Robert scowled a bit, but he did what he was told and the others followed Ezra into the cave. It was not quite dark inside, for a crack in the roof let in some light, and when their eyes grew accustomed to the dimness they could see quite well. At first there seemed to be nothing to be seen; just rock and ferns, for rainwater came in through the roof and the cave was damp; but Ezra went nosing round like a dog after a rabbit, examining the rocks and feeling behind the clumps of ferns and presently he gave an exclamation, took his jackknife from his pocket and opened it. ‘’Old up them ferns, Nan,’ he commanded.
Nan lifted up the curtain of green that he had pointed out to her and he set to work with his knife on the rock behind it. Then he drew out a loose stone that had been shaped to fit like the stopper of a bottle into the hole behind, a roughly circular hole about the width of a man’s hand.
‘Be careful, Ezra,’ Nan said anxiously, ‘there might be snakes inside.’
‘Mun risk that, maid,’ said Ezra with a grin and he plunged his hand and arm into the hole. ‘No snakes,’ he assured her, ‘but plenty else. Quite a sizeable little cupboard inside. I’ll ’and ’em out to ee one by one, maid, an’ put down on that ledge o’ rock there.’
One by one he handed out a number of objects about the size of small dolls, queer knobbly little figures stuck with rusty pins. Nan put them down on a shelf of rock and they were just looking at them when Robert appeared at the mouth of the cave. ‘Come quick,’ he said.
‘Who is it, lad?’ asked Ezra sharply.
‘It isn’t a person,’ said Robert, ‘it’s a thing.’
Ezra swept up the little figures, put them in his pockets and followed Robert, the other children at his heels.
As they rounded the rock they shivered, for in the short time that they had been inside the cave the weather had suddenly changed. The Lion, facing south, was still in full sunshine, and he looked warm and peaceful and good, but when they turned and faced the other way the sunlit moor had vanished in a moving pall of gloom. There was no wind, but the air that touched their faces was clammy and cold.
‘The sea is coming in over the moor!’ gasped Nan.
‘And there are devils on horseback riding over the waves,’ said Timothy. He spoke calmly, but with a sort of despair, as well he might, for the sight was truly frightening. The waves that were rolling in were the high grey waves of storm, but they made no sound, and the terrible tossing riders made no sound either. It would have been less terrifying if they could have heard the crash of the waves or the neighing of the horses.
‘Don’t ee be feared, children,’ said Ezra. ‘’Tis naught but mist rollin’ in over Weepin’ Marsh. It can come very sudden an’ take queer forms. But best be goin’ an’ quick too. Us’ve a long way to get ’ome. Come on now.’
They scrambled back to Rob-Roy, unhobbled him and put Betsy on his back, and they got down the steep way to Pizzleton in double-quick time. Jake Barley and his wife were looking out for them and no time was wasted in conversation. Rob-Roy was put into the trap, the basket was stowed inside and they were off, going quickly down through the village and along the lane beyond, with the mist at their heels. Facing the sunlit south, and with the cheerful rattling of the trap in their ears, the children forgot to feel afraid.
‘I never saw the inside of the cave,’ said Robert, much aggrieved.
‘We’ll tell you about it when we get home,’ Nan consoled him.
‘If we’d been half an hour later climbing up the tor the mist would have got there first and we wouldn’t have found the cave,’ said Timothy.
‘Nearly got us,’ growled Ezra. He was looking very grim and Nan thought he spoke as though the mist were a savage beast who had been set on them by somebody. Weeping Marsh, she thought, that was where the little boy was lost. She began to shiver and pulled Betsy closer to her, for it was growing colder, and Ezra took the old torn rug and a couple of sacks from under the seat and made the children wrap themselves up. The sun was veiled now, as though a bonfire had been lit below the horizon and was sending up smoke across its face. Presently they left the lane for the track across the moor and they could now only see a few yards in front of them.
‘Don’t be afeared,’ said Ezra. ‘Us’ve but to follow the track, an’ if presently us can’t see it, Rob-Roy will take us ’ome.’
Rob-Roy neighed and tossed his head in confident pleasure and when later they found themselves travelling blind, thickly wrapped up in cotton wool and unable to see a yard in any direction, Ezra let the reins go slack and the pony went slowly but steadily forward on his own. All the same, it was rather alarming travelling in this strange chilly no man’s land of nothingness, and Ezra struck up Moses’ song of the wind and the sea and the bees and they all sang the chorus. When they paused for breath Timothy asked, ‘Ezra, did you make up the tune, or Moses?’
‘Moses,’ said Ezra. ‘’Tis ’is song, but I makes up fresh verses to it to suit meself.’
‘What words were you singing that first night?’ asked Nan. ‘We hummed and stamped in the chorus, but we didn’t catch the words.’
The children could not see Ezra’s face, but they fancied he was looking a little sheepish. ‘I weren’t what you would call dead sober that night,’ he said. ‘Mind you, I weren’t drunk, but I weren’t dead sober.’
‘Come on, Ezra,’ said Robert. ‘Tell us what you sang. Come on!’
‘I sang a drinkin’ song, an’ now I don’t drink no more it ain’t suitable as I should sing it,’ said Ezra obstinately.
‘Why don’t you drink any more?’ asked Timothy.
‘The Master said I ’ad to set an example to youngsters,’ said Ezra gloomily. ‘Aye, it were a black day when you come to the ’ouse.’
Though they could not see his face, they knew he was smiling and they laughed and said, ‘Come on, Ezra! Sing us the song.’
‘Only this once, mind,’ said Ezra, ‘for it puts such a thirst on me as ee wouldn’t believe.’ And he lifted up his voice and sang.
Glory for the foamin’, brimmin’ tankard,
Good ale an’ beer,
Champagne in the polished crystal glasses
Sparklin’ an’ clear.
Glory glory alleluja!
Glory for the rich an’ purple vintage,
Grapes in the sun.
Glory for the red wine freely flowin’
When summer’s done.
Glory glory alleluja.
Glory for the juice o’ cider apples
At autumn’s end.
Glory for the stirrup cup o’ winter
Quaffed with a friend.
Glory glory alleluja.
Glory for the punch that’s drunk at Yule-tide
Spiced strong an’ ’ot,
Glory for plum puddin’ soaked in brandy,
Thanks for the lot.
Glory glory alleluja.
The children sang too. They were roaring out the last chorus when Rob-Roy suddenly swung left into the stableyard and they found they were at home.
They stabled Rob-Roy and groped their way up the steps to the garden, Ezra carrying the basket. The lamp was already lit in the library and they could see Uncle Ambrose pacing up and down the terrace with his hands behind his back, his tall figure sometimes blocking out the light and sometimes revealing it again, like a cloud passing backwards and forwards over the moon. They gave a shout and saw him straighten himself with relief. Then he came down the terrace steps and caught Betsy up into his arms. He appeared to be extremely annoyed, but they remembered that Father had always lost his temper when he had been anxious about them, and then suddenly wasn’t, and they were not alarmed.
‘This child is chilled to the bone,’ he said angrily. Actually it was only Betsy’s face and hands that felt cold, because she had been well wrapped up, but she put on the shivering act she had learnt from Absolom and vibrated in Uncle Ambrose’s arms for all she was worth, leaning her head against his shoulder. Absolom shivered against Uncle Ambrose’s l
eg and Timothy produced a perfectly genuine sneeze.
‘I’ll poke up the kitchen fire an’ give ’em supper round it, sir,’ said Ezra. ‘Mutton broth an’ baked apples an’ an ’ot posset each when they’re in bed, and then there won’t no ’arm come to ’em. I’m sorry, sir, if you’ve been worrited.’
‘Worrited? Who said I was worrited?’ snapped Uncle Ambrose. ‘Had you gone across the moor I might have suffered some slight anxiety, but on the main road from town you were in perfect safety.’
They trooped indoors and drew the curtains, shutting out the mist. ‘It came up with remarkable suddenness,’ he said.
‘Took me by surprise, sir,’ said Ezra. ‘Never known it come up quite like this afore.’
‘Where were you when it caught you?’ asked Uncle Ambrose.
‘Lookin’ the other way, sir,’ said Ezra. ‘If you’ll excuse me I’ll see to that fire. An’ the children better come with me.’ He glanced at the pages of manuscript littering the library table. ‘You’re at work, sir, I see. Come on, children, don’t disturb your uncle.’
Some while later, with Betsy already in bed and asleep, Ezra, Nan, Robert, and Timothy sat on the settle by the kitchen fire, with the lamp burning on the mantelpiece, and Nan had the book of spells on her lap.
‘Now then,’ said Ezra. ‘There ain’t no time to be lost.’
‘It seems a shame to be doing this without Betsy,’ said Robert.
‘She’s young yet,’ said Ezra. ‘Might be scared. It’s best it should be just the four of us.’
His coat was hanging over the back of a chair and he took from the pockets the little figures they had found in the cave and put them in a row on the kitchen table. ‘They be carved from mandrake roots,’ he said, ‘well carved too. I will say for Emma, she can get a good likeness. Mandrake be an evil root. It’s likely to bring bad luck to folk by itself, let alone ’avin’ pins stuck into you.’
‘But they aren’t real people,’ said Robert. ‘They’re just little figures.’
‘They be figures o’ real people, lad,’ said Ezra. ‘An’ what Emma did to these figures she did to the people. She ’as the power. It be all in the mind, lad, the mind an’ the will, an’ Emma she’s strong-minded an’ strong-willed. Now, maid, you read out o’ that book the spell for bindin’ the tongue.’
Nan found the place and read it out and Ezra picked up one of the little images and brought it to the light. Held in his hands, it seemed almost to take on life. It was of a little boy about eight years old and he had his tongue out.
‘He’s showing it to the doctor!’ said Robert.
‘That ’e’s not,’ said Ezra. ‘Look closer.’
They looked closer and saw that pins pierced the tongue. They had been thrust in while the mandrake root was still supple and now it was like hard wood and they were rusted in firmly.
‘You’ll never get them out!’ cried Nan in distress.
‘I shall,’ said Ezra. ‘’And me the pincers from the kitchen drawer, Robert.’
Robert gave them to him and, gripping the head of one of the pins, he began gently moving it to and fro, murmuring as he did so,
Pins, come you out! Do no more ’arms,
Spell, unwind to good from evil.
Now all good spirits work your charms,
Save the sinner from the devil.
Ezra clapped his hands and Nan threw the little figure into the fire. The flames roared up and they were of marvellous colours, red and gold and pink and green and purple.
‘’E ain’t dead yet!’ said Ezra in satisfaction.
‘How do you know?’ asked Timothy.
‘’Ad ’e gone to heaven the figure would burnt ’ave quietly, ’appy but gentle, but when the flames roar up with all them lovely colours, you know the man or woman be still on earth.’
‘Let’s do another,’ said Robert.
Ezra took a second figure from the table. It was a tall bearded man, whose figure seemed to take on grace and elegance when Ezra took it into his hands. There were pins through his feet and his head.
‘What do they mean?’ asked Nan.
‘Don’t ee call to mind the spell for makin’ a man lose memory an’ wander away an’ be lost?’ asked Ezra. ‘Find it, maid, an’ read it.’
Nan found it and read it, the two rhymes were repeated, the pins removed and the little figure cast in the fire. The flames leaped up as before, very bright and gay. ‘So they’re both alive still,’ said Nan, and they all sighed with relief.
‘Who are they?’ asked Robert.
‘I can’t say, lad,’ said Ezra, adding, ‘not yet.’
‘Why were they hidden in that cave?’ asked Nan. ‘The spell said to put the figure of the lost man in a far place, but why was the little boy there too?’
‘Might be for convenience’ sake,’ said Ezra, ‘if the two of ’em was made at the same time. But there could be another reason. It ’elps on a wicked spell to put the images in an unlucky place. The Castle Rock, though it can look fine when the sun be on it, ’tis an unlucky place. The Lion be good, but not the Castle. ’Tis too near Weepin’ Marsh to be lucky. And a king was found buried there at the top, some old king who died ’undreds an’ ’undreds o’ years ago. That’s not lucky neither.’
Robert and Timothy glanced at each other, remembering the king they had imagined living in the Castle when they stormed it, and then Robert said, ‘There are more little figures, Ezra.’
‘Let’s look at ’em,’ said Ezra, and Nan noticed that his eyes were twinkling. ‘Stand in a row on the ’earth.’
Robert picked them all up and stood them in a row. There were seven of them, a tall man with a top hat, a little man in a bunchy coat, four children of varying sizes and a dog. Each figure had a pin in the chest. The faces were not recognizable, but the figures were.
‘It’s us!’ gasped Timothy.
‘That’s right, lad,’ said Ezra, and he roared with laughter, slapping his knee. ‘But there ain’t no ’arm come to ee, for about the same time Emma made ’er figures I made mine. Do ee recall me makin’ some figures out o’ Timothy’s plasticine?’
The children laughed too, and Timothy asked, ‘Where are they now, Ezra?’
‘In a good an’ lucky place,’ said Ezra. ‘They be in the church in an’ ’idy-’ole I knows on be’ind the altar. But don’t ee tell your uncle. ’E’d say it were superstition. I reckon the cleverest men be ignorant at times.’
‘Let’s burn ourselves!’ said Robert.
‘You can if you’ve a mind, but there ain’t no need,’ said Ezra.
‘It would be better to burn ourselves,’ said Nan a little anxiously.
So they roared out the rhymes and burnt the seven little figures, and the flames were like rainbows leaping up the chimney.
‘Just one thing more,’ said Ezra. ‘There be a spell in that there book I didn’t take to, a spell for makin’ a coolness come between a man an’ a woman. I ’ave a feelin’ as Emma used that spell an’ I’d like to undo it.’ He got up, went to the dresser and came back with two little figures fashioned out of Timothy’s plasticine. ‘I made ’em last night,’ he said. They were of a man and a woman, not recognizable as anyone in particular, but as beautiful as a pair of young lovers on a valentine. He took a piece of red wool out of his pocket and handed it to Nan. ‘Now ’old ’em together, maid, breast to breast, an’ wind the wool round ’em while I says me rhyme,’ he said. Nan did so and he repeated,
Thread o’ my song
’Eart to ’eart bindin’
Thread o’ my faith,
’Aste the ’eart’s findin’.
Thread o’ my ’ope,
’Eal the ’eart’s smartin’,
Thread o’ my love,
End the ’eart’s partin’.
Thread o’ my prayer,
Send shadows fleetin’,
Let journeys end,
In lovers’ meetin’.
Ezra took the figures from Nan and put them back on t
he dresser. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘they’ll go in me ’idy-’ole with t’others I made. Now, children, we’ll burn the ’ole nasty book an’ be done with un for ever.’
They put the book on the fire and the pages writhed like snakes in the flames and then were consumed to nothing but glowing ash. Ezra raked them away and they were gone. ‘Now up you goes to your beds,’ he said, ‘an’ when you be there I’ll bring ee your possets.’
They ran upstairs, undressed and washed and then curled up in bed, waking up Betsy, who was already asleep with Absolom beside her, so that she could enjoy hot posset too, and presently Ezra came in with four steaming cups on a tray. It was the same posset that he had given Nan and it tasted wonderful. They were buried in their pillows again and already half asleep when Nan asked, ‘Is everything coming right, Ezra?’
‘Everythin’ be comin’ right, maid,’ said Ezra.
‘But what is it that’s coming right?’ asked Robert.
‘When ’tis come right you’ll know,’ said Ezra. ‘Now I be off to make an ’ot posset for your uncle. ’E’s properly shook up with worrit. Good night, children.’
‘Good night,’ they murmured drowsily and they were asleep by the time he reached the door.
chapter thirteen
singing in the wood
Next day at breakfast there were letters from the children’s father, one for each child and one for Uncle Ambrose. Breakfast was much prolonged while they read them aloud to each other, even Uncle Ambrose reading aloud bits of his, which was very long. One bit said that Father was glad that the children were living at the Vicarage. Knowing his brother’s desire for solitude and frequently expressed dislike of children, it was not an arrangement he would himself have dared to suggest, but now that it had come to pass he was delighted, and he looked forward to the day when he should retire from the army and they should all six of them live together. ‘The more the merrier’, wrote Father, and at this there were loud cheers from the children, not damped by Uncle Ambrose’s voice announcing in trumpet tones above their clamour, ‘With no proverb do I more profoundly disagree.’