The Lotus Caves (14 page)

I said, “I was second to top in my reading class. And Roger Burton who came top is six months older.”

He smiled, but it was bleak. “And what do you read, in that class you speak of?”

“All sorts of things.
Duties and Obediences, The Torments of Hell, The Infidels of the North . . .”

“Would you say you learn matters of value from these books?”

An honest answer would have been very little if anything, but I knew better than to be strictly ­honest to a questioning adult, particularly to the Master.

“Yes, sir.”

“I am told you dreamed of Demons last night. Do the books tell you of them?”

I nodded. “Yes, they do.”

“What do they say?”

He sounded as though he really wanted to know, which in itself surprised me. I had taken it for granted that, with a large room lined ceiling to floor with books, he must be the wisest person I knew—far wiser than our teachers, or Mr. Hawkins the Summoner, or Sheriff Wilson. But he had put the question, and I had better answer it.

“They tell us Demons are the minions of the Dark One. They come to warn men against transgression of the laws, and to punish those who persist in wickedness.”

He looked at me until I felt uncomfortable. At last, he said, “I have served you ill.”

That puzzled me even more. How could the Master serve me, or want to? I kept silent, and he went on, “It may not be too late. We will talk again, perhaps of Demons. Now it is time for your tea.”

I followed him back on Black Prince, disturbed but intrigued. Would the talk be in his library? I had ventured there once while he was away on Sheriff's, and the close-packed volumes had fascinated me. There was even a set of wooden steps, spiraling around a pole, to get at those too high to reach. Mother Ryan had caught me peering and pulled me away by the ear. It was, she scolded with a sharp tweak, a spot forbidden to any but the Master.

• • •

All this took place on Tuesday. The new term started on Friday, which meant just one day before the weekend break. I had fingers crossed for our camping trip: The weather had broken, and Mother Ryan fastened our oilskins on a rain-smeared morning. Joe greeted us at the jetty.

“You're late. That's a bad beginning to the term.”

“No more than five minutes,” Paddy said. “Liza had her kittens in the night. Joe, she's got
five,
and we saw the last one born! Two black-and-white, two tortoiseshell, and one a funny gray color. We're calling it Smoky.”

That had been my suggestion. It was usually Paddy who thought of names, always Paddy who decided what the name was going to be.

Joe said, “Never mind cats and kittens. Cast off, Ben. I've done a day's work before you were stirring, and another's waiting.”

The dinghy smelled of the catch he had landed earlier, a tang of fish mixed with salt and sweat and tobacco. Joe was almost as tall as the Master, and broader, with a battered face and a big nose and thick black beard. He set sail to catch the stiff northwesterly, and we heaved our way across the bay with gusts of rain stinging our faces. I glanced surreptitiously at Paddy. I had got over being seasick, but she still suffered occasionally. She seemed all right this morning.

I looked back toward the house, where smoke rose from two small chimneys at the north end and a larger one at the south. The Master would be sitting by his study fire, drinking the coffee Mother Ryan took him about this time. I'd never tasted coffee—it was not for the likes of us, Mother Ryan said—but loved the smell. Perhaps he would be reading one of his thousands of books. I wondered when the summons for the talk might come.

This being the first day of school, Sheriff Wilson addressed us. He reminded us of our duty: to obey our parents and those in authority, all adults, in word and deed and thought. We were to work hard and to learn—learn especially those things through which we might escape the wrath of the Dark One, in this life and the life to come. Work hard, and learn well!

He too was big, but fleshy. He had a high forehead, fat cheeks, and spectacles whose lenses had no rims. He picked me out as I headed toward the classroom.

“Young Ben of Old Isle! How are you, boy?”

“Well, sir. Thank you, sir.”

He was smiling, but he smiled easily. People said he was the best Sheriff in living memory, more easygoing than his predecessors. The stocks which stood across the green from his house were empty more often than not. I thought I ought to like him, but could not.

“The Master is well, I hope?”

The tone was solicitous, but I didn't believe the hope was honest. I had once observed him in conversation with the Master, and though I could not distinguish their words, there had been contempt in the Master's voice, wheedling unease in the Sheriff's.

I said, “He is well, sir.”

“Respect him, boy. He is a great man.”

“Indeed he is!”

I spoke warmly and thought his eyes narrowed behind the rimless lenses, but he smiled still more widely and patted my head to send me on my way.

• • •

Although I would not have preferred to live there, I found Sheriff's an exciting place. Apart from ruinous mounds from the days of the Madness, fascinating forbidden territory, there was the bustle of people, and there were shops. The
Hesperus,
which took produce to the mainland and brought back other goods, had recently returned. Paddy and I found mainland sweets tastier than the Widow Barnes's fudge, and with hoarded pennies we bought sticks of toffee studded with hazelnuts. We munched our way happily to the quay, where Joe was waiting for us.

I began to rattle off an account of the day, but Paddy interrupted.

“What is it, Joe? What's wrong?”

When I looked, his expression was troubled. He turned his head away.

“Nothing that won't wait. We've a tide to catch.”

She grasped his arm. “Tell us now.”

I envied her manner of commanding him. He stared unhappily. “Well, you'll have to know. It's the Master.”

“What about him?” I asked.

But Paddy had read Joe's face. “Not
dead?”

“No,” I said. “That can't be!”

Yet now I could read his grimness too, and knew it was.

JOHN CHRISTOPHER
is a pseudonym of Samuel Youd, who was born in Lancashire, England, in 1922. He is the author of more than fifty novels and novellas, as well as numerous short stories. His most famous books include
The Death of Grass
, the Tripods trilogy,
The Lotus Caves
, and
The Guardians
.

ALADDIN

SIMON & SCHUSTER, NEW YORK

Also by John Christopher

From Aladdin

THE TRIPODS SERIES

The White Mountains

The City of Gold and Lead

The Pool of Fire

When the Tripods Came

The Guardians

A Dusk of Demons

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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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This Aladdin hardcover edition November 2014

Text copyright © 1969 by John Christopher

Jacket illustration copyright © 2014 by Anton Petrov

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Jacket designed by Karin Paprocki

Interior designed by Hilary Zarycky

The text of this book was set in Venetian 301

Library of Congress Control Number 2014946003

ISBN 978-1-4814-1838-6 (hc)

ISBN 978-1-4814-1837-9 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-4814-1839-3 (eBook)