The Stolen Lake

  'What the mayor told him was one reason for his being so distressed over your absence. It seems that the Rocs, or Aurocs, the great birds that live in the mountains, fly down over the town at early dusk, and carry off many children, especially girls. There is great danger for young persons who go out alone.'

  'That's why old Brandyblossom is leaving town then,' observed Dido, carefully wiping her stew bowl with a piece of cassava bread. 'So the Little Angel won't be swiped by an Auroc. But how does those two old hags come into the business, I wonder? If I'd been found missing, Cap'n Hughes would've thought an Auroc got me. But them two ain't Aurocs – unless they're in the catering way, a-selling tasty titbits to the Aurocs.'

  A sizzling shark steak was brought in, garnished with peppers and slices of lime.

  About to commence eating, Dido paused at the sound of a heartrending, famished mew, which seemed to come from under the oak settle on which she was sitting. She looked down. A thin, golden cat had emerged from under the seat, and was stretched up beseechingly, with both slender paws on her knee.

  'Why – it's Dora! How in tarnation did she get here? Reckon she followed you, Mr Holy?'

  Dido put down a goodsized morsel of shark; the ravenous cat caught it with both paws before it reached the ground, and set upon it avidly.

  'No: that is not Dora,' said Mr Holystone, carefully inspecting the animal. He rubbed with a gentle thumb between the copper ears and tufted eyebrows. 'My cat has a little silky curl, just here, in the middle of her forehead – and this one has none.'

  'This one's thinner than Dora, too,' agreed Dido, feeling the bony ribs and dropping another piece of shark. 'But ain't that rum – to find one so simular! Are we close to your land, then, Mr Holy? Or is cats like that common all over Roman America?'

  'We are not 50 far from Hy Brasil,' he said, sighing. 'But cats such as this are not so frequently met with -they generally belong to rich people – the nobility. -How now, what have we here?'

  Around the cat's neck his stroking fingers had discovered a thin, plaited collar, with a leather disc and a tiny packet attached to it. The disc said Titten Tatten. Mr Holystone, feeling the collar, uttered a soft exclamation.

  'This collar is made from human hair,' he said.

  'Holy snails! Someone ain't half got long hair. Must take a deal o' combing out,' Dido said, running her fingers through her own short locks. 'Does the packet give the owner's name?'

  She set down her plate, with the rest of the shark steak. The cat was too interested in this bounty to object to the removal of its collar, and Mr Holystone unfolded the little packet with careful fingers, while Dido went on to a final course of pineapple and pawpaw.

  'My, ain't that tasty! What's the paper say, Mr Holy?'

  He was frowning over the little square. It was a tiny printed page.

  'Bee. The animal that makes honey, remarkable for its industry and art.

  'Beldam. An old woman, generally a term of contempt, marking the last degree of old age with all its faults and miseries.

  'Cat. A domestick animal that catches mice, commonly reckoned by naturalists the lowest order of the leonine species.'

  'That's rummy,' said Dido, looking over his shoulder. 'What 'ud a person stick that in a collar for? Bee? Beldam? Cat? What d'you make of it, Mr Holy? It looks like a page from a dictionary.'

  'It is a dictionary. If I mistake not, it is Dr Samuel Johnson's Dictionary of the English Language.'

  'Why would someone stick it in a cat's collar?'

  Dido took the paper from him and stared closely at the printed lines.

  'Looky here,' she said after a while. 'Somebody made marks here and there, see, like it might be with a thumbnail, under some o' the letters. Think that means summat? Look, here, in animal – there, in remarkable -A, R, R-'

  'A, B, E – I believe you have hit on something!' Mr Holystone wrote down the letters on the tablet he kept for noting good recipes.

  'Arrabeelamye. "What the blazes is that?'

  'Arrabe. Elamye. They are two of the Children of Silence.'

  'Children of Silence?'

  'The mountains that lie between New Cumbria and Lyonesse. Ambage and Arrabe, Ertayne and Elamye, Arryke, Damast, Damyake, Pounce, Pampoyle, Garesse, Caley, Calabe and Catelonde.'

  'What a deal you know, Mr Holy! But what's this last one? Elen? Is that a mountain too?'

  'No, it is not a mountain,' said Mr Holystone, looking very troubled indeed. 'Elen is a girl's name.'

  4

  They boarded the river-boat at a black and silent hour of night, when all the citizens of Tenby were abed and asleep. The night air was sharply cold, and Dido grumbled to Mr Holystone, as the small party walked through the silent streets.

  'Why in the name of Morpus does we have to start off now?'

  'It is on account of the bore.'

  'Bore? It's a right plague!'

  'No, child.' She could hear the smile in his voice. 'A bore is a tidal sweep of water which will, I am informed, carry us upstream as far as Bewdley.'

  They crossed a bridge to the island in the middle of the Severn river, and walked to a cobbled quay where a strange-looking craft lay waiting. It had a cowlike rounded bow, three open decks, and a huge paddle-wheel at the stern.

  'Mussy,' said Dido. 'Will that thing take us up the river? It looks like a floating chicken-coop.'

  Captain Hughes also eyed the river-boat with some disfavour; however its wooden structure was grey with age and green with waterweed, which seemed to prove that it must have battled its way up and down the Severn river a great many times without mishap. The passengers climbed down a ladder from the jetty and were shown to their quarters. Captain Hughes had a small cabin to himself on the upper foredeck. The others went down to the middle deck, which was open right through the middle of the boat from stem to stern, with a large dining-table in the centre, and a row of small boxlike cabins on either side. The lowest deck was for cargo, and Dido, looking down a flight of wooden steps, observed that it was packed with freight: bales, barrels, tied-up cows, and crates of poultry. The space by the rail was kept clear, and on each side twelve great wooden handles protruded through slots in the deck.

  'What's those for?' Dido asked Mr Holystone.

  'I infer that is how the boat is propelled. Rowers pulling those levers cause the paddle-wheel to revolve.'

  Indeed, the passengers being now all embarked and the mooring cast off, twenty-four Cumbrian oarsmen, wearing nothing but black cotton trousers, took their places at the levers and, after a shouted command from a coxswain, hauled repeatedly on the handles and let go, until, with a mournful creaking and groaning, the boat was set in motion and worked out into midstream.

  'It's a mite slow, ain't it?' said Dido doubtfully.

  It was not slow for long. After about ten minutes, when the dim lights of Tenby had fallen away astern, Dido began to hear, above the creak of the levers and the groan of the paddle-wheel, a kind of huge sigh, that began far away and came closer and closer, becoming so loud at last that it drowned all other noises. At this moment a vast wave overtook the paddle-boat and rolled it along the river as a leaf is bowled along by an eddy. The rowers continued to work at their levers; Dido would have liked to ask why but could not possibly have made herself heard. But after a while she guessed that the motion of the paddle-wheel helped to steer the boat and keep it on course in the middle of the stream.

  The members of the Thrush's crew settled themselves in the after part of the boat, stretched out comfortably on canvas cots. Dido found herself a cot and placed it up in the bows, where, when day broke, she would get the best view, and also be as far as possible from Silver Taffy.

  However she found it difficult to get back to sleep. She had slept for a few hours at the White Hart (with Mr Holystone mounting guard over her slumbers) and now felt fresh, alert, and rested, ready to begin the next day. But the next day was slow in coming; there was no sign of dawn. Up above, huge southern stars blazed in a dark-blue sky; o
n either side, high ramparts of tangly black forest moved endlessly past. Sometimes a pair of eyes could be seen flashing in the darkness; sometimes a menacingly large winged shape coasted overhead. For a long time these were the only signs of life in the forest of Broceliande.

  The deafening thunder of the tidal bore gradually decreased until it became a low, rushing gurgle, like the sound of a distant waterfall. After an hour or so, Dido began to catch sounds in the forest: the shrill cries of night-birds, the wail of peafowl, the hiccuping cry of a screech-owl; the mewling cry of a panther, the bellow of an alligator, the bark of baboons, the grunting of wild pigs.

  Sure is a lot going on in those woods, thought Dido. I ain't sorry we're doing this bit by boat. Guess I wouldn't care to live in Bath Regis if the only way to the sea is through this forest. There's too many critters in there a-waiting to bite and sting and scrunch.

  There were humans, too, equally fierce, as she presently discovered. After a while the moon came climbing up over the forest trees and then, once or twice, by its light, she saw shaggy wild-looking men, who came down to the water's edge with drawn bows and discharged long jagged arrows after the boat; fortunately the arrows, in each case, fell short, and the bowmen, dancing and gesticulating with rage, were soon left behind.

  The next thing that Dido saw was so strange, terrifying, and dreamlike that, for a while afterwards, she wondered if perhaps she had dreamed it.

  The boat had by now arrived in a region where the forest was not so thick; wide open glades, clearings, and savannahs alternated with great spreading creeper-hung trees, whose black shadows were encircled by areas of silvery moonlit jungle-grass. Sometimes the ship was in shadow, sometimes in moonlight as it swept upstream, and Dido, yawning on her canvas cot, was beginning to be lulled by the change from light to dark and from dark to light; she had been on the point of stretching out and falling asleep when her attention was caught by the sight of mounted horsemen galloping towards the right-hand bank. As they neared the river's edge it could be seen that the riders were cloaked and hooded, all in black, and that there were hounds, galloping silently along with them. The hounds were very large, pale-coloured, white perhaps, all except their ears, which seemed to be brown or black.

  Fancy – a hunt! thought Dido drowsily. Rummy time o' night to go tally-hoing. Wonder what they're after? There'd be plenty to choose from in that wood.

  The river-boat, on the crest of the bore, overtook the riders, passed them, and drew ahead, round a bend of the stream; in a few minutes they came within sight of the hunters' quarry. Dido saw with a horrid shock that this was a human being – whether male or female she could not be sure – somebody apparently carrying some heavy object, running and stumbling among the bushes close to the river's edge, blundering with the frantic speed of terror through the low-growing scrub, slipping, staggering, recovering and floundering on again.

  The riders are going faster than that, Dido realised with horror. Whoever it is ain't a-going to get away. Not unless they can swim out to us – and she jumped up, and had started up the companionway towards Captain Hughes on the top deck, when the leading hounds came up with their prey. There was a lot of noise from the bank – a shrill, triumphant baying, a shriek of despair – then came a splash, as the fugitive apparently took to the water. A couple more splashes followed – several of the hounds must have plunged in likewise – but the main pack bounded along the river-bank, yelling, baying, and whining with excitement and frustration.

  The hunters, now evidently abandoning hope of securing their quarry, called in the hounds with shouts and short, shrill blasts on a horn, then drew away from the water's edge; but meanwhile all this commotion had alerted the members of the Thrush's crew, and Dido, hesitating on the companionway, heard Lieutenant Windward call,

  'Hey! The poor devil's in the water! Stand by to throw him a line!'

  The boat's coxswain evidently objected, for Windward exclaimed,

  'Stuff and nonsense, man! I saw him myself! It must be done! Throw a line, I say!'

  Then there were various cries and splashes.

  Greatly relieved that Lieutenant Windward had the matter in hand, Dido returned to her cot; she half wanted to go and see what was happening, but the other half still felt shocked to death by such a sight. Hunting people? Who could do such a thing? She would just as soon not know any more about it. Suddenly she felt very sleepy indeed, and, without intending it, she fell into a profound slumber.

  When she next woke it was full day. The middle deck of the river-boat remained just tolerable, since it was in shade, and the air could pass through from prow to stern; but Captain Hughes soon found it necessary to quit his superior quarters on the top deck, which received the full heat of the sun blazing straight overhead. He came down the companionway in a disgruntled frame of mind, and Mr Holystone placed a cane rocking-chair for him on the forward end of the deck, where he sat, occupying himself with designs for flying-craft. Several times he threw chilly glances at Dido on her canvas cot nearby, as if intimating that she ought to have the politeness to withdraw and leave him in privacy, but Dido did not choose to take notice of these hints; I got here first, she thought. Let him keep hisself busy drawing pictures of skiffs with wings and let me alone!

  It was Dido who first broke the silence, however.

  'Cap'n Hughes,' she said, after a while.

  'Well?' His tone was extremely rebuffing, but she went on.

  'Did you hear that ruckus in the night?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Why, the hunt. There was coves on horses, a-chasing some poor so-and-so who jumped in the river. What d'you reckon was going on? Who were they?'

  'It is no affair of ours!' he said sternly.

  'But I thought Lieutenant Windward had someone pulled on board? Didn't they say – '

  'Miss Twite: I have said this before and I will say it again; I must beg that while we are in New Cumbria, you do not meddle in matters that do not concern you.'

  'But -'

  'Hush, child! Run along, now; I hear Mr Holystone calling you to breakfast.'

  Out of patience with the captain, Dido unwillingly rose up and took herself off to the long central table, where a couple of Cumbrian crewmen were serving breakfast to the passengers. The meal consisted of greasy fried eggs, lukewarm tea and fried plantain, which, as Mr Multiple observed, was like warm oily oak-chips. Mr Holystone, having taken the captain his breakfast on a tray, sat down with the others. He looked unlike himself, Dido noticed: pale, hollow-eyed, and slow in his movements. Probably he saw the hunt too, Dido guessed, and she immediately asked him about it.

  'Who were they? And what happened to the one they were after? Did you save him, Mr Windward?'

  Both men appeared reluctant to answer. But Silver Taffy had no such scruples, and struck in jeeringly from farther up the table.

  'Miss Long-Nose wants to know, eh? It'd serve your quisitiveness right if the same thing was to happen to you!' He laughed in a very disagreeable manner. 'Swimming in the Severn river ain't too healthy for the complexion – as you'll see if you go look in that cabin -' He nodded sideways towards one of the little boxlike cubicles which nobody had wished to occupy because they were too stuffy.

  'Now, Taffy!' broke in Noah Gusset. 'Let the young 'un be! You didn't oughta tell her that – '

  'No, child! Do not look in the cabin!' exclaimed Windward and Mr Holystone at the same moment. But Dido, abandoning her unwanted breakfast, had crossed the deck and looked through the half-open door. At the sight of what lay inside she gasped, half in fright, half in almost disbelieving astonishment. For the inmate of the cabin, reclining in its canvas cot, was a shining white skeleton, with its grinning face turned to the door, as if expecting someone to bring it breakfast on a tray. Only one hand was still intact – the left, on the third finger of which gleamed a gold ring.

  Determined not to let Silver Taffy see her shock and distaste, Dido stepped away from the door. She felt rather cold and queasy; the danc
ing reflections thrown up by the water on the bamboo ceiling swam and jiggled in front of her eyes. Mr Holystone had moved towards her anxiously. He looked pale and troubled. She asked him in a low voice,

  'Taffy ain't gammoning me is he? How can – how can that there be the one they was after? How can it?'

  'I am afraid Taffy is speaking the truth,' Mr Holystone answered gravely. 'The small fish that swim in these waters – they are called piscadores - have such a rapacious appetite that three or four minutes in the water is enough to reduce any red-blooded creature to what you see there. The hounds that jumped in suffered the same fate.'

  'Murder,' muttered Dido. She thought of the poor fugitive jumping into the water, knowing full well what would be the result. What had he – or she – been carrying? What fate could have been worse, to make death in the river better than capture?

  'This is a right dreadsome country,' she said, and shivered.

  'Best not go paddling in the river, Madam Nose-in-air!' shouted Silver Taffy, and stumped away to the stern, spitting over the side.

  Dido did not trouble Captain Hughes with any further questions. She spent the rest of the day playing cat's-cradle with Mr Holystone, who was also unusually silent, and seemed languid and drowsy. Once or twice he pressed his temples with all his fingertips, as if he had a headache, glancing about him in a bewildered manner.

  'What's up, Mr Holy? Ain't you feeling quite the thing? It is perishing hot in this nook-shotten forest. Like sailing along inside of a baker's oven.'

  'I do not think it is the heat. I am used to heat. Where I come from – in Hy Brasil. ..' His voiced tailed off absently. He said, as if to himself, 'ls that where I come from?' And then to Dido, simply, 'I keep forgetting who I am.'

  Oh, mussy, thought Dido. Supposing he's sunstrook? What'll we do then? He's the only one with any sense in this lot.

  'You better put a wet cloth on your noddle and lay down for a bit, Mr Holy,' she suggested anxiously.