rubbing it. For years, he had used this globe; he had used it on the darkest caves under mountains, and it had always sent out a bright orange light that made fire shadows on the rough stone walls. Now, it glowed a foggy green, giving Prospero a thin misty halo to walk in. He saw that he was in the middle of several tall dark trunks, and that the clearing was out of sight, although it might be only a few yards away. What he wanted was the path that led back to the gate. Of course, the path was not there, so he started to walk through the trees, holding the weak lamp in front of him. A vine swished down from a tree, and Prospero reached up to fend it off. His hand closed on sticky, slippery rope, and he pushed the thing away.
Suddenly, he saw the path. It might not have been the same one, but anyway it was there, and Prospero took it. The hooked branches pulled back as he walked along in the black silence. No noise now, but his soft footsteps on the flattened grass. It seemed to be the same path; at least, he thought he recognized a little black bush that grew almost across it. As he approached the bush, it slumped across his way with a rustle and what sounded like a little cry. He stopped and prodded it with his toe-it squealed and ran away. And then, there was a hand on his arm.
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.
6
6
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 gold-enrod, 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 Scotch 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 yet 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?'
