The Face in the Frost

lipped arches was blocked by a portcullis of thick square iron bars. Behind each grate, at a distance of about twenty feet, was another grate, and so on as far as they could see in the rising coal-faced tunnels. The two men could only sit there and wonder how the black iron frames had been fitted into place, and whether they were lowered and raised by counterweights or by hand winches.

'Well,' said Roger, as he got out of the carriage, 'whoever they are, they're protected.' He picked up a stone and threw it at the gate. It pinged and flew back at him.

'They certainly are,' said Prospero, 'and what is more, since I threw the tarots away, I don't believe I have the power to rip up cardboard. Destroying spells have never been much in my line anyway.'

'Or mine,' said Roger. He pounded his staff on the ground in frustration, threw it down, turned on his heel, and stomped off into some high bushes at the side of the road. By the way that he shoved the branches away from him, Prospero could tell that Roger was angry. He expected him to kick around in the bushes, swearing for a while, so he was surprised when Roger came back immediately with a smile on his face.

'Come here,' he said, 'I want you to see something'

Roger led Prospero back through the bushes-forsythia, of all things, like the ones in Prospero's back yard-and down a steep sandy path to a little look­out point. Across a small grassy valley, which was already beginning to fill with the reddish-brown mist of sunset, there was a square tower on a tall spiny pinnacle of rock. The light was bad, and even with his telescope, Roger could not be sure, but it looked as though the tower was attached to the face of the mountain by a small arched bridge.

Roger was pointing excitedly. 'Look, Prospero! There's our way in. Do you suppose it's a watchtower? If it is, there'll be soldiers, but if they don't have seventeen portcullises to hide behind, we may be able to get in.'

Prospero borrowed the telescope and squinted. 'No, it certainly doesn't look like a watchtower-at least, it wasn't built for that purpose. It has four little pinnacles with knobby ornaments on them. Looks like a church tower, but where is the church that goes with it?'

'Whatever it is,' said Roger, 'I'd suggest that we head for it If it's abandoned and it isn't a way in, we can stay there the night. The carriage and horses will have to stay here, but there's some grass by the roadside. If anyone tries to steal the rig, they will go home in a squash.'

'All fine and good,' said Prospero, 'but we are here and the tower is there. It looks about three hundred feet down to the ground, and I doubt if that boat in your bag flies.'

'You might look over the edge of the cliff,' said Roger.

Prospero did, and he saw stairs, wide stone slabs, some broken, some worn into cups in the middle, running back and forth down the cliff face.

'You wait here,' said Roger. 'I'll unhitch the horses and get the bags.'

Soon, they were picking their way down the steep railless stairway. Prospero's acrophobia was as bad as ever, if not worse-he kept his eyes on the rock wall and rubbed it with his shoulder, though it would have taken a concerted effort or a high wind to throw him off. At some points, they found landings, wide stone platforms with parapets and stacks of boulders. These rocks, which were not too large to be lifted by strong men, had probably been put there to be dropped on the heads of pursuers. They had been there so long that they appeared to have melted into pointed humps, like piles of snowballs that were never used. When the wizards got to the bottom of the cliff, they looked across the grassy field. A light was burning high up in the tower.

As they started toward it, Prospero talked to Roger about the quietness and warmth of this mountain valley. The strange snows, the frightening sounds and sights of the plain below were not here. Twilight was drawing on, soft and deep blue, and stars could be seen overhead. It was warm for October, too-Prospero even imagined that he heard the slow finger-and-comb sound of crickets. The remark about this being, perhaps, the eye of the storm was too obvious and too frightening to be made by either of them. When they got close to the tower, they found that they were standing in the middle of jumbled stone blocks,– carved and pie-faced angels stared out of bushes and ditches, and a red flaking iron cross stood upright in the middle of a wild rosebush. This was the church, destroyed by some landslide or earthquake. The tower rose straight above them on its freakish nail of rock, which was wrapped around by another stair, this one railed for a change.

'This is all very convenient.' said Prospero, looking up at the long lighted window. 'I hope we are not going to be the guests of some ogre.'

'We shall see,' said Roger. And, they started up.

At the top of the stairs, they saw an open arched door, and in front of it stood a blond-bearded monk. He was holding a metal basket of fire on a wooden stick, and when they reached the last few steep steps, he stuck the torch in the wall and helped them up.

'Greetings,' he said. 'Welcome to the Green Oratory. I'm here by myself, and I'm probably the only monk for miles.'

'I wouldn't be so sure,' said Roger. He tipped his hat and showed the bald spot on his red-fringed head. 'What are you doing up here?'

'I grow plants,' said the monk. 'And, I do things with them. Come in and let me show you around.'

The guided tour of the Green Oratory showed that the monk indeed grew plants: lime trees in tubs, frazzled cacti in barrels, jack-in-the-pulpits in pots, and Venus's-flytraps in cages. He had built flooring to divide the bell tower into rooms; they were connected by ladders, but Prospero's fear of heights extended to fear of straight-up ladders, so he went up the dumb­waiter with the luggage. When they came to the top of the belfry, there were the bells, dirty and pigeon-streaked, but they had been turned upside down and filled with dirt. Vines and creepers with purple leaves and red waxy droplet flowers dripped over their sides. The monk would not tell Prospero and Roger how he kept the steamy atmosphere of an arboretum in this cold stone building, but he did enjoy exchanging plant information with Prospero.

Now, they were on the roof, where all sorts of night-blooming flowers opened, bells, trumpets, and puffy Chinese-lantern mouths. The roof of the tower was covered with a burgundy-colored moss that Prospero had never seen before. Roger was smiling and shaking his head while the monk walked around, fingering leaves and talking proudly of his collection. Prospero finally had to interrupt him.

'Please. All this is lovely, but we've got to get to the village beyond this mountain. Is there any way in?'

The monk looked unhappy. 'I saw you coming down the stairs on the other side, so I guess you know about those gates. The villagers chased me out a couple of months ago when I was picking mushrooms at night. They have plants up there that you wouldn't believe. Why... oh yes. No, that's the only way up. But, why go there? It's really not a very friendly place these days.'

'I can't explain,' said Prospero, thinking wearily of all the people to whom he had said 'I can't explain,' 'but we've got to get in. Haven't you been wondering why it's still almost like summer up here in this valley? And, haven't you heard what's happening down below?'

The monk pointed to a little white dovecote in the corner. 'I've heard, all right-from them-and I hope I can ride it out. I don't know much magic except plant magic, but I can tell you that this is not a healthy place now. It's close and muggy down in that valley there at night. Come over to the edge and look down.'

Prospero and Roger saw a blue mist floating below-it was like water, and like water, it distorted shapes. Broken rocks looked wavy, and tall stalks bent sharply at the top. Long grass was rippling like weeds at the bottom of a stream.

'It all looks as though it might blow away in a minute,' said the monk 'When I'm down there at night, I don't feel real at all.'

'I've seen worse than that down on the plain; said Prospero. 'And, we may be able to stop all this, God knows how. Isn't there any way up? Think!'

The monk walked around, pounding his fist in his hand. He kicked a tin watering can across the roof.

'Way up. Way up. Say! No, that's ridiculous. Still...wait here a minute.'

He went down through the trap door, and made a lot of noise in the room below. When he came back up, he was carrying two pots, and in each one was an ordinary-looking creeper vine.

'This,' he said, 'is Sensitive Anaconda.'

'It looks like Creeping Charlie to me,' said Prospero, who had such a plant in his front parlor.

The monk looked hurt. 'Well, it isn't. And, it may get you over that wall. Follow me, and may I request silence?'