Free Enchanted Pilgrimage by Clifford D. Simak

considered best to avoid detection as much as possible. Word would travel fast concerning the movements of such a motley band as theirs and there might be danger in having the fact of their journey noised about.
    Plunging down from the ridges into the deep-cut valleys that ran between the hills, they entered a different world—a deep, hushed, and buried world. Here the trees grew closer and larger, rock ledges jutted out of steep hillsides, and massive boulders lay in the beds of brawling creeks. Far overhead one could hear the rushing of the wind that brushed the hilltops, but down below the brows of the rearing bluffs there was no hint of wind. In the quietness of this deeper forest, the startled rush of a frightened squirrel, his foraging disturbed, through the deep layer of autumn leaves, was startling in itself. That, or the sudden explosion of wings as a ruffed grouse went rocketing like a twilight ghost through the tangle of the tree trunks.
    At the end of a day’s journey they went down into one of the deep hollows between the hills to find a camping place. Hal, scouting ahead, would seek a rock shelter where a fissure in the limestone of a bluff-face was overhung either by a ledge of rock or by the bluff itself, offering some protection. The fire was small, but it gave out warmth against the chill of night, holding back the dark, making a small puddle of security and comfort in a woods that seemed to turn hostile with the coming of the night.
    Always there was meat, for Hal, wise to the woods and an expert with his bow, brought down squirrels and rabbits, and on the second day, a deer, and on other occasions, grouse. So that, as a result of this, they made lesser inroads on the provisions they carried—wild rice, smoked fish, cornmeal, sparse fare, but sustaining and easy to carry.
    Sitting around the fire at night, Cornwall remembered the disappointment of Mrs. Drood when she had been persuaded that she should not have a farewell party for them, inviting in the marsh people, the gnomes and the hill people to speed them on their way. It would have been a good party, but it would have emphasized their going, which all concerned agreed should be kept as quiet as possible.
    Five days of sunny weather, but in the middle of the afternoon of the sixth day rain had begun to fall, at first little more than a gentle mist, but increasing as the hours went on, with a wind developing from the west until, with night about to fall, the rain poured down steadily, driven by the wind that turned it into needles that stung one’s face.
    Throughout the afternoon Hal hunted for shelter but had found nothing that would afford more than minimal protection against the driving storm.
    Cornwall brought up the rear, following Coon, who humped along disconsolately, his coat of fur plastered down with wetness, his bedraggled tail sweeping the forest floor.
    Ahead of Coon, Gib and the rafter goblin walked together, with the marsh-man’s wet fur gleaming in the soft light that still remained, the goblin weary and hobbling, walking with an effort. The march, Cornwall realized, had been tougher on the goblin than on any of the others. His days of walking, from Wyalusing to Hal’s hollow tree, and now the six days of the march, had played him out. Life in the rafters at the university had not fitted him for this.
    Cornwall hurried ahead, passing Coon. He reached down and touched the goblin’s shoulder.
    â€œUp, on my back,” he said. “You deserve a rest.”
    The goblin looked up at him. “Kind sir,” he said, “there is no need.”
    â€œI insist,” said Cornwall. He crouched down and the goblin clambered on his shoulder, balancing himself with an arm around the human’s neck.
    â€œI am tired,” he admitted.
    â€œYou have traveled far,” said Cornwall, “since that day you came to see me.”
    The goblin chuckled thinly. “We started a long progression of