Read Song of the Gargoyle for Free Online Page A

wolves? Or—he could hardly bear to think of it—what if he found himself in a grove of dead trees and looking up, saw drifting down upon him an evil black shadow and heard the shrill screech of a harpy?
    Harpies had been occasional haunters of Tymmon’s most terrible nightmares for many years. He had always believed completely in their existence, although Komus said he doubted their reality since he had never seen one, nor met anyone who had. But that proved nothing, since Komus seemed to believe in very little, not even in such obvious realities as evil spirits, guardian angels, and the ability of witches to curse herds of milk cows into barren uselessness. And if Komus had not met anyone who had seen a harpy it only meant, perhaps, that those who actually saw one did not live to tell of it. And while it might be true that people who had actually seen a harpy were not numerous, Tymmon knew a great many people, including Mistress Mim, who knew all about them and believed in them completely.
    A harpy, according to his old nurse, was a horrible creature, disgustingly filthy and terrible to look upon. In shape they were half bird and half woman, winged and feathered, with huge clawlike feet whose talons were sharper than any razor. Their faces were those of lovely young maidens except for their wild, cruel eyes and the blood that continually smeared their mouths and dripped from their small, sharp teeth. They lived deep in the forest in groves of dead trees, for their evil was so poisonous that the very trees where they nested soon withered and died.
    Everyone who spoke of harpies described them so, and such tales were much on Tymmon’s mind as he left his resting place at the edge of the forest. He had gone only a few yards down the first faint trail when he came upon the dry, leafless skeleton of a long-dead tree. Turning, he fled in panic back to the edge of the clearing.
    Wet, cold, terribly tired from a lack of rest and sleep, and more miserable than he had ever been before or dreamed of being, Tymmon crouched again in the same spot where he had spent the night, and tried to think and plan.
    To go out again into the open farmlands of the valley would put him in almost certain danger from Black Helmet and his men. But the dangers of the forest, no matter how unseen and uncertain, seemed at the moment more terrible. At last he rose, and pulling the sodden hood of his cape close around his face, he ventured out across the open fields in a southerly direction, into the valley but away from Qweasle and Austerneve Tor.
    The day continued dark and damp with a thin, steady drizzle of rain, and Tymmon’s long cape and even the bundle on his back soon became heavy with water. Crossing the open meadow, he slogged through marshy places that smeared his shoes and gaiters with thick mud. At the edge of a wheat field he came upon a large dirty gray mound, the remains of an old haystack. There, after digging below its wet and moldering exterior, he was able to make himself a cave that was cold and musty but comparatively dry. Unlashing his bundle and finding that his blanket was somewhat drier than his sodden cloak, he wrapped himself in it and quickly fell asleep.
    On waking some hours later, he found that the rain had stopped and a weak sun was waning and he would have to hurry on, to put as much distance as possible between himself and Austerneve before nightfall. After crossing several more fields planted to rye and flax he came at last to a road. At the moment it was deserted—a wide, bare ribbon of muddy earth stretching out to the horizon. He would, he decided, follow the road, as it would undoubtedly lead to other villages or farms where he might find food and shelter, perhaps in exchange for labor.
    He started off along the roadway, but he had not gone far when the jingle of harness and the thud of hooves warned him that horsemen were approaching. Scurrying to hide behind a clump of brambles that grew beside the road, he