The Face in the Frost (10 page)

A voice breathed in Prospero’s ear with a wet-leaf smell, and what that voice said, Prospero has never told anyone. He turned, and he grasped an arm, but his hand sank into mud—mud with a center like bone. Frantically, Prospero jerked his hand away, and with his other hand, he shoved the ball of quartz at this breathing, man-sized form. The globe burst with a flash of chilly lightning. Prospero closed his eyes tight and began shoving mechanically at what he could no longer feel. The smell was gone, and Prospero opened his eyes to find that the forest around him was full of fireflies, the last pale magic of the vanished globe. He could see to get out, but he would have to run to make it, because the little dots of light were already going out.

He ran along the path, trying not to look at the things that were going on around him, and as the last fireflies went out, he reached the gate. Outside the fence, the clearing lay in calm starlight. His hand was on the latch when he heard another voice—not the whispering leaf voice, but a little girl’s weak cry.

“Help me! I can’t get out!”

He turned and ran to where he saw a small white blur under a willow tree. But when he clasped the child to him, her head crunched under his hand and the whole body turned to crackling fluttery paper. In the air, someone was laughing, and the laughter was more horrible because it was a child’s—wet, gulping, and somehow harsh. It did not take long for Prospero to reach the gate again, and this time he slammed the gate open with both hands so hard that it rebounded from the stone post. He caught it from the outside, pulled the iron ring, and the latch hooked.

All the rest of the night Prospero walked up and down in the clearing, watching the forest. It was like something seen through glass, engraved and still, like frost-plants on a windowpane. As soon as it was light, he got up and walked back to town. He did not care about the townspeople’s hatred now. Outside the city wall was a blacksmith’s shop, and Prospero walked up to it calmly, like an old customer. The blacksmith looked up in fear.

“Give me a hammer and a chisel,” said Prospero, “or I’ll tie all your horseshoes in bowknots.”

The man gave him the tools. Prospero went back to the forest and kicked open the gate. He marched straight to the clearing, where he found his hat, bag, and staff untouched in the scuffed yellow circle. With the chisel, he hacked away enough of the lettering to undo the awful curse that some local magician had made with rising and falling rows of letters. But even though he had—he hoped—wiped out the curse, he did not want to stay in this place, and in a little while, he was on a north-running road—after he had returned his tools to the startled blacksmith.

CHAPTER SIX

Prospero had been walking for several hours on a road that was little more than a pair of yellow ruts, overgrown with bunch grass and goldenrod, that wound between high weedy banks from whose crumbling sides twisted roots stuck out, groping at nothing. Now, as the red flattened sun sank into a wide bar of blue-black cloud and the oak trees atop the banks began to darken with twilight, he started to wonder how far away the next village was. The shadowy banks drew closer together now, and he walked on through overhanging leafy arches, looking for a signpost of some kind. It was full dark night, moonless and starless, when Prospero stopped at the top of a small hill to examine something planted a little way off the roadside. He swished away some tall wet grass and straggly bushes with his staff, until he could get to the object that had attracted his attention, and when he struck a match, its faint sulphurous light showed a worm-eaten gray post to which a sign was nailed. The signboard itself was so encrusted with yellow dirt and bird droppings that at first it looked blank. But when Prospero had scraped some of the filth away from the warped board, he could read the fading black letters: FIVE DIALS.

“Five Dials sounds interesting,” he said aloud. “But how far, for heaven’s sake?”

One end of the sign was carved into an arrow, but the other end was ragged, as if a part of it had rotted or broken off. The missing piece might have told the mileage, but if there was such a piece crumbling in the mud and nettles at the side of the road, Prospero could not find it. After several minutes of match striking and weed stamping in the mosquito-infested darkness, he straightened up, gave a loud “Phah,” and walked on down the road. But he had not gone a mile when he was very pleasantly surprised by the sight of the village lights, tiny yellow blots glowing in the valley ahead. From the hilltop where he stood, Prospero could see a cozy little cluster of thatched roofs, slate roofs, gables, and copper chimney pots. Over the huddled houses rose the pentagonal clock tower that gave the town its name. The shining dials said ten past seven, but the clock, picturesquely out of order, clanged hoarsely seven times as Prospero stood on the hilltop and listened. He laughed to himself and started down the gently sloping hill into the valley, whistling an old Scots piping tune.
 

A few minutes later, Prospero was standing in one of the narrow streets of the little town, looking for someone who could direct him to an inn. Everyone seemed to be indoors, probably having late supper. Pots clattered and people laughed in the distance. Prospero wandered around the town and, as he passed the rear of the humped stone church, he noticed that one of the clock faces was missing. The other four glowed like little moons, but the fifth was a black hole.

“Ought to change the town’s name,” he chuckled as he kicked a pebble down the street.

At last, he saw a villager coming. Straight up the middle of the cobbled street tottered a comical-faced little old man, who stopped and smiled fatuously at Prospero. The two stood in silence for a minute, and then Prospero spoke.

“I beg your pardon, but could you recommend a good inn here in town?”

The old man pointed his crooked cane toward a shadowy side street and worked his jaws a couple of times before speaking. When he did speak, it was in a wheezy voice.

“Well, ye’d have yer best luck at the Card Player. Go down that alley and turn right. Ye’ll see the sign. Mern crost brig.”

Prospero cupped his ear. “What was that last thing you said?”

The old man looked flustered and shook his head, mumbling.

“ ’S no matter. G’by, Dirks in cairn.”

He hustled unsteadily on, turned the corner, and was gone.

“Funny old man,” said Prospero. “Well, I hope his instructions were right.”

The wizard walked briskly through the dark alley, dodging a small dog that plunged past him. In the next street, which was better lit than the other, he saw at once that the old man had not been wrong. Between two dark shops with high scalloped false fronts was a slate-roofed two-story inn. The four green windows on the first floor were whorled and spiraled with light, and from within came the clatter of silverware and the clank of pewter mugs on wooden tables. As Prospero paused under the gently swinging signboard, he noticed the picture on it: a conjuror with four cards face-down before him on a table. The fifth he held up, and it was blank.

Prospero rapped on the brass-fitted door with his staff. Almost immediately, the door opened and a bar of light streamed into the street. A slightly plump middle-aged woman in an apron stood half in shadow, holding the door. Prospero could see enough of her bland round face to see that she was smiling kindly.

“Welcome!” she said. “You look like a weary traveler. Take a seat near the fire! Either fire! Would you like something to drink?”

Prospero, delighted by the hospitable air of the hostess, entered and found himself in a long smoky common room with a fireplace at either end. There were blazing wall torches, and, overhead, wheel-shaped chandeliers with dripping white candles hung by chains from the square oak beam. Prospero took out his stubby brier pipe, lit it from the fireplace, and settled on a stool near a little group of quietly talking people. The hostess brought him a cold sweating tankard of ale, and he leaned forward to catch the conversation near him.

As the evening wore on—and “wore” was the proper word—Prospero found himself more and more dissatisfied with his surroundings. The place was dull, no doubt about it. For instance, the conversation he had tried to take part in was curiously vague and listless. The people welcomed him and seemed to be cordial, but everyone was—how should he put it?—saying the same thing in different ways. He would have blessed a monologist and was tempted to become one himself, but he felt helpless in the face of this balanced, trivial buzzing. There were no riproaring tale tellers, and no one was bold enough to introduce a song, bawdy or otherwise.

Prospero took to looking around the room. Again, his immediate instinct was to find fault. The large brown tapestry near the door was supposed to show a hunt, but the animal being gored by the spears of the two riders was crudely done; it looked more like a man in a lion suit. The opposite wall was large, smooth, and blank. No ornaments of any kind. The candlestick, on one end of the nearer mantelpiece, was not matched by a mate at the other end. And in the stone front of the fireplace was an escutcheon with a dagger carved on it in low relief. Prosaic. The blank card, when you thought about it, pretty well suited this dreary place. Maybe it was under new management and things were not yet organized. That would explain the sign. The card had held some device of the previous owner’s that was now painted over and, apparently, the new proprietor hadn’t decided what to call the place. Well, at least the food was not bad. Roast beef and Cheddar cheese and more ale. But it
is
blasted boring in here!

Prospero’s thoughts ran this way the rest of the evening. The other guests left in twos and threes, some of them going upstairs to bed. He sat practically alone now, blowing smoke rings. A little magic, perhaps some indoor lightning or stone smoke rings dropped in people’s soup. That might have salvaged the evening. On the other hand, the dour people of this tavern might have responded with pained looks and silence. “Oh, another magician, how tedious! There was one in here last week, etc.” Prospero laughed aloud at this train of thought, startling a man at the other end of the room, who turned, glared at him, and walked out without a word.

Soon Prospero was alone in the long room—alone except for the hostess, who was passing among the tables collecting plates and mugs. He called out to her through the stale drifting smoke.

“Madam! Are there any rooms left for the night?”

She turned and smiled vaguely. “Of course. I’ll take your bag upstairs and open the bed. Stay up as long as you like.”

“Thank you, but I think I’ll go to my room now. It must be nearly twelve, and I am very tired.”

“Very well.”

Prospero pushed through the empty chairs and found his carpetbag, which he had left near the door. He waited until the hostess had put out all the downstairs lights, and then he followed her as she led the way, candle in hand, up the dully gleaming oak steps. There was a mirror in a black oval frame halfway up the stairs, and as he passed it, hardly looking at it, something about it struck him as strange. He was about to turn on the stairs, but he shrugged and went on up.

The hostess gave him the candle as they reached his room.

“Here you are, sir. Sleep well.” And with that, she turned and walked on down the long hall, a glimmering white figure that was soon lost in the musty shadows. Prospero stood watching her go, and then he opened his door. The room looked pleasant enough, if sparsely furnished: a small double feather bed with high sideboards; a table and chair, the latter rush-bottomed; and a long low chest with a little carved strongbox on the top. Prospero put on his nightshirt and stood at the window, smoking a last pipe. The overcast that had hidden the moon and stars was gone now, and the full moon was so bright that for a minute he could not see the features of the appalled face it always wore. Melancholy, something more than the usual sadness of silent rooms, was creeping over him as he stood there looking down at the gray-shining street. He didn’t know why he felt so sad, though he suspected that the lugubrious evening he had spent downstairs was at fault. Well, to bed. He knocked out his pipe into a small lead jar. Just before he got into bed, Prospero happened to glance at the long pitchfork shadow cast on the moonlit floor by a three-branched candelabrum that was on the windowsill. The shadow appeared to be wavering slightly. Prospero leaned over the bedside and stared. The shadow was still. He looked at the candlestick, then rolled over to sleep.

But he did not sleep. Prospero stared at the empty whitewashed ceiling and felt himself grow more nervous hour by hour. The five- (or four-) dialed clock struck one and two and three. And then four—the fourth stroke fell with almost a thudding sound. Wretched clock! Wretched people in this dull dead town! Prospero got up and paced about the room. Something was stirring in his mind and he could not put it together. Idly, he picked up the small walnut strongbox and tried to open it. It didn’t even rattle. The heart-shaped brass lock plate on the front was smooth to his touch. It had no keyhole. He turned the box over, looking for hidden locks and spring releases, but there was nothing. Prospero set the box down with a loud crack that startled him in the silent room. Strange thoughts began to come to him now: locked boxes and empty rooms. Four dials and a black hole. Four cards and a blank. And a dead sound on the stroke of four.
Why did that mirror bother him?

Quietly, Prospero got dressed, took his staff from the corner, and opened the door of his room. The hall was dark and silent. No night lamp burned at the head of the gaping stairway. He fished his metal matchbox out of an inside pocket and struck a light. On a hall table was a squat candle in a dish. He lit it and tiptoed down the stairs to the place where the mirror hung. Prospero stared and felt a chill pass through his body. The mirror showed nothing—not his face, not his candle, not the wall behind him. All he saw was a black glassy surface.