saw the giants,” John said. “Should we be talking aloud, with them lurking somewhere back there?”
“Oh, the giants is no worry,” Chaz said breezily. “They can’t be loosed until they been summoned, an’ …”
He stopped as if he’d said too much, then scowled at John. “Be that as it may, mayhap we shouldn’t ought t’ be talking aloud, anyroad.”
After another hour of Möbius loops, Chaz finally brought them to his strange abode. Unlike the dozen or so stilt-houses that clustered nearby, it was set into the side of a hill. It had a round door that was lightly camouflaged and heavily fortified. Through the doorway, they could see that the ceilings were low, but it seemed a good enough place, if not really one suited to guests.
The area itself was more intriguing to Jack. It was disconcertingly familiar. The trees, what remained of them, were bare, but the soil itself, the reddish hues, the texture … It was all the same, along with the spot nearby where the quarry should be.…
And then he knew.
It was the Kilns, Jack suddenly realized. Home. His home, at any rate. His and Warnie’s, and Jamie’s. Chaz had brought them to the one place Jack most wanted to be, except it wasn’t that place at all—it was a place that looked like home but was really in some hellish otherworld in which they were trapped, perhaps permanently.
“So how have you managed to survive on your own?” Jack asked.
“I makes do,” Chaz said after a moment. “I scavenge, mostly, and trade a little of this, a little of that. But I gets what I needs.”
“I think I need some sustenance,” said John, “if you have anything you can spare, Chaz.”
“My stores is scanty, save for roots and a bone or two,” said Chaz, eyeing the badgers while trying to look as if he wasn’t, “but it may be enough for a thin soup, since we have nothing else t’ put in the pot.”
“Soup—thin or not—sounds fine to me,” Jack said, folding his arms and standing protectively in front of the badgers. “I just wish we had Bert’s magic stone to help it along.”
“Ah yes,” said John. “His Stone Soup. Meal fit for, well, a king. Or a group of lost scholars.”
“Who’s Bert?” Chaz said without looking up from his dinner preparations. “Not that I really care, but talking passes the time.”
“Are you sure he’s not Charles?” Jack whispered to John.
“Heh,” said John. “Bert’s our mentor, Chaz. A great man. And I really wish he were here.”
“Maybe he is,” offered Fred. “If Scowler Char—uh, I mean, if Mister Chaz is here, and he’s almost like Scowler Charles, than perhaps others we know are here too.”
“Everything here is upside down and sideways anyway,” Jack said, indicating their reluctant host. “Perhaps Bert goes by Herb or Herbert or George or some such.”
Uncas nodded sagely. “Th’ Far Traveler can be knowed by many names.”
For the first time it seemed as if the conversation had engaged Chaz’s full attention. He stood abruptly, ladle in hand. “Far Traveler? This Bert fellow is also called the Far Traveler?”
“Does that make a difference?” asked John.
“It does if I knows a ‘Far Traveler’ and not a ‘Bert,’” Chaz replied, suddenly animated. “Is he really a friend of yours?”
“Friend and teacher,” said John. “I think what we need is to get some food and rest, then get our bearings in the morning and see if Bert really is somewhere hereabouts.”
Chaz dropped the bowl of roots he’d been pulling out of a cupboard and turned to them, incredulous. “Are you mad?” he exclaimed. “Why would you possibly go about during the day?”
“Why would that be a worse plan than traipsing about at night?” asked Jack. “What with giants and Sweeps and Wicker Men roaming around.”
“There are worse things than them what serves the king,” Chaz said slowly, “an’ they go about when the sun is high.”
The fear in his voice was enough to convince
“Oh, the giants is no worry,” Chaz said breezily. “They can’t be loosed until they been summoned, an’ …”
He stopped as if he’d said too much, then scowled at John. “Be that as it may, mayhap we shouldn’t ought t’ be talking aloud, anyroad.”
After another hour of Möbius loops, Chaz finally brought them to his strange abode. Unlike the dozen or so stilt-houses that clustered nearby, it was set into the side of a hill. It had a round door that was lightly camouflaged and heavily fortified. Through the doorway, they could see that the ceilings were low, but it seemed a good enough place, if not really one suited to guests.
The area itself was more intriguing to Jack. It was disconcertingly familiar. The trees, what remained of them, were bare, but the soil itself, the reddish hues, the texture … It was all the same, along with the spot nearby where the quarry should be.…
And then he knew.
It was the Kilns, Jack suddenly realized. Home. His home, at any rate. His and Warnie’s, and Jamie’s. Chaz had brought them to the one place Jack most wanted to be, except it wasn’t that place at all—it was a place that looked like home but was really in some hellish otherworld in which they were trapped, perhaps permanently.
“So how have you managed to survive on your own?” Jack asked.
“I makes do,” Chaz said after a moment. “I scavenge, mostly, and trade a little of this, a little of that. But I gets what I needs.”
“I think I need some sustenance,” said John, “if you have anything you can spare, Chaz.”
“My stores is scanty, save for roots and a bone or two,” said Chaz, eyeing the badgers while trying to look as if he wasn’t, “but it may be enough for a thin soup, since we have nothing else t’ put in the pot.”
“Soup—thin or not—sounds fine to me,” Jack said, folding his arms and standing protectively in front of the badgers. “I just wish we had Bert’s magic stone to help it along.”
“Ah yes,” said John. “His Stone Soup. Meal fit for, well, a king. Or a group of lost scholars.”
“Who’s Bert?” Chaz said without looking up from his dinner preparations. “Not that I really care, but talking passes the time.”
“Are you sure he’s not Charles?” Jack whispered to John.
“Heh,” said John. “Bert’s our mentor, Chaz. A great man. And I really wish he were here.”
“Maybe he is,” offered Fred. “If Scowler Char—uh, I mean, if Mister Chaz is here, and he’s almost like Scowler Charles, than perhaps others we know are here too.”
“Everything here is upside down and sideways anyway,” Jack said, indicating their reluctant host. “Perhaps Bert goes by Herb or Herbert or George or some such.”
Uncas nodded sagely. “Th’ Far Traveler can be knowed by many names.”
For the first time it seemed as if the conversation had engaged Chaz’s full attention. He stood abruptly, ladle in hand. “Far Traveler? This Bert fellow is also called the Far Traveler?”
“Does that make a difference?” asked John.
“It does if I knows a ‘Far Traveler’ and not a ‘Bert,’” Chaz replied, suddenly animated. “Is he really a friend of yours?”
“Friend and teacher,” said John. “I think what we need is to get some food and rest, then get our bearings in the morning and see if Bert really is somewhere hereabouts.”
Chaz dropped the bowl of roots he’d been pulling out of a cupboard and turned to them, incredulous. “Are you mad?” he exclaimed. “Why would you possibly go about during the day?”
“Why would that be a worse plan than traipsing about at night?” asked Jack. “What with giants and Sweeps and Wicker Men roaming around.”
“There are worse things than them what serves the king,” Chaz said slowly, “an’ they go about when the sun is high.”
The fear in his voice was enough to convince
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