Leo stared at the thick red cover for several fuming seconds. Then he took the sack of chess pieces from his belt and tossed it so that it came down on Foxbrush’s head, eliciting a satisfactory “Ow!”
“You’re no better than a girl, Foxbrush,” Leo declared, storming from the library. It was much too fine a day to waste on his cousin.
Out in the gardens, Leo stood for some time a few steps from the door, gazing about. Hill House was so named because it rested high in the mountains in the southern part of the country. It commanded a fine prospect, looking north toward the spreading landscape of Leo’s homeland. The weather was pleasant here, a little cool due to the altitude, but fresh and invigorating . . . the right air for an adventurous heart.
On regular days, the mountainside gardens of Hill House were interesting enough to occupy the boy. But now that he knew there was more to this monster talk than a mere nursemaid’s warning, the gardens were suddenly much too small and cramped. No monster would come within the bounds of Hill House’s gardens. Leo would have to venture out after it himself.
But first he must be properly armed.
“I need a weapon,” he told Mousehand, the gardener. Mousehand was probably the oldest, creaking-est man in the world, and his face was a mass of beard. At Leo’s words, the beard wrinkled into something that was probably a smile underneath, and the gardener’s little eyes winked.
“A weapon, eh?” said Mousehand.
“Yes. A sword, if you have one.”
Mousehand grunted, pausing to contemplate the row of parsnips he was weeding. “I think I know what you need.”
With a splendid cacophony of crackling, the old man rose from his knees and hobbled to his toolshed with Leo close behind. In moments, Mousehand undid the various chains and latches that had baffled Leo every time he’d tried to get into the shed on his own, and the door swung open with almost as much creaking as Mousehand’s joints. The gardener stepped inside and emerged with his selected weapon, which he handed to Leo with great ceremony.
Leo took it and frowned. “A beanpole?”
“A mighty sword, good sir knight, if you look at it right.”
Leo wrinkled his nose. “You mean, use my imagination?”
“I might. Or I might not,” said the gardener.
If there was one thing Leo disliked about grown-ups, it was their tendency to treat him like a child. “I’m going to hunt a monster. Is this really going to help?”
Here the gardener seemed to really look at Leo for the first time. He put his gnarled hand on the doorpost, leaning against it as his eyes traveled up and down the boy’s slight frame. He took in the fine clothing, slightly mussed from play. He took in the scrapes on the hands that indicated a willingness to plunge into any activity with a will. He noted the spark that shone behind the sulkiness in a pair of large black eyes.
“What monster do you hunt?”
“The monster up the mountain,” Leo replied. “Have you heard of it?”
The gardener nodded. “I have.”
“Have you seen it?”
The gardener’s beard shifted as the mouth somewhere in its depths worked back and forth in thought. “What I’ve seen and what others’ve seen ain’t likely to be the same thing.”
Leo shouldered his beanpole. “What have you seen?”
Mousehand shook his head. “You must see for yourself, lad, and decide for yourself. So, you’re setting off up the mountain, are you?”
“I am.”
“Does your nursemaid know?”
Dragon’s teeth! He hadn’t thought of that detail. “Um . . .”
“I’ll just tell her you’ll be home by nightfall when she asks, eh?”
Here Leo gave the old man a real smile; a smile that Mousehand, who had been a spirited boy himself ages ago, returned. Then the gardener escorted the boy up the mountainside to the edge of the garden and saluted solemnly as Leo stepped through the gate.
“Which way is quickest to the monster?”
“Never be in too much of a hurry to catch your quarry, young master,” the gardener responded. “The adventure is the hunt, not the catch, remember.” Then he pointed an arthritic finger up the beaten trail. “Follow that a good hundred yards, then look for the deer path on your left, beginning just under the silver-branched sapling tied with a red scarf. Follow that path, and you’ll make a wide loop around that side of the mountain and end back where you started. Be careful you don’t stray, now.”
“I won’t find a monster while following a path.”
“If you’re meant to meet with the monster, you’ll meet it on that path. I swear to you. Do you believe me?” His eyes met Leo’s and held the boy’s gaze for much longer than Leo was comfortable. But Leo was not one to look away, so he studied the old man and considered what he’d said.
Oddly enough, he found that he believed Mousehand.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll follow the path.”
With those words, he adjusted his grip on the beanpole, squared his shoulders, and started at a trot up the mountain.
“Hey!” the gardener called.
Leo looked back over his shoulder.