The Book Man, Chapter 59 (Revised)

59 THE ROVER KING

The accountant followed Rowan through the clearing toward a footpath that crossed the stream and went off into the woods. The ringmaster shook her head as they went.

“Poor woman. Scared stiff when she got here. All alone, no idea where she was—tried to beat Graham off with a stick, when he went to help her up.” She chuckled at the memory. “And then, when we finally found her husband in that wagon, well—he was passed out on the floor! Oh, she was upset. She loves him something awful, I can tell—though I must say, he’s acted quite the ass, never telling her about any of this. It’s much too much for someone to take in so quickly, and on her own, no less. But she’s adjusted well, all things considered. Fits right in here.”

Christian listened with half an ear, but now that he knew Liza was safe, his focus turned to Morrow, finding him and getting back to Earth as quickly as possible. He and Liza had already been in the Otherworld for far too long, almost a full week. Perhaps the portal wouldn’t even be open; perhaps the fairies had given up on them, thought they were dead. What would it mean if the portal was closed, never to open again? He would never see Minerva again, or the Book House, or his cat.

No, he told himself. The fairies were still on Earth, at Goblin’s mercy should he launch another attack; surely they would hold out the hope that they would return with the Rover king in tow. He shook himself mentally and held himself straighter. He could not let himself think things would turn out so badly.

But, remembering Narodnaya’s wheezy laughter when they’d spoken of the Rover king, he cut through Rowan’s monologue to ask:

“Rowan, what’s wrong with Morrow?”

The ringmaster paused mid-sentence and halted abruptly.

“Wrong with him? Nothing’s wrong with him.” Then: “Might find him in his cups, that’s all.”

She walked onward.

Christian stood rooted to the spot for a moment. Then he jogged to catch up, saying, “When you say in his cups—”

“You’ll see, Mr. Abernathy, you’ll see.”

Oh, dear, Christian thought.

The path wound through the forest, not far but out of sight of the clearing, and ended at a cabin that looked like it had been there forever. Creepers climbed up the sides, moss clung to the roof, and there were cracks in the mud that had been daubed between the logs to seal up crevices. Weeds grew against the cabin walls, so high in some spots that they blocked the windows.

“This is Morrow’s house?” Christian said.

“Yes indeed,” Rowan said. “Be a good fellow and stand back a moment, would you?”

She did not bother to knock but instead rammed her shoulder against the door until it opened. Christian looked at her uncertainly.

“Sticks,” the ringmaster said.

Inside, the cabin was full of dust and gloom. Little light made its way through the grimy front windows; the back windows were curtained against the daylight, and there was no fire in the grate on the right wall. As Christian’s eyes adjusted he saw strings of garlic and herbs hung from the ceiling, but they were in need of replenishing. The only furniture was a rough-hewn wooden stool in the corner past the fireplace, a low table in front of it, and a cot on the opposite wall. A collection of empty bottles stood on the table.

There was a dark lump stretched out on the cot. Rowan went over to it and shook it until it gave a low moan.

“Let me alone,” it said groggily. Rowan shook it until it hit her hand away and sat up with a sharp “Let me alone, damn it!”

Christian stared. This was Morrow? The Rover king, the hero who had defeated Goblin? His dusky face was reminiscent of the proud, hard face of the crumbled statue in the park maze, but it was puffy in the way of a drunkard’s. His black hair was wild and matted about his head, his clothes as ragged as those of a beggar.

Rowan ripped back the curtains over the back windows and Morrow let out a strangled yell, shielding his eyes with an arm.

“The hell are you doing?” he said. “Let me alone, Rowan, or I’ll slice you to bits, I swear to God.”

He stood up and lurched toward the front door, where a sword in its scabbard hung from a hook. Rowan was faster and pulled it down first.

“With this?” she said. “I think not. How many swords am I holding up?”

“One, God damn it, now give it to me.”

Rowan retreated through the front door and stood just outside with Christian, watching as Morrow tried to follow only to turn back as the sunlight hit his eyes.

“See?” Rowan said. “You’ve just got to know how to handle him.”

“This is handling him?”

From outside, the interior of the cabin receded into darkness. They could hear Morrow thrashing about in agony from the light, then swearing as he ran into something, then kicking at the scant furniture in anger. At last the sounds died away.

“We should be just fine now,” Rowan said, and she strode back inside. Christian followed.

Morrow sat on the edge of the cot with his head in his hands, but he looked up as they entered and held out a hand.

“I’m fine, Rowan,” he said. “Give me my sword. Not gonna slice you up.”

“I should say not,” Rowan said, dropping the scabbard into his hand.

Morrow’s hand rooted around at the base of the cot until it found a half-full bottle of liquid. He pulled it up and took a swig.

“Sorry, friend,” he said, holding the bottle up to Christian. “Need it on mornings when this jackass won’t let me sleep it off.”

“Er,” said Christian, but Rowan said, “Hardly morning anymore, my dear fellow. I should think it’s nearly midday.”

Morrow ignored her. “What brings you disturbing me at this hour, ringmaster?”

Rowan sat on the stool and said, “I sought only to invite you to dinner, although I shall stop inviting you if you insist on behaving so boorishly in company. It’s my good friend Mr. Abernathy who needs you disturbed.” She ceded her seat to Christian with a wave of her hand.

“Him, huh?” Morrow drained his bottle and tipped it over in dissatisfaction. A few drops slid slowly out and fell to the hard-packed dirt floor of the cabin. “So what do you need?”

“You, I’ve been told,” Christian said, looking doubtfully at the drunkard before him. “The fairies sent me to fetch you, you see.”

Morrow leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

“The fairies, eh?” He fixed his eyes on Christian’s face with difficulty. “So Goblin must be coming back. You’re the Guardian? Forgive me, but last I remember the Guardian was a big black man, name of Bartholomew.”

“Bartholomew’s dead,” Christian said, leaning away slightly to escape the stench of alcohol on the Rover’s breath. “I’ve been sent by his son. He would have come himself, only his leg’s been opened up by a hellhound.”

“My father always said this would happen,” Morrow said. “I didn’t believe him, but—”

He sighed and ran a hand through his tangled hair. Then he stood up so quickly he almost toppled over. Christian and Rowan rushed forward to steady him.

“I’m alright,” he said. “Just need a bit of time to get back on my feet—”

He tried to take a step forward and stumbled. Christian caught him, but his legs buckled under Morrow’s weight; the Rover was stocky and muscular.

Morrow righted himself on Christian’s shoulders and said, “Give me a couple hours.”

“A couple of hours?” Christian said. “But—”

Rowan helped Morrow back to the bed and said, “Certainly, my dear fellow. We’ll keep something warm for you.”

Then she took Christian by the shoulders and steered him from the cabin, saying, “Trust me. We want to give him a while.”