The Face in the Frost

8

8

Around two in the morning, Prospero woke up, and his feet were on the cold floor before he knew what had awakened him. Downstairs, someone was pounding on the big front door. They were heavy resonant blows, not made with a fist, but with something harder, like the butt end of a sword. Resisting the urge to throw open the window and shout insults, Prospero got up and looked through the glass. He had been about to light a candle, but he put it down now and opened the window slowly, so that he could hear what was being said. There were soldiers down there, mail-shirted pike men in rusty soup-plate helmets. They carried saw-toothed bills, blunt-ended broadswords, maces, and battle-axes. Even in the waning moonlight, Prospero could see that their equipment was dirty and corroded; some of the pike points were cockeyed, and only half of the men-there were fifty altogether that he could see-wore coats of arms of any kind. Those that did had the badly sewn-on emblems of some local ruler, a shield with three Greek crosses and a hatchet. Now, there was a scraping of bolts as the innkeeper opened up. The man who had been doing the pounding-Prospero could not see him because of the overhang-shouted.

"All right, men! Come on in. A few drinks and then we've got work!"

The pike men, some of them hawking and spitting loudly, clattered in after their leader. Outside Prospero's door, there was a small staircase that led down to a dark pantry full of brackish-smelling empty barrels. The wooden partition of the service window was slid back just a bit, and through it, Prospero saw the stamping grouchy soldiers sloshing beer from stoneware jugs into their tankards. The leader was dumping coins into the cupped hands of the sleepy-eyed innkeeper, who asked what was going on.

"We're going over to the north to burn that town... Bow... what's its name?"

"Bishops Bowes," said the innkeeper. "Why are you doing this?"

"We've finally figured out what's going on. Town's full of evil people. Witches. I have an order here from Duke Harald to burn it to the ground. Here, look at it. Not that you have anything to say in this."

He unrolled a long parchment that trailed lead and yellow wax seals on twisted strings of skin, The signature, a cross with a letter on each point, was so large that it covered a quarter of the page.

"They deserve it, too," the leader went on. "You've seen the things. Half the people in Wellfont are afraid to go down into their own cellars. Shadows moving, screams from kettles when there isn't any fire. Well, a little fire'll teach em. A couple of my men are out getting wood for torches. Do you have any pitch?"

"In the basement. I use it on the roof."

"That's fine. We're going to use it on the roof too." He laughed, spitting flecks of brown beer on the muddy floor.

Prospero did not wait any longer. He climbed the steep stairs quietly hands on the dark steps in front of him, and soon, he was shaking Roger awake.

"Come on. They're going to burn the village. How far is Bishops Bowes?"

Roger sat up. "Uh? Hah? Bishops Bowes? Five miles. There's a bridge; that's why it's called Bishops Bowes. 'Bowes' are the arches of a bridge. Wait till I get dressed."

In a few minutes, the two wizards were opening one of the several side doors of the inn. A cold beaded lamp on a curved hook hung over them, and a few late fall insects clung to the mottled glass. Each man could see how nervous the other looked.

"Well," said Prospero, whispering, "have we got everything?"

"I thing so. Let's hope those louts stay here for a while. We will have to walk fast."

And, they did walk fast. For old men, Roger and Prospero could really travel on foot if they had to, and before long, the noisy inn with its clattering cans and torchlight was far behind. In a rising wind that thrashed the nearby bare bushes by the roadside, they hiked down the gravelly strip of yellow clay. There was the bridge, a long flattened arch of close-fitted unmortared stones. Bishop Hatto's arms were carved in relief on the keystone faces. Trickling moss hung over his moons and dogs' heads, and his miter was trimmed with stars of yellow stonecrop. At each end of this wide bridge sat a pair of stone wardens, giant Norse chessmen in high backed chairs, hunched gloomy kings with swords on their knees. The keepers of the Bishop's Bridge sat staring with deep-drilled empty pupils. Prospero hung his hat on one of them.

"Well, here we are. Roger, you'd better go ahead and get the townspeople out of bed. You know the people around here and I don't. Don't scare them too much. I think I can keep these clots at a distance for a while."

Roger walked out onto the bridge and looked over the side. Fast water hissed around the back marble pillars. Little clusters of bubbles moved downstream.

"I hate to say this," said Roger, "but I think you'd better destroy this bridge. I've been thinking about some things on the way here. Harald is one of the few southern kings with a real following, and he is also one of the few who think looting and burning are manly sports. There'll be more soldiers before we get rid of Melichus, if we can. And, there are no stone bridges for three hundred miles either way. We can count on the Northerners on the border to burn the wooden bridges if it looks like war."

"I guess you're right. Very well, I'll meet you when this business is over. And this time, don't turn into a monster."

"I'll try not to. Good luck." Roger waved and walked across the bridge, clicking his staff on the rough stones of the railing.

Now that Prospero was alone, he found that he wanted to smoke. Out came the stubby brier and the tin matchbox with the nutmeg-grater sides. Brrrip! went the match, and it shot little pin sparks before flaming an acrid yellow. Prospero lit his pipe and threw the match into the water, where it sank like a nail. It gave a skyrockety ka-foosh, and the whole river under and around the bridge was lit up. Awakened fish swam in little flipping darts and a turtle started to swim toward the surface. Prospero was leaning over the rail and laughing at the idiocy and essential triviality of a wizard who made magic matches. He laughed until he realized that he hadn't the faintest idea of how to destroy a bridge.

And now, the soldiers were coming. He could hear them clanking and stomping, and over the black horizon was a bouncing orange glimmer. They must be about two hills away, he thought. Bridges. How to destroy a bridge. No time to go riffling through the book, and anyway he knew he wouldn't find anything there. Tarot cards? Ha! Well, it was worth a try, and from the sounds up the road, he would only have one try. He dug into the bag and brought out a pack of tarot cards in a painted cardboard case. But, which ones to use? Some sort of logic had to be followed, and it would take several years to try all possible combinations. What about the four aces at the corners and the tower struck by lightning in the center? All right, but hurry!

He ran from one corner of the bridge to the other. Using candle wax to hold down the cards, he put the aces of cups, coins, staves, and swords on the four rail ends of the bridge. The wind had died down, so it was easy to hold the cards in place. A whack of his hand squashed the pasteboard against the wax. Now, he was in the middle of the bridge again, holding the tower card that signifies madness and destruction. He pasted it to the center of the bridge, on the pentagonal block that lined up with the two keystones. Stamping on the card with his heel, he shouted:

He was not surprised when nothing happened. The duty straw-covered stones were still in place. The fern-capitaled marble columns that Bishop Hatto had stolen from a church still held up their load. And, the soldiers were coming.

They were at the top of the hill that looked down on the bridge. A clus­ter of shiny blood flashed kettles with dark bristled faces underneath. Tipping pike poles and pendulum-swaying chain maces. Prospero stood and watched them come. They probably can't see me yet, he thought, with those blazing torches and a moonless night. He walked to the rail and relit his pipe. The troop halted at the edge of the bridge with a dishpan clatter. Their leader squinted into the darkness for a minute, and then, he handed his torch to someone. He drew his sword, a plain iron blade without bosses or jewels. Now, his feet were clumping on the pavement.

Prospero felt the ragged blade point touch his beard.

"Well, old man, what are you doing here?"

"Looking at the fish, an it please Your Lordship." Prospero tipped his hat and blew smoke out of the corners of his mouth.

"Really? In the dark? You'll be able to see them better from the bottom of the river."

"Ah, but I won't be able to smoke in all that wet, will I?"

Prospero raised his arm and threw his pipe on the stones, where it burst with a sudden red flash that lit the faces of the two men. A second after came an aerial-bomb thud that hurt the ears of everyone standing near. The leader's sword flew into the air and came down looking like a big buttonhook. He ran back, holding his ears, and little corkscrewing ribbons of fire screeched after the army, as they turned into a colliding, shouting metal thicket that hustled away down the road.

Prospero stood there wishing that he knew how to destroy bridges. An image came back that had registered in his mind when he first saw the bridge. One of the staring stone wardens had a little crack around his neck. Prospero ran to the figure, pulled off the head, and with a sudden heave, threw it off the bridge. The carved lump hit the mud with a thock, and now, he could see a little square hole in the neck. A piece of paper was in it. Without stopping to read the charm, which might have been interesting at another time, Prospero tore it up and went back to the middle of the bridge. He tapped the card with his staff.

The mate of the headless statue pitched forward on its face, one of the mossy coats of arms fell into the stream, the pillars shook in their muddy sockets, and the bridge started to lurch in hiccupy spasms. But, it did not collapse.

The soldiers were coming back now, shouting. Prospero thumped his staff as if he was churning butter, all the while shouting, "Break, blast you, break!" When the soldiers were on the bridge again, bill points lowered for a charge, they saw a sweating old man throw down his stick. He took the remaining cards from his pocket and threw them in the air. A fountain of orange-and-black strips fell around him. The cloud of cards started to whirl and a stiff streaming wind began to blow between the high curbs of the bridge, freezing the little army in the act of charging, so that for a moment, it looked like a statuary group. Then, they were blowing down the road, skidding on rocks and vaulting very professionally on bending pike staffs. The wind blew them flat to the ground and kept on blowing. Five miles away, the innkeeper of Five Dials was emptying a tub of dishwater in his back yard, a little alcove in the cup of the overhanging cliff. He heard a whizzing overhead and looked up to see the copper weather-cock spinning into a blurry ball. As he watched in stupid amazement, he heard a bang out in front. Peeking around the shingled corner, he saw a helmet rocking in the road like a little round boat.

Back at the bridge, Prospero was running on a pitching stone deck. Slime-haired blocks popped up and fell into the stream. He heard long roar and many heavy splashes behind him, and suddenly, he was standing on a tipping pile of stones. One arm heaved the bag to the bank; the other threw the staff spinning into the dark grass. A standing broad jump brought him to the bank, where he fell into a clump of thistles. He rolled out of it and sat there with little forked burrs littering his robe. A shadow moved over his head as one of the stone men-there were two on this side as well-stood up on grinding stone knees, raising a thick sword in blocky fists.

The glum face nodded, the knees cracked, and the statue, sitting in his chair again, slid backwards down the bank.

At Bishops Bowes, the first thing Prospero saw was Roger sitting on a keg of onions in the middle of the empty street. He was smoking and staring placidly around at empty windows.

"They're all gone," he said. "They were gone when I got here. I suppose the news got to them and they fled to some castle. How did your bridge go?"

"I tell you about it later," said Prospero, who was still picking burrs out of his robe. "What are we going to do now?"

"Well, I've looked around the town. There are two horses left in the stable here. I suggest that we take them and leave some money. It's a long way to the mountains, and you can feel that something is gathering. I felt it all the way up here from the bridge."

"But, I can't ride a horse!" said Prospero. "You know that. I was frightened of ponies when I was a child. And, it won't do you any good to give me riding lessons, I'm still scared."

"Fine figure of a wizard" said Roger, chuckling, "Ah, me. You'll never guess what I'm going to do. Or try to do. Come on."

Roger led the way out of the little town to a thickly planted and weedy garden. The black mucky soil sprouted string beans in pale green clusters-their pods felt sticky and furry to Prospero as he bent down to look at them-the delicate ferny tops of carrots, big clumpish cabbages, and tomato vines on leaning crutches. Roger passed these by. He was looking for something else.

Prospero suddenly knew what was going on. "Oh, good heavens! Great elephantine, cloudy, adamant heavens full of thunder stones! Roger! You can't be serious. Are you?"

Roger was looking around and drumming his forefinger against his teeth. "If I were serious, I would never have become a wizard, would I? The fact that it's been done before doesn't stop it from happening again. And, we've got to get there somehow."

"There are no pumpkins in this garden," said Prospero. "Anyone can see that." He reached up a vine and broke off a tomato. The slippery red flesh was already getting loose and wrinkly. "Here. Work on this."

"Thanks," said Roger sourly. "We'll see. And, wouldn't you be surprised."

"I would," said Prospero. "And, I'm watching. What kind of spell are you going to use?"

"Something appropriately silly," said Roger. "Hum. Те tum. Oh, tum te tum. "Awe bleteth after lamb, Ihuth after calve cu'... ah!"

He put the tomato down in the middle of a patch of spear-bladed weeds. Touching it with his wand, he recited calmly:

At first, the tomato just wobbled foolishly on its platform of weeds. Then, it swelled and spun into a reddish cloud of gaseous bromine-deadly if inhaled-which gradually took the shape of a carriage. Unfortunately, it was the kind of carriage you would expect from an overripe tomato: a large sagging purse of red leather on prickly green wheels. As Prospero and Roger watched disgustedly, the wet jowly bag collapsed, oozing ketchup from many slurping cracks.

"Care for a bean?" said Prospero.

"You be quiet. Just be quiet. Look, there's more to this garden. Come on."

They walked farther in, stepping over rows of parsnips and cauliflow­ers. Vines, finally, and on them, knobbly green-streaked yellow squashes When Roger picked one up, he noticed that it was rotten black under­neath: Yellow strings of pulp and seeds hung from the caved-tn belly of the plant. One after another he turned them up, and they were all like that. He was about to give up when he saw a little streak of orange under an intri­cately knotted pile of vines. This squash was solid; he thubbed his staff against its goose-pimpled sides.

"This will do nicely. All right, stand back."

The squash flew into a saffron-powder rage, and when the dust settled, there was a square black Amish-style box carnage. It smelled faintly of kerosene, the leather-strap springs were cracked, but it looked serviceable. On the doors and ceiling, for some reason, were dusky paintings of river landscapes, and the black horsehair-filled upholstery had silver ashtrays set into its tufted armrests. Two bull's-eye oil lamps burned on the front.

"There!" said Roger. "Lets get those horses."

The two wizards went north. For days, they rode across flat tableland where nothing, but long yellowed grass and dusty goldenrod grew. In the distance, you might see a tree or one of those tall watchtowers that the Northerners built. Those towers were not like anything seen in the south; Round, narrow, and with pointed stone roofs, they looked like huge candles,-usually they had three floors, connected by ladders, that could be pulled up through holes in case of attack. You could not hold out for long in them if you were besieged, but a fire could be lit on the upper story and the smoke could be seen for miles. Once Prospero, and Roger found one of these towers planted next to the road on which they were traveling. It was night and there were soldiers outside, sitting around a peat fire. They were not laughing, drinking, or telling stories. Instead, they sat grimly hunched over, poking the fire with their spears and wearing their acorn helmets. Long narrow nose pieces, fire-shadowed, made their faces look evil. They must have heard the carriage rattling along miles away, but none of them looked up as it rolled past, spitting gravel. They were waiting for something else.

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:

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.

"Listen," be said, whispering, "I think it's all right for us to stay here the night. But, I keep expecting things to pounce on us when we stop. Doesn't it seem strange to you that we haven't been attacked or followed?"

"Yes, but remember how much that poor monk had to concentrate to get anything out of the book. Melichus may have given up on us. From what I can see, his work is progressing. Of course, he may be waiting for us to get to the cottage. He may-oh, let's not think about it till we have to. At any rate, I'm hungry. Let's go in and eat."

He got out of the carriage and followed Roger into the house. As they walked up the path, Roger pointed up to the buck-toothed pumpkin faces.

"If we had had one of those, we'd be traveling in a state coach."

Prospero managed a little smile. He was still thinking about the lettering in the churchyard. And, he knew Roger was forcing cheerfulness.

Later, inside, the two travelers from the south sat at a smooth pine table, talking to the farmer and his wife over the ruins of a large veal-and-ham pie. It was Prospero's private and crankily repeated opinion that veal-and-ham pie was next in tastelessness to raw potatoes, but he had forgotten that opinion this evening, with the help of a sharp brown sauce made from quinces. Roger usually warned Prospero about the effect of condiments on his stomach, but tonight he kept quiet, because his friend was beginning to come out of a dangerous depression that had been on him since the bridge-wrecking incident. Part of the reason for Prospero's sudden cheerfulness was the unlikely interior of the house. The farmer, it seems, was a woodcarver, and he had filled the shelves of this long low room with scenes from local mythology: Fat saints shoved pigs through fences, elderly ladies pelted ogres with rocks, drunken kings dropped chairs out of windows onto wandering minstrels. But, the best thing of all in the room was the clock over the mantel, a Nuremberg circus of cows with clacking jaws, stumbling ducks, frantically dancing angels, and waltzing bishops. In the center window over the dial was a little man who kept missing the bell with his hammer as the bell bobbed up and hit him on the head. All this, at least, is what the farmer said the clock was supposed to do. It wasn't running, and when Roger asked why, the farmers wife pointed at the dark window. Prospero sat there with a strange look on his face. He got up and walked the length of the room to the fireplace, and he stood there for several minutes, toying with the jointed wooden dolls. Then, grasping the mantel, he leaned up on tiptoe and put his lips to the keyhole in the side of the clock. He whispered so softly that no one in the room heard him.

"Melichus is a fool."

Picking up the wooden crank, Prospero wound up the clock and set the pendulum swinging. The cows flapped their jaws inanely, the ducks stumbled uncertainly over the wooden platform, bishops waved their crosiers and clicked their heels, and-Prospero shoved the hands to twelve-the bewildered wooden man swung twelve times at the painted bell and missed, while the bell caught him twelve times on his shiny brass nose.

Prospero went back to his seat. "I think," he said, "that I will sleep better tonight."

The next morning, at the chilly hour of six, Prospero stood at the front door of the cottage, thanking his host, while Roger hitched tip the horses and brushed hay off the carriage. The farmer had a tin box in his hand, and he was tapping it as he talked.

"I didn't think of this till morning. We-my family-have been living in this house for several hundred years, and a long way back an old man spent the night here. He did all sorts of strange things, like cleaning out a poisoned well and making the fire burn different colors. We've got all this written down. Now, before he left, he gave us this key, and said that a man with the initial of P should have it. Lord knows we've had enough people here that filled that bill, even in my lifetime; Pruett, Pillion, even Pickthatch. But, I have a feeling you're the one who's supposed to get it. And, if you're going north to try to do something about what's happening..."

"I didn't say that," said Prospero. "Please don't spread rumors like that."

"I won't," said the farmer smiling. "I wouldn't even if you had told me what you're doing. At any rate, here it is."

Prospero opened the banged-up old tin box. Inside, wrapped in a blackened rag was a little brass key. The teeth were cut out in a cross pattern, and except for a green crust in the molded ridges of the handle, the key was shiny. There was an inscription on the barrel in squat uncial letters, but it was writ­ten in what looked like Welsh.

Prospero excitedly handed the key to Roger. "Look! You know Welsh. What does it say?"

Roger looked at it, holding it up in the bluish morning air "Yes, it's Welsh it says 'Gwydion of Caer Leon made me. Turn twice.' There. Does that help your?"

Prospero put the key in the buttoned inner pocket of his heavy cloak. "No," he said, "not much." He turned to the farmer. "Tell me, did the old man have a Scottish accent?"

"I wouldn't know one if I heard it, sir. My ancestors wouldn't have, either. There's no record that any of them ever left this country hereabouts, much less the North Kingdom. They wouldn't know a Scottish accent if they heard it."

"I see. Well, thank you very much, and if you wonder what I was doing out back, I was laying down a little spell that will make your dandelion wine the best in the country next year And, use those pentacles I drew for you. They'll keep out many things, though I doubt if they'll help with what we're all worried about."

"Good luck to you," shouted the farmer as they drove out onto the crunching gravel. Prospero leaned out of one shield-shaped door, his foot on the round black carnage step that reminded him of a musical note. He waved and shouted good-by until he could no longer see the humpy loaf of the farm­house, and then, he sat down next to Roger. For a long time, he did not say anything, because he was thinking of the key in his pocket.