Chapter Fifty-six

The Fountain II

n Rocamadour, Hemsen Dumbcane kneaded his eraser—a pleasing soft putty made from boiled sap, which captured the scribe’s fingerprints, raised whorls and ridges particular to him alone. Here he was again—at the disgraced fountain before sunrise. What was it, he wondered, about the broken plumbing, cracked drains, and decrepit statues that brought him back, morning after morning? For indeed, he seemed drawn here. Certainly there were other fountains, other subjects with which to pass the time, to practice his forging talents and keep his hands supple, his mind clear.

Now was his chance for a glimpse of sunlight.

He toiled all his waking hours over vats of thick, caustic ink, black as pitch and darker than night. It sapped his soul. He craved the radiance of the sun—he’d settle for even the flickering gas lamp above his drafting table back on the Knox.

His former profession, forger, calligrapher extraordinaire, required perfection—as did ink-making. But it also required light. And nothing in Rocamadour needed the sun. Dumbcane had come to realize the city was built of moisture, mildew, and nightmares.

Here it comes, he realized.

The small beam of sunlight slid through the mossy square, illuminating dust motes in a spray of effervescence. It bumped along the dreary cobbles and tiptoed over the rim of the once-great fountain, finding the gloomy vultures in hapless clusters, bald heads hidden beneath their wings.

The very center of the fountain featured an enormous horse and rider drenched and half submerged in filthy water as they toiled in eternity to reach the safety of some imagined shore. The rider was a woman—her stone skirts were drenched and held fast to her body, draping marble weighing her down. Her steed, a spectacular warhorse, his eyes wide with terror and determination.

Dumbcane’s sunbeam threw itself to assist her, the light catching her outstretched fingers—and he sketched quickly. The beam scattered small pinpricks of sunlight down upon her dress, illuminating it, for one mere frustrating second, in a spray of stars.

This time he’d come as close as ever before in capturing the vision before him—but in the end, it had eluded him. He now stared blankly, as the fountain receded again into shadow, clutching his parchment before him, disgusted, and ready to crumple and discard it.

But something caught his eye in the gloom.

The vultures were rising with unpleasant yawns, and they raked their beaks against the marble of the fountain, sharpening them. The ugly scene was nothing like the moment of sunshine just before, and Dumbcane grew more dejected.

There, though, it was again.

A small bird. Drab gray-green along her back and pale busy wings, a curved downward-pointing bill. The drone of an insect.

What was a hummingbird doing here—of all places? Dumbcane wondered. What business could she have with the despicable vultures before her?