6

In the late afternoon Markind seemed to be deserted. As they clattered northward through its shuttered, respectable streets, Moril was ready to swear that there was no one around to notice even such a noticeable cart as theirs. Nevertheless, Dagner was as tense as if he were giving a performance. He did not relax even when they were out of Markind. Instead of looking for a main road, he struck into the first small lane that went north and kept turning round uneasily as he drove to see if Ganner was following them.

Olob clattered along with a will, with his ears gaily pricked. The lane, and then the other lanes they took after it, led through apple orchards where the trees were bursting into bloom. The sun was mild and warm. Moril sat smiling sleepily and happily, listening to the familiar beat of Olob’s hooves, the wine sloshing about in the great jar behind him, and the blackbirds singing in the apple trees. This was the life! He was sure they could manage, whatever Lenina thought. A cuckoo sang out, cutting across the songs of the blackbirds.

“O—oh!” said Brid. Tears began rolling down her cheeks. “Father said to me—by the lake—he hadn’t heard a cuckoo yet this year. And he was sorry he was going to miss it.” Her face screwed up, and her tears ran faster than ever. “He told me to listen for him, on the way North. And Mother goes and drives straight off to Markind! How could she!”

“Shut up, Brid,” said Dagner uncomfortably.

“I shan’t! I can’t!” cried Brid. “How could she! How could she! Ganner’s so stupid. How could she!”

“Will you be quiet!” said Dagner. “You don’t understand.”

“Yes, I do!” Brid cried. “Ganner and Mother arranged to have Father murdered—that’s what happened!”

“Don’t talk such blinking nonsense!” Kialan said sharply. “That had nothing to do with either of them.”

“How do you know?” Brid wept. “Why did she go straight off to Ganner like that?”

“Because she’s always wanted to, of course!” said Dagner. “Only she couldn’t, because she thought it wasn’t honorable. I told you you didn’t understand,” he went on, in an odd, agitated way. “You’re too young to notice. But I’ve seen—oh, enough to know Mother hated living in a cart. She wasn’t brought up to it like we are. It was all right while we were in the Earl of Hannart’s household—we had a roof over our heads and that wasn’t too bad for her—but—I suppose you don’t remember.”

“Not very well,” Brid admitted, sniffing. “I was only three when we left.”

“Well I do,” said Dagner. “And Father would leave, though he knew Mother didn’t want to go. And in the cart she had to bring us up and keep us clean and cook—and she’d never done anything like that in her life till then. And sometimes there was no money at all, and we were always on the move and always—well, there were other things she didn’t like Father doing. But Father always got his own way over them. Mother never had a say in anything. She just did the work. Then she saw Ganner again in Derent, after all those years, and she told me it had brought her old life back to her and made her feel terrible. I just don’t blame her for going back to what she was used to. You can see Ganner’s not going to order her around like Father did.”

“Father didn’t order her around!” Brid protested. “He even offered to take her back to Ganner.”

“Yes, and I thought Mother was really going to call his bluff for a moment then,” said Dagner. “He knew darned well Mother wouldn’t go, because it wasn’t her duty, but he had an anxious moment all the same, didn’t he? And then he took good care to point out how much cleverer he was than Ganner.”

“That was just his way,” said Brid.

“It was all just his way,” said Dagner. “Look, Brid, I don’t want to pull Father to pieces any more than you do, but in some ways he was—oh, maddening. And if you think about it, you’ll see he and Mother weren’t at all well matched.”

Moril was blinking a little at all this. It was so unlike Dagner to talk so much or so clearly. He marveled at the way Dagner managed to put into words things Moril had known all his life but not truly noticed till this moment. “Don’t you think Mother was fond of Father at all?” he asked dolefully.

“Not in the way we were,” said Dagner.

“In that case, why did she run off with him like that?” Brid asked, triumphantly, as if that clinched the matter.

Dagner looked pensively at a new vista of apple trees coming into view beyond Olob’s ears. “I’m not sure,” he said, “but I think that cwidder had something to do with it.”

Moril swiveled around and cast an apprehensive look at the gleaming belly of the old cwidder, resting in its place in the rack. “Why do you think that?” he asked nervously.

“Something Mother said once,” said Dagner. “And Father told you there was power in it, didn’t he?”

“There probably is, if it belonged to Osfameron,” Kialan observed in a matter-of-fact way.

“Don’t be silly! It can’t be that old!” Moril protested.

“Osfameron lived not quite two hundred years ago,” said Kialan, and he really seemed to know. “He was born the same year as King Labbard died, so it can’t be more than that. A cwidder’d surely last as long as that if you took care of it. Why, we’ve—I’ve seen one that’s four hundred years old—though, mind you, it looks ready to drop apart if you breathed on it.”

Moril cast another look, even more apprehensive, at the quiet, prosperous shape of the old cwidder. “It can’t be!” he said.

“Well,” Dagner said diffidently, “you get used to thinking things like that were only around long ago, but—I’ll tell you, Moril—didn’t you get the impression you kept Father alive with it this morning?” Moril stared at Dagner with his mouth open. “I thought so,” Dagner said, a trifle apologetically. “I’ve never heard it sound like it did then. And—and Father was dead awfully quickly after you left off, wasn’t he?”

Moril was appalled. “Whatever am I going to do with a thing like that!” he almost wailed.

“I don’t know. Learn to use it, perhaps,” said Dagner. “I must say I was glad Father didn’t give it to me.”

Everyone subsided into thoughtfulness. Brid sniffed wretchedly. Olob clopped steadily on for a mile or so. Then he took a look at the sinking sun and decided to choose them a camping ground. Dagner dissuaded him. He refused to let Olob turn off the road three times, until Olob got the point and did not try again. They went on and on and on, downhill, uphill, through small valleys, pastures, and orchards. The sky died from blue to pink and from pink to purple, and Brid could bear no more.

“Oh, do let’s stop, Dagner! Today seems to have gone on for about a hundred years!”

“I know,” said Dagner. “But I want to get a really good start.”

“Do you think Ganner will really follow us?” said Moril. “He ought to be glad we’ve gone. Then he needn’t fuss about roofs and things.”

“He’s bound to,” said Kialan. “A man with a conscience—that’s Ganner. He’ll probably send some of his hearthmen out tonight and set out himself first thing tomorrow. That’s what—I mean, if it had been just Dagner and me, he—”

“Go on. Say it. You think Moril and I shouldn’t have come,” Brid said bitterly.

“I didn’t say that!” snapped Kialan.

“Just meant it,” said Brid.

“No, he didn’t,” said Dagner. “Stop being stupid, Brid. The thing is, I left without explaining to Mother, and even if I had explained, she wouldn’t have wanted you two to go. So I know she’ll ask Ganner to come after us. If he does catch us up, you and Moril will have to go back, I’m afraid.”

“Oh no!” said Brid, and Moril felt equally mutinous.

“That’s why I hope he doesn’t catch us,” Dagner said. “Because I don’t think I could give a show on my own, and I was wondering how on earth I’d manage.”

This admission mollified Brid greatly. She refrained from grumbling, although they went on until the light was all but gone. Then Dagner at last permitted Olob to select them a spot on top of a hill. This meant their camp was windy, a fact which Brid bitterly pointed out while they were fumbling around trying to put up the tent in the breezy semidark.

“Yes, but we can see people coming,” said Dagner.

“And there are thistles. I’ve just trodden on one,” Brid complained.

“Then why on earth don’t you put your boots on?” demanded Kialan.

“Oh, I couldn’t! I’d spoil them,” Brid said, quite shocked.

Kialan roared with laughter, which seemed to restore Brid’s frayed temper. She took it quite cheerfully when Moril discovered the only food they had was bread and onions.

“I knew we’d need those rabbits,” Kialan said dejectedly.

“We all had a good lunch,” said Brid.

Moril had the notion of frying the bread and onions together. Unfortunately it was then so dark that he could not see to fry. The mixture he turned out of the frying pan was extremely singed, and it was only eaten because everyone was very hungry. Then they settled down to sleep. It seemed to Moril, waking and resettling himself round the wine jar during the night, that Kialan and Dagner kept watch, turn and turn about, until dawn broke. Certainly they both looked very jaded in the morning.

Nevertheless, as soon as the sun was up and Olob fed, Dagner had the cart on the move again. They ate the last of the bread as they went. Brid moaned a little, and Dagner promised they would buy more food in the next village they came to.

“What with?” said Brid.

That was a nasty moment. There was no money in the locker where Lenina usually kept it. She must have taken it out in Markind. And none of them had any money in the pockets of their fine new clothes. For a while, it looked as if they would have to give a show before they could eat. Then Brid thought of going through the clothes locker, turning out pockets. There were a few coins in the pockets of Clennen’s scarlet suit, and a further few fell out of Kialan’s old good coat when Brid picked it up.

“May we use these? We’ll pay you back,” she said.

“Of course,” said Kialan. “I’d forgotten I’d got any.”

When they came to a village, Dagner drew up on the outskirts and sent Brid and Moril shopping, shouting after them at the last minute that there were no more oats for Olob. The rule was that you bought oats first—for where would you be with Olob undernourished?—and they were dear in those parts at that season. Brid and Moril came glumly back with oats, a loaf, half a can of milk, a cold black sausage, and a cabbage. Knowing that Dagner would certainly put off giving a performance if he could, Brid prepared to do battle.

“That’s all we could afford. If we don’t give a show tomorrow, we’ll starve,” she announced, dumping the meager purchases in the cart.

“We’re going to,” Dagner said, to her surprise. “Father said we were to be sure to perform in Neathdale, and I think we’ll be there by tomorrow. Have you found it?” he asked Kialan, who was frowning over the map. It was not a good map. Clennen knew Dalemark like the back of his hand and only kept a map for emergencies.

“If this place is Cindow, Neathdale’s quite a way to the northwest,” said Kialan. “Is it worth it? It would be almost as easy to go by the Marshes from here.”

“Yes, I’ve got to go. And he said we’d be bound to get news there,” said Dagner. “Let’s get going. And,” he added, “I suppose we’d better have a bit of a practice this evening.”

As Olob went on, Moril, sighing rather, went and fetched the old cwidder. When he had vowed not to play it, he had been thinking of an idle life in Markind—if he had thought of the future at all—but now, whether Dagner played pipes or treble cwidder, and Brid pipes or panhorn, someone was going to have to play tenor to them. That meant Moril on the big cwidder. And he had always been in awe of it, and never more than now. By way of coming to terms with it, he laid it on his knees and polished it as Clennen had taught him. Brid gave him the note on the panhorn, and he tuned it. And tuned it again. And retuned it. As fast as he got a string to the right pitch, it went off again. All he could produce was the moaning twang of slack strings.

“I think the pegs are slipping,” he said helplessly.

“Let me have a go,” Brid said competently. But she could not get it tuned either.

“Let me look at the pegs,” said Kialan. He looked, and seemed fairly knowledgeable, but he could not see anything wrong. He handed it on to Dagner. Dagner, who knew most of all, hitched the reins round his knees and spent half an hour trying to get the cwidder tuned. In the end he was forced to hand it back to Moril in the same state as before.

“Isn’t that all we needed!” said Brid. “Perhaps it’s in mourning. After all, we all should be, and look at us!”

“Try playing a lament,” Kialan said thoughtfully.

“Why?” said Moril. “Anyway, I hate the old songs.”

“Any lament,” said Dagner. “You played your own treble over the grave, didn’t you?”

Moril tried it. He began singing the “Lament for the Earl of Dropwater,” and brought the cwidder in as softly as he could after the first line. The discord was horrible. Brid shuddered. But Dagner took up the song, too, and the cwidder seemed almost to follow his lead. The notes came right as Dagner sang them. To Moril’s astonishment and secret terror, the cwidder was in tune by the end of the first verse. He sang the chorus, and first Brid, then Kialan, joined in.

The cwidder sang on, as sweetly as it had for Clennen. Tears poured down Brid’s face. Moril felt tearful, too. They sang lustily through the whole song, and sad though it made them, they felt heartened, too. The oddest effect was on Olob. His pace dropped to a slow, rhythmic walk, and he went for all the world as if the cart was a hearse.

“Put it away,” said Dagner, “or we’ll never get to Neathdale.”

Moril put the alarming cwidder carefully back, and they made better progress. As before, Dagner would not let Olob stop at the usual time or in the usual kind of place. A little before sunset he took Olob right off the road into a high, lonely field full of big stones, where they could see a good way in most directions.

“There hasn’t been a sign of Ganner!” Moril protested.

“Well, there won’t be, until we see him arriving, will there?” said Kialan.

They demolished the sausage and held their practice. To Moril’s relief, the big cwidder now behaved perfectly. But there were other difficulties. Without Clennen or Lenina, they found they could not do half the songs in the way they were used to. They had to work everything out afresh. And Dagner did not in any way take Clennen’s place. He refused to do more than a third of the singing, and that was the only thing he was firm about. Otherwise, he simply made suggestions, and he was quite ready to be overruled by Brid or Moril. The younger two felt lost. They were used to Clennen’s kind but entirely firm way of telling them exactly what to do. Sometimes they were annoyed, and several times they were tempted to get very silly. It was only the grim thought that their next meal depended on this practice that kept them from breaking into loud arguments or louder laughter. Moril felt he had never truly missed Clennen till then.

Yet, in the middle of thinking that, he remembered what Dagner had said about Clennen’s always having his own way. It occurred to him to wonder if Clennen had not, in fact, kept them all a little too dependent on him. Maybe this was why it seemed so hard to manage without him.

While they practiced, Kialan lay full length on a rock above them, listening and also, Moril suspected, acting as lookout. This elaborate caution began to irritate Moril. After all, it was Moril and Brid who stood to lose if Ganner found them, not Dagner and Kialan. In the morning he was exasperated to see that they had been on watch again. Both of them looked tired out.

Brid was furious. “How on earth do you think you’re going to give a performance, Dagner, if you can hardly keep your eyes open? I’ve never known you so silly! We depend on you!”

“All right,” Dagner said wearily. “You drive and I’ll have a sleep in the cart. But wake me if—if—”

“If what?” snapped Brid.

“If anything happens,” said Dagner, and lay down beside the wine jar with a groan. Kialan flopped down on the other side of the jar, and both of them fell asleep before Olob had the cart in motion.

It was left to Brid and Moril to find the way to Neathdale. They did it, too, half cross and half proud of themselves. The map did not help much. They were forced to follow their noses across country, turning into any road that seemed to go northwest and hoping for the best. Once they arrived in a farmyard and had to back out of it, pursued by the barking of dogs and the squalling of hens and roosters. Kialan and Dagner did not even stir. “Stupid fools,” said Brid. They were still asleep when the cart came out on a rise above Neathdale.

“We did it!” said Moril.

“Unless Olob knew the way,” Brid said, trying to be fair. “But I don’t think even he can have come to it this way before.”

Neathdale was a big cheerful-looking town lying across the main road north to Flennpass, in the last level ground before the Uplands. They could look across even its tallest buildings from where they were to where the South Dales mounted like stairs to the Mark Wood plateau.

“Say four days, and we’ll be in the North,” Moril said yearningly.

“Four days,” said Brid promptly.

The scuffle that followed on the driving seat woke Dagner and Kialan at last. “What’s the matter? What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Only Neathdale,” said Brid. Dagner’s sleepy face at once became pinched and tense and mauvish. Brid set herself to soothe him. “We always used to get good takings here,” she said. “There must be hundreds of people who remember us and know Father. I’m going to do the talking, mind, and I shall talk about Father and say who we are—though they can read that on the cart anyway.”

“The cart ought to be repainted with Dagner’s name,” Moril observed. He did not think Brid was soothing Dagner in the slightest, but he did not mind helping.

“You’d hardly get the name on,” Brid said brightly. “Dastgandlen down one side and Handagner up the other, I suppose.”

“Isn’t Neathdale the seat of Earl Tholian?” Kialan asked, tactlessly cutting through the soothing.

“Not really. His place is outside a bit, over to the east,” Dagner said. He pointed with a hand that shook noticeably. A great white house was just visible, among trees, on the other side of Neathdale.

“Blast you, Kialan!” said Brid. Kialan looked at her in surprise. “Oh, it doesn’t matter,” said Brid. “Just if this show goes wrong, I’ll blame you. Dagner, I think we’d better put on our glad rags now.”

“No,” said Dagner.

“What do you mean?” said Brid.

“Just no,” said Dagner. “We’ll give the show as we are. We’re quite respectable.”

“Yes, but we always change,” Brid protested. “It gives you a feel.”

“That was Father’s idea,” said Dagner. “And he was right in a way. It went with his style to come rolling in, singing and glittering. He could live up to it. But if I go in dressed in tinsel and singing my head off, people are just going to laugh.”

“You think that because you’re nervous,” Brid said persuasively. “You’ll feel better once you’re changed.”

“No, I won’t,” said Dagner. “I’ll feel ten times worse. Brid, I just haven’t got Father’s personality, and I can’t do the same things. I’ll have to do them my way, or not at all. See?”

Brid, by this time, was near tears. “Do you mean you’re not going to give a show at all then?”

“Not Father’s kind,” said Dagner, “because I can’t. We’ll give a show all right, because we’ll starve if we don’t, and you can introduce us and explain what’s happened, and maybe it’ll be all right. But if I find you boasting and ranting about us—that goes for you, too, Moril—I’ll stop. We’ll just have to be plain, because we’re not Father.”

Brid sighed heavily. “All right. But I’m going to put my boots on, anyway. I need a feel.” She brightened a little. “I’ve always hated the color of your suit, Moril. You look nicer like that.”

“Thank you,” Moril said politely. Dagner had suddenly brought it home to him that, for the first time in their lives, they were about to give a show entirely on their own. He had never, as far as he knew, been nervous before. Now he was. As Brid drove downhill toward Neathdale, Moril sat clutching the big cwidder with hands that were icy cold and sweating at once, and it would have been hard to say whether he or Dagner was the more nervous. The houses came nearer. Quite desperate, Moril laid his cheek against the smooth wood of the cwidder. “Oh, please help me!” he whispered to it. “I’ll never manage. I can’t!”

“Can you stop a moment?” said Kialan.

Brid drew up. Kialan immediately swung down from the cart to the road. Brid looked at him somberly. “Now you’re going to give us that about not being interested in our shows, aren’t you? Well don’t. I won’t believe you. I’ve seen you listening to every show we’ve given.”

Kialan looked up at Brid’s stormy face and seemed nonplussed. Then he laughed. “All right. I won’t give you that. But I’m going to meet you on the other side of Neathdale all the same. See you.” He set off at a good swinging pace toward the town, with his hands in his pockets, whistling “Jolly Holanders.”

“I give up!” said Brid. But both her brothers were too nervous to reply.