The few scattered towns of the North were usually hidden under the lee of a low hill; or you might find houses scattered through the trees of a little grove, or grouped at the foot of a landscaped and terraced hill of farmed fields. On top, there was always a castle without battlements, a long oval wall of odd-shaped heaped stones, pierced by cruciform loopholes. The carriage passed several of these dumpy forts, but never came close to any of them, Prospero, using his brassbound telescope, could see that the fields were untended, and that the drawbridges were up.
In the roadside towns, the wizards picked up stories and rumors. One man told how frost formed on the windows at night, though it was only the middle of September. There were no scrolls or intricate fern leaves, no branching overlaid star clusters; instead, people saw seasick wavy lines, disturbing maps that melted into each other and always seemed on the verge of some recognizeable, but fearful shape. At dawn, the frost melted, always in the same way: At first, two black eye holes formed, and then, a long steam-lipped mouth that spread and ate up the wandering white picture. In some towns, people talked of clouds that formed long opening mouths. One man in the town of Edgebrake sat up all night, staring at a little smiling cookie jar made in the shape of a fat monk; it stood on a high cupboard shelf, smiling darkly amid shadows. The man would not tell anyone what was wrong, or what he thought was wrong. Doors opened at night inside some houses, and still shadows that could not be cast by firelight fell across beds and floors. People who lived near forests and groves dreamed that the trees were calling to their children; in the daytime, pools of shadow that floated trembling around the trees seemed darker than they should have been, and when the children showed an unusually strong desire to play in the woods, panicked parents locked them indoors. Voices rose from empty wells, and men locked their doors at dusk.
One night, after weeks of travel, Prospero and Roger were sitting around a fire they had made near a peat bog. Orion burned cold and tilted overhead in a sky that seemed emptier than it should have been. The chill was close around them, and even in their woolen high-collared cloaks, they felt that they were sitting in a wet cellar. There was none of the bracing windy cold of the empty northern fields-just clinging, bad-smelling damp. Prospero was reading his large handwritten book, and Roger, whose legs had gone numb, got up to walk around. He walked past the carriage and stopped suddenly. There was a man standing by the horses. He was wearing a coarse-spun cloak and a furry hat pulled down over his ears, and he was touching the horses with the tips of his fingers. Not petting them, just touching them to see if they were real. Roger stood there and watched him, his hand resting on the steamed-up nickel surface of one carriage lamp. When the man looked up and saw the bearded face gruesomely foot lighted, he jumped back with a sucked-in yelp, as if he had slummed his hand down on a nail.
"Yes," said Roger. "I'm real, too. We won't hurt you." He was trying to look kind, but he felt more like laughing. Prospero got up and walked over to join them, his book slung under his arm.
"Then, please, sir," said the man, "and you too, sir, will you see me home? I live five miles down the road and I'm afraid."
"Of what? Bandits?" Prospero asked the question, knowing that "bandits" would not be the answer.
"Come with me and I'll show you. You are men of magic. I am not so foolish that I can't see that. There are no carriages like this on our roads. Come with me."
All three men got into the dusty black carriage; Roger sat in the middle, holding the reins, and when they were sure they had all their gear, he clucked to the horses and the wheels swished through the tan wet weeds. The road they turned onto was a well-kept branch of the Great Way, a major highway broad enough for two wide wagons to pass; this stretch of it was bordered by a low wall of brown square-cut sandstone. The running lamplight flickered on a stone cross, one of the milestones marking the distance from the Feasting Hill to the Brown River. Rigid stone saints, their faces washed empty by rain, clung to the wheel that bound the arms of the cross together. The farmer leaned out the window and pointed at the marker.
"Its not far now. Yes, there it is!"
They stopped at the edge of a walled graveyard. In the bright moonlight, a slate-roofed chapel stood under the dripping yellow leaves of a huge half-dead willow. Prospero and Roger got out and followed the farmer over a rickety wooden stile. Inside the yard were narrow roof-shaped tombs-replicas of the coffin lids that rotted below-flat, thick, ground-level slabs, and church-window-pointed uprights. Years of weathering had peeled irregular paper-thin layers from the slabs, so that the remaining letters lay in puddles and islands of flint. The farmer, kneeling, pointed to a long stone that was cracked into six or seven jagged pieces.
"Look at these. Tell me what this means, if you can."
The broken words, some filled with dark blobs of moss, said "empty," "dark," "hollow," "doomed." All the gravestones were alike. The words repeated were the same-nothing else was left.
Roger gently grasped the man's shaking arm.
"Come. We'll take you home."
As they left the churchyard, Prospero turned to look the little chapel. The willow's limp strings were moving over the broken shingles in an ugly caressing way. There were letters on the slates:
IT IS NOT LONG TIL-
He saw that "TIL" had had two Ls-the second had slid halfway down the roof.
A few miles down the road the carriage stopped at the farmer's cottage, a whitewashed oblong topped by two lumpy haystack gables. In the two upper windows, scowling jack-o'-lanterns burned-Southerners had started the custom, and it had spread among folk who thought amulets and hex signs were not enough to keep away night creatures. The Dutch door of the cottage was open at the top, and the strong-looking woman who leaned over the sill was silhouetted in orange firelight. She held, not a broom, but a short pike pole. The farmer called to her.
"It's all right, Maria, these are friends." He turned to Prospero and Roger, who were ready to drive on.
"Why don't you stay here for the night? It's well past midnight, and we have a big empty bed upstairs. Our sons grew up a long time ago."
Prospero looked at Roger. "Why not? Taking turns sleeping in that bouncing hatbox has left me a wreck. And, you, too, though you won't admit it. It's two days to the foothills of the mountains, but well run off the road before we get there."
"I suppose. Very well. But, we've got to be up by six. First, though, we'd better hide the carriage in that barn over there. We don't want to call something down on these people's heads in return for their hospitality."
"What do you mean?" It was the farmer speaking.
Prospero and Roger looked startled. They had been alone on the road so long that they were used to discussing their private affairs aloud, Roger got down out of the carnage and drew the farmer aside.
"Nothing will happen, I assure you, if we get that carriage out of sight before nightfall. I can't explain this thing, but if you want us to go on and not stay, we will."
"I won't hear of such a thing!" said the farmer. "I've sheltered fugitives from the kings and God knows who else. Besides, you're wizards, aren't you?"
Roger laughed and shook his head. "Maybe. Maybe. Thank you for your hospitality. Not many people are willing to take in creatures like us these days. We'll cover up the carriage later, but first, I have to have a talk with my friend. Alone, We'll join you in a minute."
The farmer went into the house, and Roger went back to the carriage where Prospero was sitting.