Mio, My Son

  I was heartbroken. “I can’t,” I cried. “I can’t! I can’t!”

  Pompoo said nothing. He only looked at me without saying a word. But Sorrowbird began singing again, a song that almost stopped my heart from beating.

  “He is singing about my little daughter,” said the Weaver and her tears fell over the cloth and turned into pearls.

  I clenched my hands. “Pompoo,” I said, “I’m going at once. I’m going to Outer Land.”

  A sigh passed through the Forest of Moonbeams and from Sorrowbird came a song that had never been heard in any forest in the world.

  “I know that,” said Pompoo.

  “Good-bye, Pompoo,” I said as I nearly began to cry. “Good-bye, dear Pompoo.”

  He looked at me, and his eyes were so kind and just like Ben’s. Then he smiled a little.

  “I’m coming with you,” he said.

  Pompoo was my friend, he was a true friend. I was so glad, when he said that he wanted to come with me. But I didn’t want him to run into danger.

  “No, Pompoo,” I said. “You can’t come with me now, where I’m going.”

  “I am coming,” said Pompoo. “A boy of royal blood riding on a white horse with golden mane, and accompanied by his best friend—it’s been foretold. You can’t change what has been foretold for thousands and thousands of years.”

  “For thousands and thousands of years,” repeated the Weaver. “I remember the wind singing of it the night I planted my apple trees, and much time has passed. Thousands and thousands of years.” She nodded her head. “Come, Mio, I’ll fix your cloak,” she said.

  She cut the cloth from her loom and took a piece of it and fixed the tear in my cloak, which happened when I had been riding through the forest. Yes, she lined my cloak too, with the shimmering cloth, and it hung lightly, soft and warm, over my shoulders.

  “I give my finest cloth to the one who will save my little daughter,” said the Weaver. “And you shall have bread, the Bread That Satisfies Hunger. Eat it sparingly! For you will travel on the path of hunger.”

  She gave me the bread and I thanked her. Then I turned to Pompoo.

  “Are we ready, Pompoo?”

  “Yes, we’re ready,” said Pompoo.

  We went out through the door. We followed the path between the apple trees. We mounted our horse. Then Sorrowbird spread his black wings and flew up toward the mountains.

  The hundred white horses stood still, watching us, as we rode away through the trees. They didn’t follow us. The apple blossoms glittered like snow in the moon-light. They glittered like snow. . . . Maybe I would never see such pretty white apple blossoms again.

  The Bewitched Birds

  MAYBE I NEVER will see apple blossoms and rustling green trees and soft grass again. Because now we were traveling to a country where there were no flowers, and no trees or grass could grow.

  We rode through the night. We rode and rode. Soon the friendly Forest of Moonbeams was gone; we had left it behind. And in front of us was darkness. The moonlight faded, the ground was rocky and hard, barren walls of rock rose on every side. They pressed in closer and closer on us. At last we rode along a dark narrow path, deep down between two tall black mountains.

  “If only it weren’t so dark,” said Pompoo. “If only the mountains weren’t so dark and we weren’t so small and all alone.”

  The path twisted and curved, and danger seemed to lurk at every turn. Miramis felt it too. His whole body trembled and he wanted to turn back. But I held the reins firmly and forced him on. The path narrowed. The dark mountains rose higher. The darkness thickened. At last we came to something that looked like a door, a narrow opening between the rocks. Behind it was a darkness blacker than any other darkness in the world.

  “Outer Land,” whispered Pompoo. “It’s the entrance to Outer Land.”

  Miramis reared wildly. He rose up on his hind legs and neighed so that I couldn’t stand to hear it. It sounded terrible, and it was the only sound we could hear, because the darkness beyond the door was silent. It was silent and it seemed to watch us. It was just waiting for us to cross the border.

  I knew that I must go into the darkness. And yet I wasn’t scared any more. Now that I knew it had been foretold for thousands and thousands of years that I was to pass through this dark doorway, I felt braver. I knew that no matter what happened, I was going. Maybe I would never return, but I made up my mind not to be scared.

  I drove Miramis into the darkness. When he saw that I wouldn’t let him turn back, he set off at a full gallop through the narrow doorway and along the dark road beyond it. We rushed through the darkness, around us all was black, and we didn’t know the way.

  But Pompoo was with me. He sat behind me and held on tightly and I loved him more than ever. I was not alone. I had a friend with me, my best friend, exactly as it was foretold.

  I don’t know how long we galloped through the darkness. Maybe it was only a short time, maybe it was many, many hours. Or maybe it was thousands and thousand of years, that’s how it seemed. It was like riding in a dream—one of those horrible dreams that you wake up from with a scream and leaves you scared for a long time afterward. But this wasn’t a dream I could wake up from. We rode and rode. We didn’t know where we were going. We didn’t know how far. We just rode on through the night.

  At last Miramis stopped with a jerk. We had come to a lake. The lake was more terrifying than anything in a dream. In my dreams, sometimes I used to see vast dark waters opening up before me. But I’ve never dreamed, no one has ever dreamed, of water as dark as this, which was right in front my eyes. It was the darkest, most desolate water in the world. Around the lake there was nothing except tall, black, barren rocks. Birds circled over the murky water, many birds. You couldn’t see them, but you could hear them. I’ve never heard anything as sorrowful as their cries. Oh, I felt so sorry for them! They sounded as if they were calling for help. They sounded as if they were weeping and out of hope.

  On the other side of the lake, on the tallest rock, stood a big black fortress. Only one window was lighted. It was like an evil eye, that window, an awful and terrible red evil eye, staring out into the night wanting to hurt us.

  Sir Kato’s castle! He was over there, on the other side of the dark water lived my enemy, whom I had come to fight. The evil eye staring over the lake scared me, although I had made up my mind not to be scared. It scared me—how could anyone as small as I conquer one as evil and dangerous as Sir Kato?

  “You need a sword,” said Pompoo.

  Just as he spoke we heard someone moaning nearby.

  “Oh . . . oh . . . oh,” the voice moaned. “I’m dying of hunger, oh . . . oh . . . oh!”

  I knew it would be dangerous to approach. It could be someone trying to lure us into a trap. But whoever it was, I had to look for him and find out if he really needed help.

  “We must see who it is,” I said to Pompoo. “We must help him.”

  “I’m coming with you,” said Pompoo.

  “And you, Miramis, stay here,” I said stroking his nose. He neighed anxiously.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “We’ll be right back.”

  Whoever moaned couldn’t be far away, but it would still be hard to find him in the dark.

  “Oh . . . oh . . . oh,” we heard again. “I’m dying of hunger, oh . . . oh . . . oh!”

  We stumbled along the way toward the moaning voice, we tripped over stones and fell down in the dark, but at last we found an old cottage. It was a shack really. If it hadn’t been leaning against a rock wall, it would have fallen down. We saw a dim light in one window and we crept up and peeked inside. An old man sat inside, a gaunt, pitiful little old man with tousled gray hair. He had a fire in the fireplace, and he sat in front of the fire, rocking back and forth saying, “Oh . . . oh . . . oh, I’m dying of hunger, oh . . . oh . . . oh!”

  Then we went in. The little old man became quiet and stared at us. We stood there in the doorway and he stared at us as if he’
d never seen anyone like us before. He held up his scrawny old hands as if he was scared.

  “Don’t hurt me,” he whispered. “Don’t hurt me!”

  I said that we hadn’t come to hurt him. “We heard you say you were hungry,” I said. “We’ve come to give you bread.”

  I took out the bread, that I got from the Weaver, and passed it to the old man. He stared at me just as before. I held the bread even closer to him, but he still looked scared, awfully scared, as if he thought that I was luring him into a trap.

  “Take the bread,” I said. “Don’t be scared!”

  Then he cautiously stretched out his hand and took it. He took it in his hands and felt it. Then he put it up to his nose and smelled it. And then he began to cry.

  “It’s bread,” he whispered. “It’s Bread That Satisfies Hunger.”

  And so he ate. Never have I seen anyone eat like that. He ate and ate and cried while he ate. When he finished, he picked up every little crumb that had fallen on his clothes. He searched and searched until there was nothing left to find, then he stared at us again and said, “Where did you come from? Where did you get bread like this? Think of all my days of hunger—tell me where you got it.”

  “We come from Farawayland. That’s where the bread came from,” I said.

  “Why have you come here?” whispered the old man.

  “To fight Sir Kato,” I said.

  The moment I said this, the old man shrieked and fell off his stool. Just like a little gray ball of wool, he rolled down onto the floor and came crawling over to us. He stayed by our feet, peering up with his small wary eyes.

  “Go back to where you came from,” he whispered. “Go back before it’s too late.”

  “I won’t go back,” I said. “I’ve come to fight Sir Kato.”

  I said it loudly and clearly. I said Sir Kato’s name as sharply and clearly as I could, and the old man stared at me as if he believed I would fall down dead right in front of him.

  “Oh . . . oh . . . oh,” he moaned. “Be quiet! Be quiet and go back to where you came from. Go, before it’s too late, I say.”

  “I will not go back,” I said. “I have come to fight Sir Kato.”

  “Shhh,” whispered the old man, and he looked completely frightened out of his wits. “I said be quiet. The spies may hear you. Maybe they’re lurking outside right now.”

  He crawled to the door and listened anxiously. “I don’t hear anyone there,” he said. “But they could still be there. They could be here, they could be there, or everywhere. Spies every . . . everywhere.”

  “Sir Kato’s spies?” I asked.

  “Be quiet, boy,” whispered the old man. “Are you so willing to lose your young life? Can’t you keep quiet?”

  He sat down on the stool and nodded to himself. “Yes, yes,” he said, so quietly that you could hardly hear him. “His spies are everywhere, morning, noon and night. Always everywhere.”

  He stretched out his hand and took my arm. “Because of all my days of hunger,” he whispered, “I don’t trust anyone. You go into a house . . . you think you’re among friends. But you’re among enemies. They betray you. They hand you over to the one who lives on the other side of the lake. Trust no one. Don’t trust me! How do you know that I won’t set the spies on you the moment you’re out the door?”

  “I don’t believe you’ll do that,” I said.

  “No one can be certain,” whispered the old man. “You can never be sure.”

  He sat quietly for a moment and thought.

  “No, I won’t set the spies on you,” he said. “There are still a few people in this land who aren’t traitors. And there are still some who forge weapons.”

  “We need a weapon,” said Pompoo. “Mio needs a sword.”

  The old man didn’t answer. He went to the window and opened it. And from across the lake you could hear the birds’ sad cries. It sounded as if they wept out there, in the dark night.

  “Listen,” the old man said to me. “Do you hear how they wail? Do you want to be one who flies wailing over the lake, too?”

  “What kind of birds are they?” I asked.

  “They are the Bewitched Birds,” whispered the old man. “You know well enough who bewitched them. You know well enough who captured them. And now you know what happens to those who try to fight thieves.”

  I was so sad when I heard what he said. The birds— they were Nonno’s brothers and Totty’s sister and the Weaver’s little daughter and all the others that Sir Kato had captured and bewitched. Oh, I would fight him—I would indeed!

  “Mio needs a sword,” said Pompoo. “No one can fight without a sword.”

  “You said there are some who forge weapons,” I reminded the old man.

  He stared at me, almost angrily. “You’re not afraid of losing your young life,” he said.

  “Where are those who forge weapons?” I asked again.

  “Be quiet,” said the old man, and he hastily shut the window. “Be quiet, the spies may hear you.”

  He crept over to the door and put his ear next to it and listened.

  “I don’t hear anyone there,” he said. “But they could be there anyway. Spies everywhere.”

  He leaned toward me and whispered in my ear, “You must go to the Swordsmith and tell him Eno sent you. You must say that you need a sword which can cut through stone. You must say that you’re a knight from Farawayland.” He looked at me for a long time. “For I believe that’s what you are,” he said. “Aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Pompoo answered for me. “He’s a knight and a prince. Prince Mio from Farawayland. And he must have a sword.”

  “Where can I find the Swordsmith?” I asked.

  “In the Deepest Cave in the Blackest Mountain,” said the old man. “Go through the Dead Forest! Go now!”

  He went to the window and opened it again. And from out over the lake, I once more heard the birds wailing in the night.

  “Go now, Prince Mio,” said the old man. “I will sit here and wish that all goes well with you. But perhaps I’ll hear a new bird tomorrow night, flying over the lake and wailing.”

  In the Dead Forest

  JUST AS WE closed Eno’s door behind us, I heard Miramis neigh. He neighed so loudly and desperately. He seemed to be calling, “Mio, come and help me!”

  My heart almost stopped, I was so scared. “Pompoo, what are they doing with Miramis?” I screamed. “Can you hear? What are they doing with Miramis?”

  “Quiet,” said Pompoo. “They’ve caught him . . . the spies. . . .”

  “How did the spies find Miramis?” I screamed, not caring if anyone heard me.

  “You must be quiet,” whispered Pompoo. “Or else they’ll catch us, too.”

  But I didn’t listen to what he said. Miramis, my own horse! It was my own horse they were taking away from me! And he was the kindest and most beautiful horse in the world.

  I heard him neigh again and thought it was exactly as if he cried, “Mio, can’t you help me?”

  “Come,” said Pompoo, “we must see what they’re doing with him.”

  We climbed over the rocks in the darkness. We scrambled and climbed. I cut my fingers on the sharp edges, but I didn’t feel it. I was worried for Miramis’s sake.

  He stood high on a rock and he shone white in the darkness. My Miramis, the brightest and most beautiful horse in the world!

  He neighed wildly and reared, trying to break loose. But five black spies stood around him, and two of them were hanging on to his bridle. Poor Miramis was so scared, and it wasn’t surprising. Because the black spies were so horrible and they talked to each other with their horrible raspy voices. Pompoo and I crept as close as we could and hid behind some rocks and heard what the spies were saying.

  “The best thing is to take him back over the Dead Lake in the black boat,” said one of them.

  “Yes, straight across the Dead Lake to Sir Kato,” said another.

  I wanted to shout at them to leave my horse alone, b
ut I didn’t. Who would fight Sir Kato if I was captured by the spies? Oh, why must I be the one who would fight Sir Kato? I regretted it terribly, as I hid behind the rocks. Why hadn’t I stayed at home with my father the King, where no one could take my horse from me! I heard the Bewitched Birds wailing out over the lake, but I didn’t care about them. I didn’t care about them at all. They could continue being bewitched, if only I got back my Miramis with the golden mane.

  “Someone must have crossed the border,” said one of the spies. “Someone must have been riding on the white colt. The enemy is among us.”

  “Good, the enemy is among us,” said another. “It’ll be so much easier to capture him. So much easier for Sir Kato to crush him and destroy him.”

  I trembled when I heard them. I was the enemy who had crossed the border. I was the one Sir Kato would crush and destroy. I regretted even more that I had come here. And I missed my father the King so much and wondered if he missed me too, and was worried about me. I wish that he’d been there and could help me. I wish that I could’ve talked to him for a little while. Then I would have said to him, “I know you want me to fight Sir Kato, but won’t you please let me off? Help me get Miramis back and let us leave! You know I’ve never had my own horse before and I love him. You also know I’ve never had a father either. And if Sir Kato captures me, I will never be with you again. Help me leave! I don’t want to be here any more. I want to be with you. I want to go home again to Greenfields Island with Miramis.”

  As I was hiding behind the rocks, I thought I heard my father the King’s voice. Of course I only imagined it, but I thought that I heard his voice.

  “Mio, my son,” he said.

  Nothing more. But I understood that he wanted me to be brave and not lie there crying and screaming like a child, even though they took my Miramis away from me. I was a knight. I was no longer the Mio that built huts in the Garden of Roses and wandered over the hills on Greenfields Island playing the flute. I was a knight, a good knight, not one like Sir Kato. And a knight must be brave and not cry.