Song of the Gargoyle by Zilpha Keatley Snyder

Author:Zilpha Keatley Snyder [Snyder, Zilpha Keatley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4532-7196-4
Publisher: Open Road
Published: 2012-10-23T01:33:00+00:00

ELEVEN

ON THAT FIRST MORNING in Montreff, Tymmon awoke to a mind-shattering clamor. The sound came from everywhere and filled every space so deeply that it almost seemed to arise from inside his skull or even from the pit of his stomach. Tymmon’s sleep-dulled mind, accustomed to the silence of forest mornings, was momentarily stunned and bewildered. And then he remembered—and understood.

The clanging, ringing, chiming waves of sound were only the bells of many churches, announcing Sunday morning and the hour of prime. Leaping up from his pallet, Tymmon stumbled over Troff, caught himself, and hurried to the door, a door that opened onto a stableyard at the rear of the White Boar Inn in the city of Montreff. The sun had not yet risen above the horizon, but a clear pale sky shimmered with its reflected light. An unpaved and dusty courtyard lay before him, beyond which rose the rear wall of the inn, half timbered and three stories high. On his right the stables, long and low and roughly thatched, bordered the courtyard on one side. And directly before him in the center of the yard was a covered well, surrounded by troughs and basins and a jumble of upended pails and tubs.

When the bells ceased to ring, the silence of early dawn returned except for, from somewhere nearby, a lonely rooster’s morning challenge. Up on the second and third stories of the inn the windows were still shuttered against the light. No one stirred in the courtyard. The patrons of the White Boar, it seemed, enjoyed their Sunday morning slumber.

Tymmon stretched and breathed deeply, savoring the almost forgotten smells of civilization—musty, spicy, smoky odors so unlike those of the forest. The deep breath ended in a shivery gasp, as a tingle of nervous excitement raced up his spine. What would Dame Fortune have in store for him today in the great city of Montreff? He could not even imagine. Glancing down at his dirty and bedraggled self, he came to the quick decision that it would be better to meet whatever fate had in store in a cleaner and more presentable condition.

A few minutes later, with the aid of a pail of water from the well, some vigorous splashing and scrubbing, and the spare jerkin from his pack (a little cleaner and less tattered than the other), he was ready to go. Shouldering his pack, he picked up Troff’s leash.

“Well, Troff,” he said. “Shall we try our luck again as minstrels?”

Troff, who had been patiently watching Tymmon’s preparations from a spot near the door, leaped to his feet, saying that he was indeed ready and had been for some time.

Tymmon grinned as Troff bounced around him, but then, as he slipped the collar over the gargoyle’s head, he frowned and spoke sternly. “Remember. Remember not to speak to anyone but me and then only silently. Your behavior must at all times be that of an ordinary dog.”

Troff had stopped leaping and stared questioningly at Tymmon, his head cocked.

Tymmon nodded.

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