it across the lawns. Somehow, they had to get in.
“Think the best way is through the kitchen?” Gregory asked.
Brian shrugged. He didn’t seem very energetic.
Gregory said, “The perfume is in the basement, which is off the kitchen.”
“What about the Lurker?”
“Hmm?”
“The Basement Lurker,” said Brian. “Uncle Max said that if the light went out, the Basement Lurker would seize us.”
“That,” said Gregory, wagging his finger, “that’s a bridge we’ll cross when we come to it.” He was looking nervously up toward the house.
“We should wait until tonight,” said Brian. “When everyone’s asleep.”
“We don’t have time,” said Gregory. “Who knows where Jack Stimple is by now? We only have maybe a day left. We can’t wait. And plus, I don’t think anyone’s sleeping in there much anymore.”
“What do you mean?” said Brian.
“Let’s go for the kitchen door,” said Gregory.
They ran forward, crouching low. There were fewer windows in the back of the house; the rooms that looked out over the gardens were the servants’ quarters, the kitchen, the nursery, and a bathroom. They saw no motion inside the windows.
When they reached the wall, they flattened themselves against it. Gregory took the kitchen doorknob in his hand and gradually turned it. For an agonizing minute, he stood, twisting the knob, lips sucked into his mouth.
“Locked,” he said.
“Greenhouse,” whispered Brian. He pointed around the corner.
They crawled around the corner on their hands and knees. When they reached the glass solarium, Gregory slowly rose, peering through the panes, through the fronds, into the dining room.
He nodded quickly. He turned the handle of the solarium door, and it opened.
The boys were inside. They stepped through the solarium into the dining room.
They could hear voices speaking in a strange tongue. Arguing. Someone was playing something hectic and terrified on the piano.
They moved toward the door to the kitchen.
Now, for just a minute, they could catch a glimpse into the entrance hall. Men in long, black coats lounged on the round, cushioned bench in the foyer. They were facing the parlor, watching whoever played the piano. Trailing all the way down the steps like a Christmas garland was what looked like a length of brown and gray muscle. Ripples went through it, and it caressed the wall.
Daffodil served drinks on a tray, her back to the boys, while off in the parlor, the piano trilled and thundered.
One of the men shouted with a strong accent, “She plays like a fawn! I should like to give her a locket, this pretty girl! Or tickets to a baboon show.”
Prudence’s voice, high and tight with fear, burst
over the rumbling chords, “It is a piano sonata by Mr. Robert Schumann. It was first composed—”
“Mr. Grendle!” shouted the man. “I should like to see your stepdaughter dance.”
The piano playing stopped. Gregory slipped into the kitchen.
Brian did not follow. He had heard that Prudence was sobbing. He couldn’t move.
Uncle Max said something sharp in the foreign tongue. The man replied. Then Uncle Max and he were yelling.
Brian stepped quickly into the kitchen.
Gregory still waited there by the door.
Together, they stood hunched, listening to the argument in the other room.
“Daffodil,” said the man with the accent to the maid, “move yourself about. Show us that fine profile.”
Uncle Max protested.
“That’s right, Daffodil. And you, too, Burk. Back and forth. Good. Good.”
Uncle Max bellowed.
Then a gunshot rang out.
Brian and Gregory both gasped. Their eyes were wide. Their skin was white.
Brian moved to clutch the doorknob.
And the door to the kitchen slammed open.
They threw themselves in opposite directions—Gregory toward the basement door, Brian slamming sideways into a counter—and a figure stood between them—
Daffodil, holding her tray.
Half of her face was missing.
Don’t,” said Daffodil’s corpse wearily, “go down in the basement.”
Her cheek and part of her jaw were chipped off like porcelain. Below, they could see the spinning gears and heaving springs that animated her. Much of her arm had been blown off, too. She was a machine.
She saw them gaping at her. “Mr. Grendle’s guests are using me for target practice.”
Brian croaked, “Does it…does it hurt?”
“It is inconvenient,” said Daffodil. “Without the arm, I cannot butter their bread.” She stumbled to the marble countertop and dropped her tray there. The glasses slid and rattled. She reached up tentatively to where her cheek was missing. “I should put iodine on the cut. That is what my mother did.”
“Daffodil—” said Gregory.
“Don’t go down in the basement,” she repeated.
“What?” said Gregory. “The Basement Lurker?”
She rolled her eyes stiffly. “Basement Lurker. Idiot child. That was a story your uncle told to keep your scaly hands out of his things. There is no such thing as a Basement Lurker.”
“We need something from down there,” said Gregory.
“No Basement Lurker, but it’s crawling with spiky beasts,” said Daffodil. “And the hunchbacked sentries are on the roof.” She began clumsily transferring the glasses to the sink. “Everything has changed since you left,” she said. A glass shattered.
The door slammed open. Prudence was in the kitchen, weeping dramatically. Her hands were over her face. The door swung shut behind her.
“Prudence!” hissed Gregory.
She looked up, startled. “Boys!” she said, and smeared the tears off her face with the backs of her hands. She held out her arms to embrace them. “I’m so glad you’re safe!” she said. “I was so worried, after what happened the other night! What happened? What’s going on?”
“We don’t know,” said Gregory. “There’s an underground…it’s really complicated. What happened after we left the other night?”
“Oh, it was very, very odd. There were noises everywhere, and I was sure that things were crawling all over the house—it was horrible!—and then suddenly Mr. Grendle just yelled something like, ‘They’re gone! They’re gone! No rules have been broken!’—and suddenly, the wind died down, and all that rustling, and huge wings, and the croaking from the bathroom…they all just slowed down and just died away.” She looked toward the door. “But these peculiar men came, and they’re staying. We’re putting them up in the guest rooms. They’re always talking about a Game. When they’re talking in English. They go upstairs to Mr. Grendle’s office, and then they come back down and sit around and smoke.”
“Who—who are they?” asked Brian.
“I don’t know… They’re ever so peculiar,” said Prudence. She touched her eye again. “They’re horrible.”
Gregory whispered, “We need to get into the basement.”
“The basement? What for?”
“We need to get a bottle of your de-scentifying perfume.”
She looked confused. “For out in the woods?” Then she smiled. “Have you met a little special someone?”
“Yeah,” whispered Gregory. “He’s about twenty-five feet tall, warty, and he stomps on his friends.”
Prudence crossed her arms. “I wish just one thing you boys said made a grain of sense. I’ll go get you a bottle from my room. Stay here.”
She turned and took a deep breath. She took out a handkerchief and wiped at her eyes. Then she smiled brightly and stepped through the door.
Brian and Gregory stood awkwardly, watching the damaged Daffodil clean the dishes. Brian moved to her side to help.
She did not turn her head, but made a small sound like a warning bleat.
He stepped back, and she fell silent, scrubbing.
Gregory was listening at the door.
The man with the thick accent was saying, “Miss Prudence, we have placed our bets—but you, you have not placed your bet, yes? How is this, then: If my people win, you forfeit but the smallest kiss. Upon my cheek. Yes?”
“Excuse me, sir,” she said. “I have to see about the maid. She seemed somewhat distraught.”
“Miss Prudence,” called the man. “Miss Prudence, a bet: If my people win, you spin in a circle quickly, and I may snap my fingers near your knees. Yes? Yes?”
She pushed the kitchen door open and then closed it behind her.
She had an atomizer bottle of perfume concealed near her side. She held it out to Gregory. “Here you are, boys. Good luck. I hope this helps. So you don’t smell as brutish out there.”
“Why don’t you come with us?” said Gregory.
“I have to stay here with Mr. Grendle,” she explained. “He needs me.” She went to the back door and unlocked it.
“You can’t stay here,” said Gregory. “You’re in danger.”
She looked at him curiously. “I don’t think I am,” she said. “You are, though. They talk about you. I can hear them using your names. They’re watching you.” She pulled the back door open. A breeze came in from outside. “Maybe you shouldn’t go back out,” she said. “Maybe you should sneak away and leave.”
“No,” said Gregory. “We’ve got to go. We’re going. Now.”
Brian said, “Thank you for the perfume.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. “Be careful.” She kissed them each on the forehead. “Good-bye,” she said. And then she added, wrinkling her nose, “You might want to try a little bit of that now.”
They slipped out the back door.
Through the window, she watched them go, her white brow creased by a single line of determined concern.
The two were melancholy and silent, staring morosely down at the branches they stepped over. Gregory wanted to say something cheerful about how they had overcome that hurdle with flying colors, but he didn’t think Brian wanted to hear it.
After a long time walking, Gregory said, “Hey—think about what Prudence told us. When we ran out of the house the other night, when all those things were attacking—she says Uncle Max waited for us to leave, and then yelled out something about how we were gone, and how no rules had been broken.”
Brian waited for an explanation.
“I bet Uncle Max summoned the Thusser,” Gregory continued. “I bet he arranged for things to attack the house just when he was about to start really dishing.”
“What do you mean?” asked Brian.
“Somehow, by asking Uncle Max what was going on, we were about to break the rules and forfeit the game. So he needed to get us out of the house before we could l
earn anything. So he called the Thusser somehow. By brainphone. He summoned them. That’s why he delayed us while we ate. He was stalling for time. He got them to chase us out before he could tell us anything important and break the rules.”
They came to the bridge. They crossed over the river.
Brian crawled down the slope to knock on Kalgrash’s door. Gregory waited on the bridge, scowling. The troll didn’t answer.
Brian lingered by the door, his hand still in a fist.
“Come on,” said Gregory. “We need to get moving.”
Brian looked up at him skeptically.
“Let’s go play the game. It’s what he would want,” said Gregory. “It’s the reason he was built in the first place.”
Brian didn’t move.
“Come on,” Gregory urged him.
Brian climbed back up and joined him back on the path.
They walked on without talking. The ground became hilly, and they passed into the Tangled Knolls. Brian directed them through the maze by pointing.
As they wandered through the Haunted Hunting Grounds, they heard once more the call of the horns, the answering cry, the baying of dogs. They looked around quickly, seeing only the wide expanse of tree trunks and lilies of the valley. Half-running, half-watching, they moved back to one of the wider tree trunks and put their backs against it. They looked one way, then the other, through the wood. The hunting horn reverberated again in the trees.
Suddenly, the hunting party broke forth again and galloped through the forest. There, in the lead, were the clever-looking royalty of Norumbega—the young blond man smirking, the bishop in his miter, the others wearing circlets on their heads. They called to one another in some foreign tongue and rode past entirely ignoring the two friends, the rest of the cavalcade following behind in riding caps and wimples and top hats. Several small will-o’-the-wisps bobbed along behind, then faded out like the final sparks on a television screen.
Cautiously, Brian and Gregory stepped forward, glancing around them. Twigs snapped beneath their shoes. Nothing moved. The wind blew through the trees again, and leaves sifted to the ground. The two continued on their way toward Fundridge’s Folly.