Read Online The Stone Giant by James P. Blaylock - Free Book Online

oblivious to him, caring nothing for the troubles of the people along the bank. It was out in midstream that he ought to be, floating along with it. It was his destiny, perhaps, to be alone. A quick, breeze, cool and sharp, blew across the back of his neck. He shrugged his coat tighter around him, but the cool air seemed to pass right through it, as if it weren’t a breeze at all but the presence of something – or of someone – standing behind him in silence. He sat frozen, half expecting a touch on his shoulder, the wisp of cold breath on his cheek. ‘Aah!’ he shouted, whirling around and leaping from the log onto the slippery bank. He slid toward the river, grasping at a branch, falling down onto one knee in the mud of the bank. There was nothing there – no old milk-eyed woman with a stick. Whatever it was that had thickened the atmosphere a moment ago had disappeared.
    He found that he was shaking, and when he grabbed at his cap to pull it down tighter over his forehead, he succeeded only in batting it off into the weeds. What, he wondered grimly, would have happened if there
had
been someone there – worse yet, if he’d had Annie along. In his fright, he would have pitched her into the river.
    Through the fog appeared the glow of lantern light, out on the meadow. Escargot blinked, thinking at first that a fogfish had wandered over the bank. But it wasn’t a fogfish. It was bright as Christmas and coming from the Widow’s windmill, and yet no one, as far as he knew, used the abandoned windmill except himself. He watched the light for a moment, waiting for it to waver or move. Maybe it was someone walking on the meadow, looking into the windmill – looking, perhaps, for him. Could it be Uncle Helstrom, he wondered, narrowing his eyes. All things considered, Escargot hadn’t any real enthusiasm for running into the dwarf on a foggy night.
    But he’d have to see, wouldn’t he? If it was a band of robbers, say, or marauding goblins, then he’d have to alert the village. He crawled across his log and crept up the grassy slope toward the windmill, hunkered down and squinting through the mist. He could hear the slow creak of the latticework windmill vanes turning aimlessly in the breeze, disconnected from the gear mechanism that had rusted and fallen to bits years earlier. The light seemed to flicker and dance, as if the lanterns had no shades, or as if it weren’t lantern light at all but was the light of about a hundred candles all guttering in the breeze blowing through the broken window.
    A gust of wind scoured across the meadow, blowing the fog clear for an instant. Escargot dropped to his chest on the wet grass, partly hidden by the rise of the hill. He could see just for a moment the eastern sky, paled to morning purple, a scattering of stars winking out with the coming dawn. Slowly, before the mists settled back in and obscured the mill, he pushed himself up on his hands to have a look. There was a good chance he’s see someone through the window. If it was Uncle Helstrom, he’d ... Well, he didn’t quite know
what
he’d do. But the only thing visible in the window was the broad, glowing face of a lit jack-o’-lantern, grinning out at him through the hovering fog. The long vanes swished across in front of it, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, so that the candlelight glowing through the mouth and eyes seemed chopped to bits. Why it faced the meadow was a puzzle. Unless it was meant to attract someone. Was it a beacon, a signal? Escargot decided to keep a sharp eye out for things lurking in the night. He crept toward it, masked again by fog.
    A low murmur issued from within the mill. A cackle of laughter erupted, then was hushed and the murmuring continued, now rising in volume, now falling away into silence. It was impossible to tell how many voices in all were murmuring and laughing – at least three or four. And just when Escargot was sure they were the voices of men, low and throaty and rough, he’d