Song of the Gargoyle by Zilpha Keatley Snyder Read Free Book Online Page A

see Castle Austerneve with people coming and going, stopping to talk to each other, or hurrying on about their business. He could see himself and Lonfar wading in the fosse as they used to do on hot days, splashing each other and laughing wildly.
    And then, in a vision even more clear and distinct—he was home. He was once again in the round room in the northwest tower, with Komus working at his desk, copying a manuscript and looking up, laughing, to say “Tymmon. Listen to this.” And then his smile fading and his face, also. But still repeating softly, as if from a far distance, “Listen, Tymmon. Listen.”
    Tymmon sat up. The fire had burned low, the darkness pressed nearer, and the silence was deep and absolute. But as he threw back his blanket there was a tinkling chime of small bells. The bells of Komus’s cap. For a moment of wild joy he thought his vision was true and he was somehow back in the tower, in their old room, and Komus... But then he moved his foot and the bell rang again. Reaching out, he found it lying near his feet—the jester’s cap that had been the last thing he added to his pack as he began his flight from Austerneve.
    The joy fled. Sadly, Tymmon turned the cap in his hand, running his fingers along the three pointed horns and listening to the tinkling of the bells, a sound he could remember hearing from his earliest childhood. A sound that somehow brought back the strange comfort of the dreamlike visions.
    Smiling, he put the cap on his head and sat staring into the fire, now and then shaking his head gently to hear the familiar chiming of the belled cap—and to bring back the peaceful calm.
    The dreamy distance had returned and his thoughts were flying far and free, when a small sharp sound, perhaps the click of claws on pebbles, brought him back to reality. To the reality of the forest clearing, the dying fire, and just beyond it, a hideous inhuman face.

FIVE
    T HE FACE WAS GRINNING , its loose lips stretched wide to reveal sharp white teeth, its long red tongue lolling to one side. Frozen with fear, Tymmon gasped, “God help me,” and sat motionless, waiting for death. Waiting for the cruel grip of sharp fangs...
    But then suddenly he knew—and almost laughed out loud. It was only a gargoyle. Once again he had let himself be fooled by a gargoyle. He smiled sheepishly, excusing his foolish reaction by blaming it on the strange trancelike state he had been experiencing. A condition caused no doubt by hunger and exhaustion. But it was still more than a little embarrassing to give oneself up to die because of a harmless stone image of...
    The bulging eyes blinked, the grin disappeared, and the tongue flapped up to lick the sagging jowls. Not stone. Not of stone and, he belatedly realized, certainly not where gargoyles were usually to be found—on the eaves of church or castle. But what then? A monster certainly. A monster so ugly that the mere sight of it might well, like the evil Medusa, turn the viewer to stone.
    Tymmon’s hand crept up to test his cheek for evidence of hardening. Still soft and warm. He swallowed hard. Swallowed again and tried to speak.
    “What—what are you? What do you want of me?”
    The monster cocked its head, its jagged bat-wing ears flopping. It certainly looked very like a gargoyle. A new thought occurred. Perhaps it was. Perhaps a magical gargoyle conjured into life by some powerful enchantment.
    “Are you an enchanted creature?” he asked. “A gargoyle brought to life?”
    The creature cocked its head again, to the other side, and then made a short stiff-legged jump in Tymmon’s direction. “Troff,” it said.
    Tymmon shrank back, expecting its next leap to take it over the fire and...
    “Troff,” it said again with what seemed to be a nod.
    A living gargoyle. A gargoyle—perhaps called Troff? “Troff?” Tymmon asked, and moving forward immediately as if it had been summoned, it trotted toward him around the fire. It did not stop until it was