over by now.
Peter decided he might as well go through the motions of sleeping, too. There was nothing more tedious than being the only one sober among a pack of flaked-out roisterers. When the old woman lurched into the mouth of the cave and brought out armloads of fresh rushes to cover the floor for their comfort, Peter collapsed on one of the heaps, made sure his druidical robe was decently covering his lower elevations, and mingled his snores with the rest.
But he kept his eyes half open. He was still uneasy about what he might or might not have seen at the bottom of that drinking horn.
Chapter 6
M AYBE HE’D DROPPED OFF for a minute or two. The old woman was crouched by the fire now, feeding it with little sticks. Peter couldn’t imagine what kind of wood they might be. They were burning with an odd, greenish brown flame; giving off a powerful, musty odor nothing like ordinary wood smoke. Maybe they weren’t tree branches, but stalks of some herb or other. Fleabane would have been nice. Like Adam, he was sure by now he had ’em. Or else it was just prickles from the rushes he was lying on.
So this was what it had been like in the halcyon days of yore, he thought drowsily. The puncheon floor wasn’t intolerable to him now, but how would it feel to aging bones on a winter’s night, with the wind howling in around the edges of that cowhide door, and nothing to keep one from freezing to death but a fire of twigs and a rotten sheepskin? That one rug of hers must have begun to decay. He could smell putrefaction.
Or was it only that the old woman had started taking off her clothes? That was an unkind thought. But drat it, she’d probably never taken a bath in her life.
Then again, the smell might be coming from the cave. They’d been stepping back into the tunnel and employing one of the niches as a comfort station, since she wouldn’t let them go out into the woods and they could hardly use a corner of the hut. Though maybe their hostess herself wouldn’t have been so fussy.
Come to think of it, he’d heard some pretty feculent stories about what the plumbing had been like in those fairy tale castles the Stott kids’ Aunt Matilda had no doubt-filled their infant minds with. Why couldn’t such places stay in storybooks? What if he got stuck in this unhygienic fantasy? What if he never got back to the college? What if he never saw Helen again?
If he were Torchyld, he could at least cry. As it was, he didn’t even dare swear out loud for fear of embarrassing that pathetic old—Great jumping jehoshaphat! Why was she making those hideous grunting noises?
Thinking the woman must be in some kind of trouble, Peter opened the eyes he’d modestly shut when she began to undress. He hadn’t expected to see anything pretty. He could never, never have anticipated what he saw.
She was naked now, her body turned toward him. One pair of withered breasts would have been enough to turn his stomach. This woman had five pairs, lined up on both sides of her torso like the dugs of an old sow.
She looked bigger without her clothes. Much bigger. Good God, she was growing before his eyes. Could that stuff she’d been burning be having a hallucinogenic effect on him? Or was the peasant face he’d thought so simple, so careworn, actually being transformed? Was the nose lengthening into a snout? Had the eyes become little dark rounds that flared red when the firelight hit them?
And the teeth! She’d seemed to have no teeth at all, supping up the broth from the trencher and gumming Stott’s melted cheese off an acorn cake. Now the mouth showed great, pointed incisors and horribly tusklike canines. He didn’t even want to imagine the bicuspids.
She was splashing some dark stuff on her ropy arms, smearing it around her frightful snout. He wondered what it could be. Then he knew, and wished to God he’d never eaten from that accursed cauldron.
This was no peasant. This was Cerridwen, or one of her litter, and the way she
Peter decided he might as well go through the motions of sleeping, too. There was nothing more tedious than being the only one sober among a pack of flaked-out roisterers. When the old woman lurched into the mouth of the cave and brought out armloads of fresh rushes to cover the floor for their comfort, Peter collapsed on one of the heaps, made sure his druidical robe was decently covering his lower elevations, and mingled his snores with the rest.
But he kept his eyes half open. He was still uneasy about what he might or might not have seen at the bottom of that drinking horn.
Chapter 6
M AYBE HE’D DROPPED OFF for a minute or two. The old woman was crouched by the fire now, feeding it with little sticks. Peter couldn’t imagine what kind of wood they might be. They were burning with an odd, greenish brown flame; giving off a powerful, musty odor nothing like ordinary wood smoke. Maybe they weren’t tree branches, but stalks of some herb or other. Fleabane would have been nice. Like Adam, he was sure by now he had ’em. Or else it was just prickles from the rushes he was lying on.
So this was what it had been like in the halcyon days of yore, he thought drowsily. The puncheon floor wasn’t intolerable to him now, but how would it feel to aging bones on a winter’s night, with the wind howling in around the edges of that cowhide door, and nothing to keep one from freezing to death but a fire of twigs and a rotten sheepskin? That one rug of hers must have begun to decay. He could smell putrefaction.
Or was it only that the old woman had started taking off her clothes? That was an unkind thought. But drat it, she’d probably never taken a bath in her life.
Then again, the smell might be coming from the cave. They’d been stepping back into the tunnel and employing one of the niches as a comfort station, since she wouldn’t let them go out into the woods and they could hardly use a corner of the hut. Though maybe their hostess herself wouldn’t have been so fussy.
Come to think of it, he’d heard some pretty feculent stories about what the plumbing had been like in those fairy tale castles the Stott kids’ Aunt Matilda had no doubt-filled their infant minds with. Why couldn’t such places stay in storybooks? What if he got stuck in this unhygienic fantasy? What if he never got back to the college? What if he never saw Helen again?
If he were Torchyld, he could at least cry. As it was, he didn’t even dare swear out loud for fear of embarrassing that pathetic old—Great jumping jehoshaphat! Why was she making those hideous grunting noises?
Thinking the woman must be in some kind of trouble, Peter opened the eyes he’d modestly shut when she began to undress. He hadn’t expected to see anything pretty. He could never, never have anticipated what he saw.
She was naked now, her body turned toward him. One pair of withered breasts would have been enough to turn his stomach. This woman had five pairs, lined up on both sides of her torso like the dugs of an old sow.
She looked bigger without her clothes. Much bigger. Good God, she was growing before his eyes. Could that stuff she’d been burning be having a hallucinogenic effect on him? Or was the peasant face he’d thought so simple, so careworn, actually being transformed? Was the nose lengthening into a snout? Had the eyes become little dark rounds that flared red when the firelight hit them?
And the teeth! She’d seemed to have no teeth at all, supping up the broth from the trencher and gumming Stott’s melted cheese off an acorn cake. Now the mouth showed great, pointed incisors and horribly tusklike canines. He didn’t even want to imagine the bicuspids.
She was splashing some dark stuff on her ropy arms, smearing it around her frightful snout. He wondered what it could be. Then he knew, and wished to God he’d never eaten from that accursed cauldron.
This was no peasant. This was Cerridwen, or one of her litter, and the way she
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