The Philosophical Strangler(59)

“How can they survive, as many as all that?” demanded Greyboar.

“Probably starving by now,” opined Hrundig. It was a thought I wished he’d kept to himself, especially after the sun went down. It was incredible, the number of snarls there must have been in that forest. You could see dozens of pairs of their great eyes, shining in the dark. Looking at us.

Olga and her daughters stayed very close to Hrundig and Greyboar the whole way. For their part, Jenny and Angela were walking huddled against me, their arms wrapped around my waist. I enjoyed the closeness, of course. But, to be honest, I enjoyed their newfound trepidation even more.

Adventure—ha!

I would have made a sarcastic remark or two. But Jenny told me if I made a sarcastic remark or two that she’d bite my ear off (or two) and Angela muttered sullen phrases about the relationship between discretion and valor and I decided to forgo the pleasure.

You can believe me, I was never so happy in my life as I was when we spotted the lights of the Abbey up ahead. I would have broken into a run, but I was determined to maintain my dignity in front of the womenfolk, cost me what it would.

At least we weren’t kept waiting out there in the dark. I had just started to rap on the great door to the Abbey—rapped very, very firmly, I did, you can be sure of it—when it opened wide. Before us stood a Sister of Tranquility.

I was startled by her appearance. Of course, I knew that the Abbess Hildegard advocated a most unorthodox theology. But I’d never really given much thought to the ins and outs of it. Theology’s not really my forte, don’t you know?

Not that the Sister’s clothing wasn’t eminently proper, mind you. They aren’t given to Dionysian deviations, the Sisters of Tranquility. Their theology was, I soon discovered, offensive to the Ecclesiarchy in much more fundamental ways. It’s just that I’d had a mental image in my head, on the way to the Abbey, of what the Sisters would look like. You know. Withered, dried-up faces, pale as ghosts (what little you could see of them under the great black robes), severe frowns, lips tight as a banker’s heart, you know, the usual.

So I hadn’t expected this very attractive, very cheerful middle-aged woman, dressed in a snug green outfit that looked like a combined jacket and pants. Wearing a garland on her head, which didn’t begin to cover the long sun-bleached light brown hair. And I certainly hadn’t expected the dimples.

“May I help you?” she asked pleasantly.

Greyboar replied, “I’m Greyboar. I believe I’m supposed to meet with the Abbess Hildegard.”

“Oh, yes!” exclaimed the Sister. “She’ll be delighted to see you. We really hadn’t expected you for another day or so.”

Greyboar started to make a fumbling explanation for the presence of the others in our party, but the Sister was already striding away.

“Just follow me,” she commanded. “The Abbess is in the salon with the composers.” Greyboar and I looked at each other, shrugged, and did as we were told. The others came after us, with Hrundig closing the door. A very casual setup, they seemed to have here!

The Sister led the way through a labyrinth of corridors and rooms. Big place, the Abbey. Quite well lit, and very—how can I put it?—well, sort of much more spacious and airylike than I’d expected. Not at all the gloomy, cramped quarters I’d always imagined an Abbey would look like, on the occasions I’d thought about the subject in the past. On the rare occasions I’d thought about it. Well, the one or two occasions when the thought of what an Abbey would look like had crossed my mind. For maybe the odd second or two.

As we went down the final corridor, heading toward a big set of double doors at the end, we began hearing piano music coming from beyond. By the time we got to the doors, the music was very loud. And very beautiful.

“That’s one of the Grump’s intermezzos,” said Olga. “Love that piece. It’s being played beautifully, too.”

The Sister looked at her like she was crazy. “Well, of course the Grump can play his own music beautifully!” she exclaimed. She opened the door and strode through.

Following her, we found ourselves in a very large room. There were maybe a dozen people seated on chairs toward the center of the room, in a semicircle around a grand piano. At the piano, playing, sat a short, pudgy man with a great beard.

“I’ll be damned,” I whispered to Greyboar. “It’s the Grump.” I recognized him, of course. Years back, he’d come into The Trough more than a few times, before he shook the dust of New Sfinctr off his feet for good.

“That’s not the least of it,” whispered back Greyboar. “Gramps is here too. So’s the Blockhead. And—I don’t believe it! Look! It’s the Big Banjo!”