“I see,” said Max, rising to pace about the melancholy room and gaze up at the roof’s timbers. “So this isn’t really a house. It’s a coffin—a nice roomy coffin where you can sit in the dark and wait to die. Is that the plan?”
The ogre glowered at Max. A nearly subsonic rumbling emanated from deep in his chest.
“Don’t tell Bob his business.”
Max walked out the front door and seized up an enormous spade that was propped against the porch railing. Sinking it into the hilltop, he scooped up a shovelful of dirt and squeezed past Bob, who had followed and now stood by the door.
“What are you doing?” the ogre asked.
Max ignored him. Swinging the spade, he let the dirt fly. It landed with a cloud of dust on the hardwood, scattering dirt and pebbles. Turning, Max marched past Bob and went outside to fill the spade again. The ogre watched silently as Max heaped more dirt upon the cottage floor. But on the fourth trip, Bob blocked his way.
“Stop it,” he growled. The rumble resumed in his chest.
“No,” said Max, swinging the spade back. “You were good enough to bury my parents. I’m returning the favor. Shut up and get out of the way. Dead ogres don’t talk.”
When Bob wouldn’t move, Max emptied the shovel anyway. The dirt thudded against the ogre’s broad chest, spilling down his shirtfront.
Bob’s face contorted. Snatching the spade, the ogre abruptly snapped it in two and seized Max by the collar. In a blink, Max’s feet were dangling five feet above the porch. Tears brimmed in the ogre’s bright blue eyes; his nostrils flared like those of an angry bull. Max put up no resistance but merely patted his friend’s trembling hand.
“For a dead ogre, you’re pretty lively.”
Bob blinked. Exhaling slowly, he lowered Max down to the porch and released him.
“You’re not dead, Bob, and you’re not dying,” said Max gently. “Dark days are coming and Rowan needs you. It needs your wisdom and strength. Don’t push everyone away.”
Placing his great hand on Max’s shoulder, the ogre bowed his head as though in silent prayer. From far off, Old Tom’s chimes sounded. The notes were barely audible above the wind, but when they’d finished, the ogre opened his eyes. His hand stopped trembling.
“Bob will not let you down.”
~ 4 ~
Dregs and Driftwood
Three days later, the cottage on Crofter’s Hill was filled to capacity. Its doors were propped open, a cool breeze skimming across as dozens of children sat silent as church mice, their attention fixed upon the ogre’s pale eyes and knuckled skull. Hunched upon his stool, Bob recited a poem in a voice that rumbled like old millstones:
“We know not the MakerBut we know his worksWe smell the badger in his burrow and see old troll on his mountainWe fear the giants on their isles, wild as the stormWe envy men and their warm firesWe scorn the goblins and their low housesWarm blood our wine; winter’s heart our homeWhere stones crack and rivers freeze and woods grow quietYou will find the ogreAnd when all is dust and the lands bled dryYou will find him still”When his slow verse was finished, the ogre blinked as though waking from a dream. Tapping his chin, he frowned. “There is more, I think, but Bob remembers not.”
“Tell us another, then,” pleaded Claudia, a thickset twelve-year-old with shiny black braids. Among the orphans Max had met in Blys, Claudia was the natural leader—a bold and gregarious child who was always inventing new games and activities. Following his previous visit to Bob, Max had sought her out and asked if she might like to meet a real ogre. The girl had nearly fainted with excitement. Within the hour, she had recruited an entire troop of fellow refugees eager to make the trek up Crofter’s Hill.
Bob smiled as Claudia clambered onto his knee across from a toddler who was busy drooling on the ogre’s flannel shirt. “You can tell us a story about Max!” she proclaimed.
“It is almost suppertime,” the ogre observed, his eyes tracing the hazy sunlight that streamed through the windows. “And Bob knows not the verse for him.”
“But Max should have a song,” she insisted. “We can sing about the time he fought Skeedle’s troll on Broadbrim Mountain.”
“Or when he saved Mina from the monster,” suggested a skinny youth named Paolo.
“How about when he rode off with a demon in a fiery carriage?” chimed a cheerful lump nicknamed Porcellino. “We could write a verse about that!”
“Bob believes you could,” replied the ogre solemnly. “But it is unwise to sing songs of the living. The Fates might think their tale is finished. And our Max’s tale is not finished yet, is it, malyenki?”
“Not yet.” Max smiled, giving Mina’s hand a squeeze. Scooting her off his lap, Max stood and stretched. “In fact, I’m running late to train with Sarah. Would you mind walking them back to Wainwright Lane? It’s by the dunes.”
Bob nodded and turned to Isabella, a dark-haired woman knitting by the hearth.
“Would you like to stay for supper?” he inquired. “Bob can cook and after he can see you and the little ones safe to your doors. He would not mind.”
At this, the children erupted in such howls of delight that Isabella had no choice but to accept. Bidding Max farewell, Bob turned his attention to the matter of supper, lumbering about the kitchen and issuing slow, patient orders to his many eager helpers. Within minutes, they were boiling water, emptying the pantry, mixing dough, and picking tomatoes off the vine. When Porcellino dropped a sack of flour, Max skirted the mess to slip outside. Mina followed.
“Don’t you want to stay and cook?” he asked. Shaking her head, she stopped to pet the billy goat, which bleated amiably and lay down on the grass.
“I have lessons with David.”
“Ah. Are you enjoying them?”
“Oh yes,” she replied, leaving the goat to go trotting down the hill, jumping from rock to rock. Max trotted after. “David’s a very good teacher,” she chattered. “So patient and wicked. I should not care to cross words with him.”
“Cross swords,” Max clarified.
“Words,” she laughed. “I should not cross words with patient, wicked David. He’s as patient and even wickeder than Uncle ’Lias.”
“Speaking of words,” Max reflected. “I don’t believe wickeder is one of them.”
“It is within the circles,” she remarked, “and if it’s not, it should be.”
“What circles?” asked Max.
“You know the ones I mean,” she said knowingly. The girl chased after a butterfly at the base of the hill. It flew to Mina’s finger as though obeying a silent command. She stared at its golden brilliance, her eyes shining like opals.
“Mina, are you talking about summoning circles?” asked Max, his smile fading as he came up beside her. Astaroth had forbidden summoning spirits and demons. Even if one was willing to risk such a transgression, it was a profoundly hazardous exercise—one that had cost David Menlo his hand. David had been thirteen when he attempted such dangerous activities; Mina was but seven. Ignoring Max’s question, she merely blew the butterfly a kiss and watched it flutter away.
“Mina,” pressed Max. “What have they been teaching you?”
“Rules.” Mina shrugged, squatting to investigate a chipmunk hole. “How some spirits fear iron and running streams and others special words. They have to answer David when he calls, but they want to see me.”
Max’s mouth went dry.
“Who does?” he croaked. “Who wants to see you?”
“Outsiders,” she replied, peering down the hole. “Scary ones with fiery crowns and faceless ones made of blue smoke and faerie queens so pretty you could stare at them for days! There are others, too—others who call out from places only I can see. Not even Uncle ’Lias can see them.”