Cart and Cwidder Page 4

  Dagner never let people hit Brid. He surged up from his seat in the hedgerow and fell on Kialan. Moril, since Dagner seemed to be doing his best to strangle Kialan, thought he had better get Brid out from between them and entered the fray, too. They made a grunting furious bundle. Brid would not unfasten her teeth and Kialan would not let go of Brid. Clennen heaved himself up, strolled over, and wrenched Dagner away from Kialan and Kialan away from Brid. Everyone, including Moril, fell with heavy thumps, this way and that. Clennen might have been fat, but he was also strong.

  “Now stop!” said Clennen. “And if you’ve anything more to say about my story, Kialan, say it to me.” He looked cheerfully down at Kialan, angrily sprawled on the roadside sucking his bleeding knuckles. “Well?”

  “All right!” said Kialan. “All right!” Moril could see he was nearly crying. Brid was crying. “You can keep on saying you’ll never forget Ganner—or whatever he’s called—all you like,” said Kialan. “I don’t believe you’ve even met him! You wouldn’t know him if he came walking down the road this minute! So there!”

  The cheerfulness died out of Clennen’s face. It was replaced by a very odd look. Kialan noticeably tensed at it. “Do you know Ganner then?” Clennen said.

  “No, of course I don’t!” said Kialan. “How could I? I don’t suppose he exists.”

  “Oh, he exists all right,” said Clennen. “And I’m sure you don’t know him. Yet you’re right. I’ve seen Ganner three times this month and not known him till this minute.” He laughed again, and Kialan relaxed considerably. “Not a face that stands out in a crowd,” he said. “Eh, Lenina?”

  “I suppose not,” agreed Lenina, and continued calmly slicing cold sausage.

  “You knew him though, didn’t you?” Clennen said. “In Derent, and on the road, and again in Crady?”

  “Not till he said who he was,” Lenina said, quite unperturbed.

  There seemed suddenly to be a situation ten times worse. All through lunch Clennen looked at Lenina in a tense, troubled way. He seemed to be expecting her to say something and, at the same time, carefully not saying all sorts of things himself. And Lenina said nothing. She said nothing so positively and obviously that the air seemed sticky with her silence. It was hateful. The rest of them picked awkwardly at their food, and no one spoke much. Kialan did not say anything. It was obvious, even to Brid, that he was kicking himself for causing the situation—as well he might, Moril thought.

  When the food was finished and the cart packed again, they went on, still in the same heavy silence. At last Clennen could bear it no longer.

  “Lenina,” he said, “you’re not regretting all that, are you? If you want that kind of life—if you’d rather have Ganner—just say the word and I’ll turn Olob toward Markind this moment.”

  Moril gasped. Brid’s mouth came open in her tear-stained face. They looked at Clennen and found he seemed quite serious. Then they looked at Lenina, expecting her to laugh. It was so silly. Lenina was as much part of their life as Olob or the cart. But Lenina did not laugh, nor did she say anything. Not only Brid and Moril, but Dagner, Kialan, and Clennen, too, stared at her in increasing anxiety.

  They came to a fork in the road. One branch led west, and the milestone said MARKIND 10. “Do I turn here?” asked Clennen.

  Lenina gave herself an impatient shake. “Oh no,” she said. “Clennen Mendakersson, you must be a very big fool indeed to think such a thing of me.”

  Clennen burst into a roll of relieved laughter. He shook the reins, and Olob trotted past the turning. “I must say,” he said, laughing still, “I can’t see how you could prefer Ganner to me. He couldn’t have made the songs I’ve made to you, not if his life depended on it.”

  “Then why did you think I did?” Lenina asked coldly. The trouble was not over yet.

  “Well,” Clennen said awkwardly. “Money and all that. And it’s what you were bred to, after all.”

  “I see,” said Lenina. There was silence again for quite half an hour, except for the plopping of Olob’s hooves and the light rumble of the cart. Kialan was unable to bear it. He got out and walked ahead, whistling the “Second March” rather defiantly. The others sat with their heads hanging, wishing Lenina would make peace. At last she said, “Oh, Clennen, do stop sitting there watching me like a dog! I’m not going to take wings and fly, am I? It’s lucky Olob has more sense than you, or we’d be in the ditch by now!”

  Then the trouble seemed to be over. Clennen was shortly laughing and talking again. And Lenina, if she was silent, was silent in her usual way, which everyone was used to. Brid and Moril got out of the cart, too, though they did not go near Kialan. Brid was still too angry with him.

  4

  That night they camped in one of the many little valleys Markind abounded in. There were woods up its steep sides and a meadow in the bottom, containing a small peaceful lake full of newly hatched tadpoles. Dagner and Kialan went off to set their snares. Lenina put herbs on the fire against the midges, and the fragrant smoke streamed sideways and settled across the lake in bands. Brid and Moril, quite unworried by insects, waded into the shallows of the lake and tried enthusiastically to collect tadpoles in an old pickle jar. Moril had just lost most of them by accident when he looked up to find his father watching them.

  “You want a bigger jar,” Clennen said. “And both of you want to remember what I said to Kialan about give-and-take.”

  “He doesn’t remember it,” Brid said sulkily.

  “He’s never had to learn it before,” said Clennen. “That’s his trouble. But it’s not yours, Brid. A fight takes two.”

  “Did you hear what he said?” Moril demanded.

  “I’m not deaf,” said Clennen. “He’s entitled to his opinion, like everyone else. And it wouldn’t hurt you to find some opinions of your own instead of borrowing Brid’s, Moril. Now get that slime off your fingers before you touch my cwidder.”

  While Moril was having his lesson, Kialan came out of the woods and into the lake, where he tried to teach Dagner to swim. The sight of them splashing about was a great distraction to Moril. It grew worse when Kialan tried to persuade Brid to learn to swim, too. Brid claimed to be afraid of leeches. Nothing would induce her to go above her knees in water, but she agreed to learn the arm movements. Moril could hear her laughing. It looked as if Kialan were trying to make friends.

  Moril became more distracted than ever. Perhaps, after all, Kialan was not bad at heart—only tactless. Moril tried to decide what he thought. It really rankled with him that Clennen believed he borrowed Brid’s opinions. Moril considered that he thought long and deeply—if rather vaguely—about most things. But he knew he had agreed with Brid, quite unquestioningly, both about Kialan and about the Ganner story. And it looked as if Brid had been wrong about both. Moril did not know what he thought.

  “I suppose I ought to be used to you being up in the clouds by now,” said Clennen. “Do you want to swim, too?”

  “No,” said Moril. “Yes. I mean, is that story about Ganner true then?”

  “Word of honor,” said Clennen. “Except it’s the fellow’s face I seem to have forgotten, not his name. I may embroider a detail here and there, but I never tell a story that isn’t true, Moril. Remember that. Now go and swim if you want to.”

  Clennen was clearly very relieved that Lenina was not leaving for Markind. He drank a great deal of the wine that night to celebrate. The level in the huge bottle was almost down to the straw basket when he finally rolled into the larger tent and fell asleep. He was still asleep next morning when Dagner and Kialan went off to look at their snares. When Brid and Moril got up, they could hear him snoring, though Lenina was up and combing out her soft fair hair by the lake. Brid attended to the fire, and Moril tried to attend to Olob. Olob, for some reason, was tetchy. He kept flinging up his head and shying at shadows.

  “What’s the matter with him?” Moril asked his mother.

  Lenina’s comb had hit a tangle. She was lugging at it fierce
ly and not really attending. “No idea,” she said. “Leave him be.”

  So Moril left off trying to groom Olob and turned to put the currycomb back in the cart. He found himself looking at a number of men, who were pushing their way through the last of the wood into the clear space by the lake. They were out almost as soon as Moril saw them, six of them. They stood in a group, looking at Moril, Brid kneeling by the fire, Lenina by the lake, the cart, and the tents.

  “Clennen the Singer,” one of them said. “Where is he?”

  Olob tossed his head and trotted away round the lake.

  “He’s not here,” said Brid.

  Moril thought he would have said the same. The men alarmed him. It was odd to see six well-dressed men outside a wood in the middle of nowhere. They were very well dressed. They wore cloth as good as Kialan’s coat, and all of them had that sleek look that comes from always living in style. Each of them wore a sword in a well-kept leather scabbard, belted over the good cloth of their coats, and Moril did not like the way the hilts of those swords looked smooth with frequent use. But the truly alarming thing about them was that they had an air of purpose, all of them, which hit Moril like a gust of cold wind and frightened him.

  “My father won’t be back for ages,” he said, hoping they would go away.

  “Then we’ll wait for him,” said the man who had asked. Moril liked him least of all. He was fair and light-eyed, and there was an odd look in those eyes which Moril did not trust.

  Lenina evidently felt the same. “Suppose you give me your message for Clennen,” she said, coming forward with her hair still loose.

  “You wouldn’t like it, lady,” said the man. “We’ll wait.”

  “Moril,” said Lenina. “Go round the lake and fetch your father.”

  Moril thought that was clever of her. It would deceive the men, and Dagner and Kialan might be some help. He tossed the currycomb into the cart and set off at a trot. But Clennen chose that moment to crawl out of the tent like a badger. He stood up, with his eyes red and blinking inside a tousled frill of hair and beard.

  “Somebody call me?” he said sleepily.

  Moril stopped, helpless. Everything went so quickly that he could hardly believe it was happening. The six men pushed forward in a body, overwhelming Lenina for a moment, and then leaving her in the open, clutching Brid. Their swords caught the pink early sun. The group round Clennen trampled a bit. Clennen, sleepy as he was, must have put up something of a fight. A man stumbled sideways into the lake. Another fell in with a splash. Then the six men, swords sheathed again, went running away from the lake in a group. One glanced into Clennen’s tent and then the smaller one. Another took a quick look into the cart as they passed.

  “Nothing here,” he called.

  “Look in the woods then,” said the fair one. And they were gone.

  Clennen lay where he had fallen, half in the lake, with blood running out of him into the water.

  Before Moril could move, there was a thumping of racing feet. Dagner shot past him round the lake and surged onto his knees in the water beside Clennen. “Have they killed him?”

  “Not quite,” said Lenina. “Help me move him.”

  Moril stood where he was, some distance away, and watched them heave his father out of the calm sunny water. Brid’s face was grayish white, and her teeth were chattering. Dagner’s mouth kept twisting about. Moril could see his hands shaking. But Lenina was quite calm and no paler than usual. As they turned Clennen over, Moril saw a cut in his chest. Bright red blood was gushing from it as fast as the river ran in Dropwater, steaming a little in the cold air over the surface of the lake.

  At the sight, the bright trees, the lake, and the sunny sky dipped and swung in front of Moril. Everything turned sour and gray and distant. He could not move from the spot. Up in the woods behind him, he could dimly hear the six men crashing about and calling to one another, but they could have been on the moon for all the fear and interest Moril felt. His eyes stared, so widely that they hurt, at the group by the water.

  Lenina, without abating her calm, tore a big strip from her petticoat, and another, to stop the bleeding. “Give me yours,” she said to Brid, and while Brid, shaking and shivering, was getting out of her petticoat, Lenina said in the same calm way to Dagner, “Get the small flask from the cart.”

  Moril stared at his mother working and telling Brid what to do. The only sign of emotion Lenina showed was when her hair trailed in the way of the bandages. “Bother the stuff!” she said. “Brid, tie it back for me.”

  Brid was still trying to get a ribbon round Lenina’s hair when Dagner scudded back with the flask. “Do you think you can save him?” he asked, as if he were pleading with Lenina.

  She looked up at him calmly. “No, Dagner. The most I can do is keep him with you for a while. He’ll want to have his say. He always did.” She took the flask from Dagner and uncorked it.

  Moril desolately watched her trying to get some of the liquid from the flask into Clennen’s mouth. It was not fair. He felt it was not fair on his father at all, to die like this, first thing in the morning, miles from anywhere. He ought to have had warning. Dying was a thing someone like Clennen ought to do properly, in front of a crowd, with music playing if possible.

  Music was possible, of course. Moril found himself beside the cart, without quite knowing how he had got there. He scrambled up and seized the nearest cwidder. It happened to be the big one. In the ordinary way, Moril would not have chosen it. But being inside the cart made him feel sick and queer, so he simply took what came first to hand and backed hastily down with it.

  While he was getting its strap over his back, he realized that Clennen’s eyes were open. And it was clear that Clennen shared Moril’s opinion. Moril heard him say, rather thickly, but quite strongly, “This came out of the blue, didn’t it? I’d have preferred to have notice.”

  Moril put his hands to the strings and began to play, very softly, the weird broken little tune of “Manaliabrid’s Lament.” The cwidder responded sweetly. The old song seemed more melodious than usual, and because of the water, it carried out across the lake until the valley seemed full of it. Moril heard its echo from the woods opposite.

  His ears were so full of the sound that he did not hear much else of what Clennen said. Clennen’s voice became weaker, anyway, after that first remark, and he spoke to Lenina in what was only a murmur. Then he spoke to Brid for a while, reaching out to hold her hand, which made Brid cry. After that, it was Dagner’s turn. Clennen was very weak by then. Dagner had to put his head right down near his father’s face in order to hear him. Moril played on, as softly as he could, watching Dagner listening and nodding, and wondered vaguely at the amount Clennen seemed to have to say. Then Dagner looked up and beckoned to Moril.

  “He wants to talk to you. Quickly.”

  Moril did not dare take off the cwidder for fear of wasting time. He hurried over to Clennen with it bumping at his thighs and knees, and hoisted it away sideways as he knelt down. Clennen’s face was paler than Moril had ever seen a face before. His eyes did not seem to reflect the sky, or Moril bending over him, though it was clear he could see Moril.

  “Got the big cwidder, have you?” Clennen said. Moril nodded. He could not manage to speak. “Keep it carefully,” said Clennen. “It’s yours now. Always meant to give it to you, Moril, because I think you’ve got the ability. Or will have. But you have to come to terms with it, and with yourself. Understand?” Moril nodded again, though he did not understand in the least. “You’re in two halves at present,” Clennen went on. “Often thought so. Come together, Moril, and there’s no knowing what you might do. There’s power in that cwidder, if you can use it. Used to be Osfameron’s. He could use it. Handed down to me. I couldn’t use it. Only found the power once, when I—” Clennen paused for breath. Moril waited for him to go on, but nothing happened. Clennen stayed as he was, with his eyes open looking at Moril, and his lips parted. After a while, Moril realized that this was all
there would be. He got up and carefully, very carefully, put the cwidder back in its place inside the cart.

  Brid was crying loudly. Lenina was standing very upright beside the lake, as calm as ever. Dagner seemed to have frozen into the same sort of calmness, facing her. And Kialan was coming slowly toward them round the lake with a bundle of dead rabbits.

  When he reached them, Kialan stopped. He looked at Clennen and, for once, seemed not to know what to say. “I’m—terribly sorry,” he said at length.

  “It was going to happen sometime,” said Lenina. “Will you help us dig a grave, please?”

  “Of course,” said Kialan. “Here?”

  “Why not?” said Lenina. “Clennen never had a home after he left Hannart, and we can’t take him there.”

  “Very well,” said Kialan, and he laid the rabbits down and unhooked the spade from its clips beneath the cart. Dagner went and fetched the pickax, and the two set to work. Lenina watched and seemed ready to take Kialan’s advice, as if, in some odd way, Kialan were in charge just then. “I think we should mark the spot,” Kialan said as he dug.

  “How?” said Lenina.

  “Is there a spare board in the cart?” Kialan asked.

  “Find him one, Moril,” said Lenina.

  Moril managed to work free one of the spare boards Clennen always carried under the floor of the cart, and on Kialan’s instructions, he sawed off a piece about three feet long. Then he relieved Kialan at the digging for a while. Kialan took out his sheath knife and carved away at the board, quickly and competently, as if this were another thing he was good at. When he had finished, the board had letters deeply and neatly cut into it. CLENNEN THE SINGER.

  “That do?” said Kialan.

  “Very well,” said Lenina.