“You’re not …” Moot began.
“… intending to attack …” Pluckitt continued.
“… Mendelson Shape?” Slop went on.
“Not with that pitiful excuse for a weapon?” Fillet concluded.
“Well—” said Mischief. “Unless somebody has a better idea?”
“He’s twice our size!” said Sallow.
“Three times!” said Moot.
“He’ll tear out our heart,” said Slop.
“Well, we can’t leave the lady Quackenbush undefended,” Mischief replied.
“I vote we run,” Moot said. “This is a lost cause, Mischief. At least if we get away now, the Key’s safe with us. If we throw ourselves into the fray we’re not just endangering our lives—”
“—which are very valuable—” John Serpent remarked.
“—we’re endangering the Key,” Moot reasoned. “We can’t afford to do that.”
“Moot’s right,” said John Sallow. “We’ve got a chance to run. I vote we take it.”
“Out of the question,” Mischief remarked. “She’s risking her life for us.”
“As I observed,” Sallow replied. “The creature’s half mad.”
“And as I said,” Mischief replied. “You can all shut your cake-holes, because you’re wasting your breath. We’re going to keep Shape away from her as long as we can.”
So saying, Mischief set off running through the grass toward Mendelson, his little knife at the ready.
As he came within six or seven strides of his target, Shape sensed his presence and swung around, the swords whining through the air. His mouth was wide and foamy, as though he was working up an appetite as he approached the tower. The pupils of his eyes had gone to pinpricks, giving him an even more monstrous expression. His aim was poor. The blades missed the brothers by a foot or more, simply lopping off the feathery heads of the prairie grass.
Mischief just ducked down and doubled his speed, running at the enemy.
“Everybody—” he said. “Give the Warriors’ Yell!”
At which point all the Johns loosed a cry so discordant, so insane; so bestial—
“EEEIIIGGGGORRRAAARRGUU—”
—that even Shape hesitated, and for a moment looked as though he might retreat.
Then he seemed to remember the absurdity of his enemy, and instead of backing away he came at them again with the swords. But the Johns were swift. Mischief darted under Shape’s vast hand and pushed his little blade into Shape’s thigh. The knife went in three or four inches and lodged there, blood spurting over Mischief’s hand and arm. It was enough to make the monster let out a cry of rage and pain. He dropped the blades and clutched the wound, gritting his teeth as he pulled the knife out.
Inside the lighthouse, Candy had climbed fifteen steps when she heard Mendelson’s shout. She carefully ascended another three, until she could see through a hole in the wall. She had quite a good view. She could see that Mischief was playing David to Shape’s Goliath out there.
The sight gave her courage. Instead of advancing up the stairs tentatively, as she’d been doing, she picked up her speed. With every step she took, the whole structure rocked and groaned, but she reached the top of the flight without incident and found herself in a round room, perhaps eight or nine feet across.
She’d reached the top of the lighthouse. But now that she was actually up here, where was the light? It was just as she’d feared. If there’d ever been a light up here (which she strongly doubted: this place was more folly than functional), then it had been stolen long ago, leaving just one strange item in the middle of the room: an inverted pyramid, perhaps three feet high and carefully balanced on its tip, its three sides decorated with a number of designs, like hieroglyphics. On the top of the pyramid (or rather on what had been its base) was a small, simple bowl. The purpose to which any of this obscure arrangement might have been put escaped Candy entirely.
Then she recalled what Mischief had said, when she’d remarked that she couldn’t even see a lamp up at the top of the tower. What was it exactly? He’d said something about light being the oldest game in the world? Perhaps this odd creation represented some kind of game, she thought. The problem was that she had no idea how to play it.
And now, as if matters weren’t bad enough, she heard the din of Shape beating down the lighthouse door; smashing it to smithereens in his fury. The noise reached a chaotic climax, followed by a few seconds of silence.
Then came the limping footfall of the monster himself, as he climbed the lighthouse stairs to find her.
“WHERE ARE YOU, CHILD?” Shape growled as he ascended.
The sound of his voice, and the thump and drag of his limping step, froze Candy for a moment. This was like something from a nightmare: being hunted down by some hellish beast; some vile creature that wanted to eat her alive, limb by limb, finger by finger.
No!
She shook herself from her trance of terror. She wasn’t going to let this abomination take her!
She looked around the room for a door that led out onto the narrow balcony that encircled the room. The door in question was directly behind her. She went over to it and turned the handle. It was locked, but that presented no problem to her, not in her present panicked state. She put her shoulder to the rotted wood and forced it open quite easily. Then she stepped out onto the balcony. The boards had been more exposed to the extremes of Minnesota’s summers and winters than the interior floors—and they instantly gave way beneath her weight. She threw herself forward and grabbed hold of the rusted iron railing. Her speed probably saved her life, because two heartbeats later the whole patch of floorboards beneath her right foot crumbled away. Had she not had the support of the railing, she would have surely fallen through the hole and probably dropped to her death.
Very gingerly, she hauled her foot out of the hole and sought out a more reliable place to stand. She could still hear Shape in the tower behind her, calling out singsong threats to her as he climbed. It was some horrible little nursery song he was singing. The kind only a monster like Shape would have had sung to him in his cradle.
“O little one,
My little one,
Come with me,
Your life is done.
Forget the future,
Forget the past.
Life is over:
Breathe your last.”
Doing her best to blot out the sound of Shape’s obscene little lullaby, she scanned the landscape around the lighthouse.
“Mischief!” she yelled. “Where did you go?”
She only had to call once. Then he was there, racing toward the tower through the grass. There was blood on his hands, she saw. Had he wounded Shape? She dared hope so.
“Lady