Free Stardust by Neil Gaiman Page B

something wailing. It was the little hairy man. He had stopped dead where he stood, and, his head thrown back, had begun to howl at the sky.
    “Buck up,” said Tristran. “We’re nearly there.” He grasped the little hairy man’s free hand in his own larger hand and pulled him forward.
    And then they were standing on the true path: a swath of green sward running through the grey wood. “Are we safe here?” asked Tristran, panting, and looking about apprehensively.
    “We’re safe, as long as we stay on the path,” said the little hairy man, and he put down his burden, sat down on the grass of the path and stared at the trees about them.
    The pale trees shook, although no wind blew, and it seemed to Tristran that they shook in anger.
    His companion had begun to shudder, his hairy fingers raking and stroking the green grass. Then he looked up at Tristran. “I don’t suppose you have such a thing as a bottle of something spirituous upon you? Or perchance a pot of hot, sweet tea?”
    “No,” said Tristran, “ ’fraid not.”
    The little man sniffed and fumbled at the lock of his huge package. “Turn round,” he said to Tristran. “No peekin’.”
    Tristran turned away.
    There was a rummaging, scuffling noise. Then the sound of a lock clicking shut, and then, “You can turn around, if you like.” The little man was holding an enamel bottle. He was tugging, vainly, at the stopper.
    “Um. Would you like me to help you with that?” Tristran hoped the little hairy man would not be offended by his request. He should not have worried; his companion thrust the bottle into his hands.
    “Here go,” he said. “You’ve got the fingers for it.”
    Tristran tugged and pulled out the stopper of the bottle.
    He could smell something intoxicating, like honey mixed with wood smoke and cloves. He passed the bottle back to the little man.
    “It’s a crime to drink something as rare and good as this out of the bottle,” said the little hairy man. He untied the little wooden cup from his belt and, trembling, poured a small amount of an amber-colored liquid into it. He sniffed it, then sipped it, then he smiled, with small, sharp teeth.
    “Aaaahhhh.That’s better.”
    He passed the cup to Tristran.
    “Sip it slowly,” he said. “It’s worth a king’s ransom, this bottle. It cost me two large blue-white diamonds, a mechanical bluebird which sang, and a dragon’s scale.”
    Tristran sipped the drink. It warmed him down to his toes and made him feel like his head was filled with tiny bubbles.
    “Good, eh?”
    Tristran nodded.
    “Too good for the likes of you and me, I’m afraid. Still. It hits the spot in times of trouble, of which this is certainly one. Let’s get out of this wood,” said the little hairy man. “Which way, though....?”
    “That way,” said Tristran, pointing to their left.
    The little man stoppered and pocketed the little bottle, shouldered his pack, and the two of them walked together down the green path through the grey wood.
    After several hours, the white trees began to thin, and then they were through the serewood and walking between two low rough-stone walls, along a high bank. When Tristran looked back the way they had come there was no sign of any wood at all; the way behind them was purple-headed, heathery hills.
    “We can stop here,” said his companion. “There’s stuff we needs to talk about. Sit down.”
    He put down his enormous bag and climbed on top of it, so he was looking down at Tristran, who sat on a rock beside the road. “There’s something here I’m not properly gettin’. Now, tell me.Where are you from?”
    “Wall,” said Tristran. “I told you.”
    “Who’s your father and mother?”
    “My father’s name is Dunstan Thorn. My mother is Daisy Thorn.”
    “Mmm. Dunstan Thorn . . . Mm. I met your father once. He put me up for the night. Not a bad chap, although he doesn’t half go on a bit while a fellow’s trying to get a little kip.” He scratched