"And his power was enough to break such as these?" Fadecourt asked, looking skeptical.
Matt nodded. "He could make anything go to wrack and ruin, if somebody asked him to in the right way. He could freeze these monsters back into ordinary stone, for example, then make them crumble away into powder."
"Why, then, call him up!" Yverne clapped her hands.
"I wish I could—but he went adventuring with a friend of mine, and I can't take him back without asking. Asking him, I mean—and I'd have to find him, first"
"Can you not conjure up some other such spirit?" Fadecourt asked.
Matt sat still for a minute, letting the idea soak in. Then he nodded. "Yes, I could—but we'd be taking a chance. Whatever I got might do as much damage to us as to our enemies—or might not be willing to do what we ask. It's a risk."
"Could it be worse than what awaits us yon?" Yverne nodded toward the mounds of dirt outside the gateway of the shrine.
Matt thought about steel claws and teeth—vanadium steel, to judge from the way that one monster had sheared through a stone—and shook his head. "I don't think so, no—and there would be a chance that I might be able to banish whatever I called up."
"There is a chance that you could not?" Fadecourt stared.
"Depending on what kind of monster I got—definitely."
"Then don't start up something you can't finish off," Narlh growled.
"That's what they told Frankenstein. No, don't ask—he was another, uh, wizard from back home, though not a very wise one. Still, the point's well taken. Anybody got any ideas as to what kind of spirit I could call up, that would be strong enough to get rid of these gargoyles, but not likely to turn against us?"
A very deep silence answered him.
"Well, so much for that idea." Matt sighed.
" 'Tis a question without an answer, Lord Wizard," Yverne said, looking miserable. "What spirit could be strong enough to aid us, yet not apt to wreak unholy mischief upon us?"
"Mischief!" Matt sat bolt upright.
Then he jumped to his feet, stepped over to Yverne, and gave her a big, loud kiss on the cheek. "Thank you, milady! I should have known I could depend on you!"
"What...what have I said?" she asked, eyes round.
"Mischief! Not malice, mischief! A spirit who loves to play pranks, but doesn't get nasty about it unless people deserve it—or turn out not to be able to take a joke."
"But," she protested, "would a spirit of mischief not be one also of evil?"
"Not necessarily. My parish priest, when I was a boy, had a very active sense of mischief—you know, jumping out of dark hallways shouting "Boo!' and that sort of thing. Gave you the willies, if you were an altar boy going into a dark church on a Sunday morning—but it did teach me to be alert."
"With a priest, all well and good." Fadecourt frowned. "But with a spirit, there might be less of goodness to alloy the meanness."
"Well, it could subject us to some very undignified pranks, of course, but no real damage," Matt answered, "as long as we can take practical jokes in good part."
"What spirit is this?" Fadecourt asked with foreboding.
"I can't guarantee the form or the name." Matt tried to smile. "The worst I've heard him called, is Hobgoblin."
"I like not the sound of that," Fadecourt said darkly.
Yverne, however, clapped her hands and cried, "Hop o' My Thumb!"
"Oh." Matt turned to her. "You've heard of him?"
"Aye. 'Tis said the careful housewife will now and again find a sixpence in her shoe, and 'tis his work—but the lazy sloven will discover naught but black stones, or mayhap beetles." She sobered. "Not a pleasant jest."
"You do have to watch your step," Matt admitted. "He has a knack of taking advantage of human foibles, finds them very fertile ground for humor. Not that he's alone in that, of course."
But Fadecourt was still frowning. "How could such a spirit aid us 'gainst monsters such as these?"
"By having fun with them."
"Fun! With...such as these!?"
"Fun," Matt affirmed. "Get them chasing their tails, or something. Look, it's possible, isn't it?"
"Don't tell him no," Narlh advised Fadecourt. "Anything else he dreams up is likely to be worse."
"There is that," Fadecourt admitted, "and these gargoyles are assuredly far worse than aught else we might bethink us of. Nay, Lord Wizard, call thy sprite."
"Okay. Just a minute, though—I have to try to remember the verse." Matt frowned, running through it silently, then looked up. "Okay. Here goes:
He ended holding out his hands, as though pleading, which was not perhaps the wisest idea—for a glimmer appeared in his palm, progressing to a glitter, then a luster of twinkling that clustered and faded—leaving a miniature human being, leaning back cross-legged in Matt's palm, one ankle propped on the other bended knee, hands behind his head, and a wisp of timothy between his teeth. He wore a sort of furry kilt, a feather in his hair, and nothing more. And he was very small. If it hadn't been for the feather, Matt might have thought he was a nut.
Later on, he was to decide he would have been right.
"Those that Hobgoblin call me, and sweet Puck," the apparition rumbled, in a surprisingly deep voice,
"I do their work, and they shall have good luck.
"And who are ye?"
"Uh—a poor wizard, down on his luck." Matt tried to stop goggling, and failed.
"At whom do you stare, horse-face?"
The other three companions were staring, too, but Puck didn't seem to notice them.
"Uh—sorry." Matt managed to blink and forced a smile. The real, genuine Puck! He felt like asking for an autograph. "Just that you're, uh—amazing."
"Certes. Yet not what you did expect?" The manikin sat up, pulling the wisp out of his mouth and tossing it away. "Why, what did you think I am?"
"Uh—well, a little bigger, actually. At least a foot high."
"A foot? Nay, faugh! What use would such a size be? How then could I capture bees to ride, or steal their honey bags? How should I lie in a cowslip's bell?"
"But...I thought that was Ariel..."
"How foolish can you be? Cowslips come from earth, not air." The little man leaped up, standing with legs spread, arms akimbo. "And, too, you did speak with your friend of 'Hop o' My Thumb'—and if 'tis by that name they know me here, 'tis in that guise I'll appear!"
He was, Matt had to admit, fitting the name. He was about three-quarters of the size of Matt's thumb, and he certainly did look as though he was ready to hop with excess energy. In fact, Matt realized he'd better figure out a way to channel all that mischief fast, or it would be turned against him. "Uh—thanks for coming. We really could use the kind of help you can give."