The Whispering Mountain (13 page)

Read The Whispering Mountain Online

Authors: Joan Aiken

BOOK: The Whispering Mountain
8.08Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
“May I ask a question, sir, if it will not trouble you?” Arabis asked, taking the bowl from him.
“Surely.”
“Why do you, only, of all your people, speak my language?”
“It has been a rule with us,” he said, “ever since we were brought to this country by force a hundred and two generations ago. To prevent our being absorbed into the conquering race and forgetting our ancestry, only one man in each generation is allowed to learn the outlandish tongue.”
“A hundred generations! Does dim dwywaith!” Arabis said to herself in amazement. “Even if each man lived only till he was twenty, that is two thousand years!”
“But who brought your excellency's people over here, then?” she asked. “Was it the old Romans, maybe? And
where did you come from? And why did they bring you, in the name of goodness?”
“They brought us as slaves, to mine gold for them out of these hills,” he said. “They brought us because above all other races we were skilled in the crafts of mining and working gold. And then, when our conquerors went away, we were left behind. So we hid ourselves in the mines that we had dug and resolved that never again would we let ourselves be enslaved. As to the land we came from, it is very beautiful, with blue sky and green trees, and golden sands, and white cities; it lies many months' journey to the south. Alas, alas, for Sa'ir and Taidon, for Jyblos and Zibach and Kashin, and the beautiful mountains of Sur! One day, one day we shall return to them! We lead our lives in darkness and fear, coming out only at night to catch fish and pick the herbs of the hillside; our people dwindle at each new generation and pine in this damp northern climate; even our camels grow small and infirm. But one day a ship will come to carry us nack to the land of our fathers. One day, one day, it will happen.”
His voice had fallen into a sort of dreamy chant. Arabis wondered if he really believed it.
“Eh, dear to goodness,” she said. “there's sad. Living underground, so damp and nasty, for thousands of years! No wonder you have all got such terrible coughs with you. But,” she went on reasonably, after thinking the matter over, “why didn't you all pack up and return home—I mean, why didn't your great-great-great-grandfathers do so—when the old Romans (if it was that trouble-making lot) left this country? Why didn't you do that, then?”
“Because,” Yehimelek said simply, “we did not know which way to go.”
Pondering this problem, Arabis fell silent. Her eyes wandered round the room for inspiration, and then remained fixed. For embroidered in gold thread on the inside of the door-curtain, where she had not noticed it before, was a beautiful life-sized representation of a golden harp.
A
s Owen moved towards his grandfather a stone whistled past his head and smashed one of the museum windows. Owen, turning swiftly, was just in time to see Hwfa Morgan stoop and pull a cobble out of the ground.
“Stop that!” he shouted indignantly.
“Where's our harp? How much money did Lord Malyn give you for it?” somebody shouted back. Another stone flew, narrowly missing old Mr. Hughes.
Owen was desperate. “Listen, all of you!” he shouted. “Listen!”
To make his voice carry farther he scrambled on to the mounting-block at one side of the museum-porch. Ignoring a rotten leek which came sailing through the air and struck him on the arm, he bawled out at the full pitch of his lungs:
“The harp was
not
sold to the Marquess of Malyn. It was stolen.”
“Get down, boy!” hissed old Mr. Hughes, close beside him. “Must you shame me worse that I am shamed already?
I
know
you stole the harp—I have already received your abominably spelt and ill-written letter. But not a penny need you expect to receive for it—be sure of that. wretched, abandoned lad—I do not know how you have the face to return to the scene of your crime?”
“
I
did not steal the harp!” Owen declared. “It was taken by two men called Bilk and Prigman, who forced me to go with them.
“All in it together, like as not,” somebody commented.
“Do not attempt to deceive me, boy; I know your writing,” Mr. Hughes said.
“Of course it was my writing—they made me write at the point of a knife! It is Bilk and Prigman who have the harp, and I believe they stole it for the Marquess of Malyn, because my grandfather would not give it to him.”
This last was plainly news to the crowd.
Mr. Morgan the innkeeper said thoughtfully,
“Well now, there is maybe a grain of truth in what the boy tell us. Certain it is that those two were very thick with his lordship when he stayed at the Dragon, and why would that be, I am wondering? Jailbirds they were, for sure.”
“Parcel of thieves, the whole crew of them,” called Mrs. Evans the grocery. “Duck these two in the river now, just, and the others when we lay hands on them is it?”
The section of the crowd who wanted action muttered agreement. More missiles were flung. One of them—a rotten apple—struck Owen and spattered him with cider-smelling mush.
“My grandfather has nothing to do with it!” he shouted. “Listen—you
must
listen to me. Grandfather refused to let
Lord Malyn have the harp—those two men said so. That was why they stole it!”
“Lies! Lies! Tell to the marines!” somebody shouted.
“Quiet, neighbours! Give the boy a fair hearing,
I
say!” the burly Mr. Morgan called out. “Courage he has at least, no denying. Not sorry I'd be to see the day when
you
spoke up so bold,” he added sharply to his son Hwfa, who laid down the cobble he had been about to hurl, and looked sheepish.
“Right, boy! Tell your story, then, is it? And if anyone care to interrupt, he have me to deal with!”
Mr. Morgan stepped forward to the mounting-block and turned to face his neighbours, who muttered and grumbled, but forbore to throw any more stones or vegetables.
As briefly as possible, Owen related how he had been overpowered and kidnapped by Bilk and Prigman, how he had been taken to Nant Agerddau and imprisoned, how he had escaped, only to find that the men had left the place, presumably taking the harp with them. His vehement, earnest manner began to convince the crowd.
“Would you believe it, then?”
“There's scandalous—imagine a great, rich lord hiring two scoundrels like that to make off with our precious harp! Or maybe it was that foreign fellow that was staying at Mr. Morgan's—I wouldn't trust
him
further than the length of his moustaches!”
“And planning to murder the poor boy—it do make your blood run cold!”
Only Mr. Hughes refused to be persuaded; he listened to Owen's tale with his face set like flint; at the end he declared loudly,
“I do not believe a word of it. Never in my life did I hear such a pack of lies!”
Owen turned even paler than he was already.
“But Grandfather—” he began.
“Do not address me as
Grandfather,
boy! I disown you! Understand me clearly—from now on I will have no more dealings with you! I will not feed you or house you—I do not acknowledge you as my flesh and blood. You have put shame on the ancient name of Hughes!”
“Shame yourself, old man!” shouted Dai, the potman from the Dragon of Gwaun. “The boy have done his best, isn't it? There's nasty, casting off your own kin!”
“Yes!”
“Hear, hear!”
“Heart of granite, the old ceidwad do have!”
Exasperated, Mr. Hughes turned to face the accusing crowd. “Clear off, every one of you!” he shouted. “I've no patience with you. For the last three years, since I retired from active service, I've tried to run your museum in a decent, shipshape manner, and what thanks do I get for it? First you accuse me of stealing the harp, now you call me names and interfere in my family affairs. Well, from tomorrow you can look after your own museum, because I am resigning my post; some other fool can have your ten shillings a year! Now, kindly take yourselves off, because I wish to go to bed.”
He moved back towards the porch.
“Grandfather—” Owen began again. But the old man, stonily ignoring him, stepped inside and slammed the museum door.
There was a moment's shocked silence. Then, soberly, the crowd began to disperse.
“Duw!” Luggins Cadwaller said in an awestruck tone. “There is an old tartar you have for a granda, Owen Hughes! Sorry I am if ever I was a bit nasty to you—reckon you had enough at home to put up with.”
In spite of an angry glance thrown at him by Hwfa Morgan, the large, good-natured Luggins ambled over to where Owen stood, still numbed by his grandfather's rejection of him, and thumped him on the back.
“Cheer up, boy! Lot of silly fuss, I say, over an old harp with one string, eh, Mog?”
Mog nodded. He was eating a large handful of laverbread, but stopped chewing long enough to say,
“Glad I am
my
granda hasn't thrown me out of doors! What'll you do now, Owen Hughes?”
His tone was inquisitive, rather than unkind.
“Do?” Owen was still somewhat dazed. He rubbed his forehead perplexedly, rather taken aback at the apparent good will of these boys who had hitherto been his enemies. But Hwfa and Dick, Soth and Follentine and Dove still scowled at him with dislike and hostility; only, he now realized, their enmity did not worry him as it had done before. “Do?” he repeated. “Why, I must try to get the harp back. Yes,” he went on, as what seemed his only possible course of action occurred to him. “I must go to Caer Malyn and tell the Marquess that Bilk and Prigman have gone off with the harp and that, as he is suspected of hiring them to steal it, he should help us to get it back.”
“Bachgen dda! That's right!” exclaimed Mr. Morgan approvingly. “Coward, did you say this boy was, Hwfa? Why
he have twice your spirit. Going to see Lord Malyn! There's many a full-grown man in this town would not dare!”
Hwfa Morgan scowled at his father and muttered unwillingly, “Nothing so wonderful about him that
I
can see. But I'll go along with you if you like, Owen Hughes.”
For he perceived that Owen's behaviour had won him respect, even popularity, and that it would be as well for his own position at least to make a pretence of sharing the general opinion.
“And I'll go too!” called out Luggins joyfully. “Like to see his lordship's castleful of golden furniture, I would!”
“I'll come too.” “And I!” volunteered Dick and Follentine and Dove, following their leader's example.
“Don't leave poor old Mog behind, boys!”
Soth glanced questioningly at Hwfa, who muttered behind his hand, “Just wait till we have him out in the woods on the way to Caer Malyn. Mincemeat we'll make of the little adwr!”
Upon which Soth, smiling his sickly smile, lisped, “Glad I thall be to come along too, Owen Hugheth!”
Hwfa and his associates stepped out of the rapidly dwindling crowd and joined Owen round the mounting-block.
“Start right off, will you then, Owen Hughes?” Mog said.
Owen would have liked to set out that instant, but Mr. Morgan advised waiting till next morning.
“No sense trying to get through the Fforest Mwyaf at night, boy; eaten alive every last one of you would be, even my Hwfa, and he's as tough a mouthful as ever gave the colic to a hungry wolf. Better come down to the
Dragon for a bite of supper and a nap; welcome with us you are, since your old granda have turned so prickly. Plenty of room there, since all the gentry have left. The foreign gentleman didn't stay long after Lord Malyn went; up to visit the museum first, and then off with him to Nant Agerddau in a hired chaise; wanted to see the Devil's Leap was what he
said.
”
It was agreed that the boys should start at daybreak with food for the journey and whatever weapons each could provide. Owen ventured to tap on the museum door and ask his grandfather if he might borrow the ancient crossbow from the collection of his arms, but his request was greeted by an implacable silence from inside.
“No matter,” Mr. Morgan said. “Plenty of leather we have, down at the Dragon; make yourself a slingshot, you can.”
However, next morning, much to Owen's surprise, Luggins arrived carrying the museum crossbow (which was in good working order, thanks to the way Owen had been obliged to polish it every night) and a handful of bolts.
“How did you persuade my grandfather to part with it?” Owen asked Luggins as the party of eight set out down the rocky, forested glen of the Gaff river, armed with sticks, knives, pikes, and the crossbow.
“No trouble at all!” Luggins said, smiling his wide, simple smile. “Thought I'd call in, just, as I was passing the museum. At the door, I was, when a carriage stopped there, and a fellow all done up in gold lace says to your granda,”Mr. Hughes, is it? I have orders to bring you at once before his worship the Marquess of Malyn. He desires to see you without loss of time.” Well, while your granda
was grumbling and arguing the toss, the way he has with him, what did I do but nip in the door behind him, whip up the crossbow, and out the window. Simple, see!”
Owen congratulated him absently, his mind much occupied with this news. It sounded as if the Marquess had not got the harp, but had received his letter and sent for Mr. Hughes to demand an explanation. So that made two. The Seljuk's letter had missed him; Owen had been relieved to find it waiting at the Dragon of Gwaun and had quietly taken the first opportunity of putting it in the kitchen stove. But where was the fourth—that addressed to His Highness Prince David of Wales?
The route the boys were following lay along the course of the Gaff river and through the forest; this way was the most direct but more dangerous than the turnpike road, first because of wild beasts, and secondly because part of the track lay in a dry watercourse where the river had sunk underground, and the way was subject to sudden dangerous flooding after a storm. However at present the day was fair and they hoped it would remain so.
The party had strung out in twos along the rocky riverbed; first Hwfa and Soth, who walked some distance ahead of the rest, mutering together in low voices and occasionally casting back glances full of ill-will at Owen.
Next came Dick and Follentine, slashing with their sticks at every plant they passed, and throwing stones at every bird and animal.
Luggins, Dove, Mog, and Owen brought up the rear, walking in a square, three of them openmouthed in wonder while Owen, out of the lore acquired from his little book,
instructed them as to the natural wonders that lay on every side.
“The Hedgehog will patiently fubmit to every provocation for its own fecurity—do give over poking the poor thing, though, Dove; it will never unroll while you do that! The giant oaks you observe overhead belong to the genus Quercus. The Mushrooms, Mosses, Ferns, and Liver-worts, all of which you see here abundantly displayed, belong to the twenty-fourth order of that excellent botanist Linnaeus.”
“Hwchw!” said Mog, who was chewing a large mushroom. “I thought all this land belonged to his lordship? Will old Linnaeus be annoyed, think you, if I pick his mushrooms?”
At this moment Follentine, hurling a rock at what he supposed to be a large grey boulder, had the misfortune to strike an elderly she-wolf who was curled up sleeping in the morning sun. She woke and flew at him with a snarl; yelling with fright he took to his heels, but she overhauled him in half a dozen bounds and seized the skirt of his jacket in her long fangs. While the rest of the boys stood paralysed by fright and indecision, Owen swiftly strung the crossbow and fired a bolt with such dexterity as to knock the wolf head over heels, killing her instantly.

Other books

An Unfamiliar Murder by Jane Isaac
BindingPassion by Katherine Kingston
The Arabian Nights II by Husain Haddawy
Miracle at Speedy Motors by Smith, Alexander Mccall
Nobody's Perfect by Marlee Matlin
The Member of the Wedding by Carson McCullers