THE TINKER’S COME TO FIX YOUR WARES

THE TINKER’S COME TO FIX YOUR WARES, by Galen Gower, audio by Leeman Kessler

 

 

I squatted by the roadside, footsore and wind chapped, and tossed my fortune in the dusty hardpack. I read the omens of bone, tooth, and claw and today there are ill portents for me. The footbone of the coyote landed slantwise to the road and the molars I prised from the jaw of a blind beggar myself all lay with the roots pointing to the heavens. The bones and teeth formed three concentric circles; troubles within troubles.

“No way but onward, Geppetto.” My donkey switched his tail, but did not reply. The day the donkey speaks, the rivers will run up the mountains and the moon will crash into the earth. The mountains will explode, and the great oceans will dry up so that the dead may roam all the land. A witchy woman in a bog told me this fortune, and ever since, I have spoken to my donkey by name. Until he speaks, a tinker must make a living, so I gathered the bones back in the pouch and we clacked and clanked our way along.

Before the noon sun was on us, we came within sight to a village. I stood and tasted the air and observed the set of the clouds, but they signaled only more trouble. Wide-bottomed clouds blossoming upward in grey peaks always bring me ill-fortune. With an atmosphere in this state of unrest, a junk man will get beaten and chased out of town often as not. Still, I usually earn a few coppers repairing kettles and pothooks before the gendarme come for me. Bruises heal, money spends, and Geppetto and I must needs eat.

We drew closer and I spied the villagers, some in the lanes and some in the market stalls. But none among them moved. I shaded my eyes from the sun and waited and still as trees they stood. No one raised a greeting, or a fist, as I led my donkey through the gate. I looped my ward against the evil eye around my neck in case of black magic or witchcraft. Only natural for a man to swat at a fly or a child to run and squall. A completely quiet town is an eerie omen, like a whispered curse or spit on your shadow.

We drew near and saw that each and every of them was a stuffed man, a scarecrow set to keep watch, but against what, I don’t know. The variety of size and dress was the same as any grouping of men and women and no two bore the same face, though there were only suggestions of features. A crease where a mouth should go and shadowed hollows for eyes.

“Ho now! An honest tinker plies his trade! Pots and cast bronze and spoons will I mend,” I called out in my customary bark and my voice echoed back to me off the cobbles and stone walls with a queer, teasing lilt. I didn’t call out again and not even the wind stirred as we clopped and toddled through the streets.

I passed close to one of the man-sized poppets and my skin gave a shiver on my flesh. Only a moment before I would swear its head looked to the south, but when I looked again, its face was turned toward me, a rictus grin etched below its potato-lump of a nose. I knew better than to look into its eyes. I didn’t make it this far in the world being a damn fool and putting my soul at risk at every twisting of the road. Just as soon as the shiver left me, the wind picked up and brought whispers with it.

There were voices to be sure, but nothing I could pick out for words in the breeze. Instead, it was the music of the winds through pine boughs with a note of accusation. When I looked around again, more of the heads were facing us, but I could not catch their movement.

It was like they were teasing, moving when I wasn’t looking and pretending to be still when I was. The wind picked up and the whispers became shrieks. The gray columns of cloud I’d used in my aeromancy swelled and loomed, blocking out the sun and driving a cold finger into my guts. Lightning jigged and sizzled in the sky, followed by thunderclaps that only landed on me like great, cruel laughter.

I clutched my hat to my head and peered around for a stable. Geppetto stamped and pulled on the lead, but I swatted him on the nose and turned him up the street. I followed the scent of cut hay and horseshit to an open-doored building with six stalls inside.

Just as we crossed the threshold, the rain let loose without preamble. Great, fat drops fell in a solid mass to smash against the rooves and thatch and before long hail pelted and pebbled the walks, too. I tied Geppetto to a post in front of a pile of hay and inspected the stalls, all empty on the first pass. When I turned around though, a scarecrow leaned against the stall door.

I jumped back from it and clattered to the ground, crabbing sideways so I didn’t lie in its shadow. There was nothing but shadows in the stormy gloom now, so I was more scared and foolish than at risk for bad luck. I regained my feet and drew a copper from my coin purse. Without looking at its face, I sidled over to the scarecrow and dropped the penny in its shirt pocket.

“For boarding my donkey and whatever hay he eats,” I said. I may be a superstitious fool, but I know better than to try and cheat anything with a soul.

Every fool knows a scarecrow is made to trap a wayward soul. Sometimes it’s an enemy, and sometimes just a wandering spirit with business yet undone, but I won’t be accused of thieving when my time comes to make an account of my deeds.

With Geppetto seen to, I needed to see to my own hunger and thirsts. I drew over a stool and used my own coal to light a fire in the pot-bellied stove in the corner. I brewed coffee and fried griddle cakes for my midday repast. I was happy for the distraction. The scarecrow’s gaze was on me, I could tell from the lingering shiver in my bones. I tried to ignore it and enjoy my food.

The wind shrieked through the eaves of the stable the rain and hail continued unabated while I ate, but when I packed up my skillet again, a scarecrow stood in the doorway. It cut a frightening silhouette against the storm, and I made the sign of the pitchfork against its charms. I said the only thing I could think to say.

“The tinker’s come to fix your wares!”

In a trick of sound, the rain pounding the cobbles outside took on the sibilant tinkle of laughter. I wiped my eyes, perhaps leaving them a tad grimier than before, and when I looked up again, the scarecrow pointed toward the keep.

“Witch. Go.” The words were carried on the whistle of the wind. I took the measure of my means to escape, but more scarecrows lined the street, blocking egress in any direction except toward the squat stone keep. There was no chance I could drag Geppetto through them, let alone make it back out of the village.

“Nothing ventured,” I muttered. If I was to face a witch, I was taking my donkey, too. The scarecrows made no effort to stop me untying Geppetto. I made the sign of the pitchfork with both hands and we stepped into the rain.

The keep’s great steel-banded door screaked on its hinges when it swung open. My donkey, for his part, walked right in, unperturbed by the flickering, candlelit darkness within.

“This way,” a singsong voice called. Its timber and echo rattled the torch-fire in the sconces, so it seemed to come from the shadows themselves. Cold laughter greeted me when I bent and dropped a river stone with my name etched onto it. I would rather not have my name stolen, if it pleases, and this way I couldn’t be tricked into trading it or giving it away.

I ambled and cringed down the hallway; Geppetto eagerly tugged the lead rope as he walked in front of me. Count on an empty-headed donkey to lead the way to damnation. When we reached the witch’s chamber, he harrumphed and set to eating a pile of hay. I wondered whether it was laid out just for him.

The rest of the chamber lay shrouded in gloom except for a shimmering red jewel that illuminated a face from below. The woman stretched languidly across a great four-post bed and her face was the fairest I’d seen in an age.

“Have you come to fix my cauldrons, tinker?” She laughed at my discombobulation.

I tried to keep my eyes downcast, but her visage was burned into my mind’s eye. Besides, I wanted to look at her, so great was her beauty. “Aye, if’n they need fixing.”

“And how ever would I pay you? I have so little of value.”

I glanced around the room, but even in the lurking dark I could make out silver candelabras and my nose told me a great lump of whalescent was near to hand, too.

Since I had nothing but my soul to lose if I bargained with this witch, my boldness took hold of my mouth. “I’d trade any repairs you need for the bit of knowledge on how you make a scarecrow bound to your service.” I puffed up my chest to show I wasn’t afraid but also remembered my manners. “Er, ma’am.”

“I could teach you how to bind a soul to a man of straw. I could also teach you how to make lead from dirt and truth from lies.” She rolled over and patted the bed sweetly. An invitation for me to sit within her reach, no doubt.

“And what would it cost me? I have only a few coppers and cast off ladles and spoons to trade.” I sat warily and watched her side-eye.

“I would have something much more interesting from you,” she said sitting up. She reached over and held my chin with her slender fingers and turned me to face her. “I will take your donkey in trade.”

“Done.” I’d been without a donkey before and my back is strong enough to carry the packs. With the witchcraft to make lead from dirt, I’d be tinkering for pure profits. Maybe I could even settle in a cottage with a workshop with that kind of coin!

She climbed from the bed and rooted around one of the tall bookshelves, assuredly looking for the right spell book that would be mine. She came back holding a large volume with incomprehensible script on it. She pointed to the words at the top of the book. “De re metallica. All you need to know is within.”

Visions of riches and meat on my plate instead of fried cornmeal swam in my head while I unstrapped my wares and packs from Geppetto’s back. Once done, I handed the witch the lead rope.

She stroked his nose and ruffled his bristly mane. “And what is your name, sweet donkey?”

I was about to answer, but Geppetto raised his head and bared his teeth.

“Myxhendellworth, but the tinker called me Geppetto,” he said in a braying falsetto.

 

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Galen Glower is obsessed with composting.

 

Leeman Kessler is an actor, actual mayor, and Ohio’s foremost HP Lovecraft impersonator. Known for his work on Ask Lovecraft, Moonbase Theta Out, Midnight Burger, and Almost Has Been. You can find out more about his work at www.LeemanKessler.com