“What do Gorgons do?” asked Corporal Nark.
“Lassy me, Nark, where have you been all this time? They turn you to stone.”
“That’s nasty.”
Private Minch, who was of a nervous disposition and given to Seeing Things at moments of stress, here upset the people around him by having a Seeing, and declaring that he saw a small stone image of Bellswinger right above the Sergeant’s head.
“Oh, stow your gab, Minch,” everybody said, and Private Coldarm gave him an arrowroot jujube which he sucked in tearful and hiccuping silence.
As well as polishing their weapons and Snark goggles, most of the men got out lucky charms and gave them fond and respectful attention.
Corporal Nark had a silver threepenny piece from a Christmas pudding; Ensign-Driver Catchpole had a bit of rock from Mount Vesuvius; Private Brag had a leaf from a handkerchief tree on the island of Sark where his gran lived; Sergeant Bellswinger, unexpectedly, now revealed his secret parcel to be a square foot of turf from the centre of the Manchester United football ground.
“I just thought maybe it’d bring me luck,” he explained rather apologetically. “And nobody was using the pitch while we were in Manchester; except Snarks, that is. So I just reckoned I’d help myself to a chunk. I think Flint must have seen it in my cabin and he tried to half-inch it. Wouldn’t have done him any good, though. You have to take it for yourself. Well, it must be lucky, when you think what feet have trod it. O’ course I’ll be sure to return it once the state of emergency is over.”
He had kept it watered by an ingenious system of guttering from the train roof. “Rain water, you see, that’s what it’s used to—” And now anybody who liked was allowed to touch it with a reverent finger.
As the train crept towards where the town of Dollar ought to be, facing across the valley floor towards Ben Cleuch and the twin glens of Sorrow and Care, with ruined Castle Campbell mounting watchful guard between them on its hillock, Dakin fell into a great state of worry and gloom.
Like the rest of the men he was tremendously keyed-up, positive that a great battle was impending, perhaps the decisive battle of the campaign. If they could win this one, might not the rest of the monsters take flight for good? That was what many of the crew believed. And then the train could turn southwards again, and they could all go home and start rebuilding their lives.
But Dakin felt miserably uncertain. He longed to be in the thick of the battle, beating his drum—but would he be allowed? Or was he still in total disgrace with the colonel? Would he be confined to the little hot room behind the engine, like a naughty child? He sought comfort with Uli in the galley, but Uli was in a queer state, nervous and whining; and Mrs. Churt was in bad skin, because the colonel had asked her to serve out an extra ration of turnip pancakes to all the men at their battle stations and so she was unusually busy and had no time for conversation.
As well as this, her great piece of cross-stitch, now completed, hung draped over the ironing-board in the galley. Every single man on the train found time to come and touch it, at least once, before the battle. Some touched it half a dozen times, coming back repeatedly.
“A very interesting example of folk-lore in process of development,” said Dr. Wren, who was helping Mrs. Churt with the pancakes. “Do they think it will bring them luck?”
“Well,” said Mrs. Churt, “they seem to. It gives them a good feeling, like, and that’ll help them to watch out and be extra nimble in the battle, I reckon.”
Dr. Wren nodded, and touched the cross-stitch himself. So did the colonel, under pretext of making an official inspection.
“It’s just airing now,” Mrs. Churt told him. “We’ll hang it over the piano when the battle’s done.”
To Dakin’s great surprise, Major Scanty came in search of him.
“Ah, there you are, Dakin, my boy; just step along with me to the engine cabin, will you. Now, pay close attention,” the major went on, when they were alone in the small room. “The colonel has an assignment for you tomorrow; during the battle, which, as you know, we expect will take place very shortly—”
“Oh, sir! Major! Do I get to play my drum?”
“No, my boy; the colonel wants you to go off in search of your cousin, under cover of the action—taking advantage, you see, of the general confusion—it will be an excellent opportunity for diversionary tactics, the colonel thinks. You must take the Gridelin hound with you, of course.”
“Can I bring my drum along?” asked Dakin hopefully.
“No, my boy, that will not be necessary. In fact I should think it might be a decided encumbrance. Your cousin is very likely being held in some hiding-place in the mountains—up a steep and narrow track—”
Dakin’s face fell, but he privately resolved that he would take his drum, just the same. After all, you never knew. Gorgons might react to it in the same way that Snarks did.
“I myself shall accompany you,” Major Scanty disconcerted him by adding, “for I have a long acquaintance with the town of Dollar and its surroundings. I was a boy at school here and have often explored up Glen Sorrow to the ruins where the old monks used to have their monastery.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Dakin, politely but without marked enthusiasm.
“So you must now make yourself ready—and the hound too, of course—and then, the moment the alert sounds and the train stops, you and I will make a dash for it. Do you understand?”
“Yessir.”
“Very well. I will meet you shortly near the observation platform.”
These instructions from the major left Dakin in a mixed frame of mind, half satisfaction, half bitter disappointment. He had hoped so much to have this own important role in the battle again, as at Manchester; to feel part, and a very crucial part at that, of what was going on. Instead here he was, fobbed off with a rescue errand, sent in search of his cousin Sauna.
But still, Dakin had to acknowledge, there was a good deal of sense in it. He knew Sauna well—and he was the only one who could talk to the dog in German—and the dog was fond of him, and loved Sauna dearly, and would certainly be able to track her down if she was anywhere near at hand—yes, he supposed there was really no fault to be found with the plan, so far as practical sense went; and Sauna might very likely be in horrible danger with her Auntie Floss—if it were really Auntie Floss—and that greasy, creepy Tom Flint. Only—only he did so wish that he could be in the battle!
But there it was …
Dakin and Uli were soon stationed in the cabin next to the observation platform, looking out past Colonel Clipspeak’s elbow. Dakin’s drum was concealed by his Snark cape, and Sauna’s skipping-rope was in his pocket. Uli was whining faintly with excitement.
“Devilish peculiar countryside round here,” Clipspeak muttered to Dr. Wren. “I don’t wonder its history is so full of witch-burnings and wizardry. It has a deuced spooky and unchancy feel to it, if you ask me! Something to do with those deep cracks between them mountains, coming right down to sea level. It ain’t a bit surprising that whoever’s organizing the monsters chose to have their mustering place up here—wonder where, though? In Dollar, do you think?”
“The town looks wholly quiet—uninhabited, one would say—” began the archbishop.
Just then all the train’s alarm bells went off, as half the sky appeared to fall on them. Teeth, beaks, talons, iron claws, razor-sharp bronze pinions hissed through the air, huge wings flapped, flaming eyes darted rows of sparks like rocket fire.
“Now!” hissed Major Scanty to Dakin as the train jerked to an abrupt standstill. “Pay no heed to all that botheration—just you stick to my heels, you and the hound.”
He dropped off the platform with the agility of a man half his age. Dakin followed, with Uli loping eagerly at his side.
So far as could be seen in the dusk, the train had not yet reached the main station of Dollar, but stood in a siding on the edge of town. Dakin and the major ran down the slope of an embankment and crossed a stretch
of marshy meadow; very soon they were ascending a moderate uphill slope, with the ruined Castle Campbell sticking up like a broken fang above them on their right.
Uli, who had seemed startled and baffled for a moment or two when they first left the train with all the noise of whistles and gunfire raging about them, now let out an eager whine and pulled ahead of Dakin, dropping his nose to the trail. “Here, boy, sniff this,” said Dakin, and fetched out the skipping-rope. Uli gave a yelp of excitement.
“Aha!” exclaimed Major Scanty in triumph. “The dog has found the scent! This is the foot of Glen Sorrow—” He stopped and gasped suddenly, pressing a hand to his chest. Then he coughed, and coughed again.
“Agggh! Devil take it! Of all the cursed luck! I have been pierced, I fear, by a Telepod. Their tusks are detachable. One has gone right into my diaphragm.”
“Oh, sir!” Dakin exclaimed in horror. “Won’t you—what shall I—do you want me to pull it out?”
“No, my boy; if it were pulled out, I should bleed to death on the spot. My only chance is to try to make my way back to the train. Do you go on. The dog plainly thinks he knows the way.”
“But, sir—”
“Don’t stop, my boy, don’t wait! I think time may be precious. If you should find me still here, on your way back, then will be the occasion—” The major coughed again and collapsed on the ground.
Gulping with fright and shock, Dakin ran on up the hill, his arms half pulled from their sockets by the impatient Uli, who had his ears up, nose down on the track, tail flying out behind him in the wind of his progress.
One thing, thought Dakin, at least the major didn’t have time to tell me off because I’d brought my drum with me. Maybe he never noticed it. Poor old Major, I just hope he makes it back to the train.
* * *
With the close approach of King Edward’s day, the Being who presented herself as Auntie Floss appeared to take on greater power. Her thin, hissing voice gained volume, she gabbled a great deal more. A large part of what she said was unintelligible to Sauna. Sometimes she addressed other people: Azrael, Abiron, Chezroth. Sometimes Sauna thought she heard voices replying, voices that echoed outside the cottage, that clanged like brass over the thatched roof, howled among the trees.
“They are getting ready,” Auntie Floss said. “When you bring them the book—”
“I shall not bring any book,” Sauna said. “Never.”
“You had better think again about that. Go and look at the television.”
Without wishing or meaning to do so, Sauna went. This tended to happen more and more. The set was not even switched on, but she saw an old lady on the screen who wailed and wept: “Arch, I didna dae whit they tell it me, an’ syne they burned off my feet, look—” and the old woman exhibited two hideously charred stumps—“Ach, I hired wi’ them, but I didna do whit they ordered and I’m for perdition juist the same. Be warned by me, lassie…” and shrieking she threw her shawl over her head. Sick and appalled, Sauna went back through the front room and opened the outside door. But the weather had worsened again, snow fell in thick strips, the gale howled.
“You know I can’t go in this, it would be hopeless hunting for some old book,” she said. Had the picture on the screen been just a trick to fool her? “Anyway, the boots don’t fit. I outgrew them two years ago.”
“Don’t disobey me, child. Cut the toecaps off the boots and put them on.”
“No!”
The figure half rose from the bed, yellow teeth bared in a savage grin. Sauna, who had prepared herself as best she could for some such confrontation, wrapped her hand in a rag, snatched the iron bar from the fire, and waved it defensively in front of her. To her horror, Aunt Florence gripped the bar at its red-hot end, twitched it from Sauna’s grasp and tossed it out through the open door. The hand that had held the bar was black as burnt toast, but she appeared to feel no pain.
“You had better do as I tell you,” the voice said.
Shocked to death Sauna crept away, found the only knife and began hacking at the toes of the boots. Well, if I can get them over my feet, I suppose I might still escape, she thought rather hopelessly.
Maukin, the grey rat, now ventured off the bed more often and made questing forays over the wrinkled newspapers on the floor. Just the sight of him turned Sauna queasy with terror and repulsion—the way he scuttled, with greasy speed, from one spot to another, keeping if possible in the angle of the wall, with his long scaly tail slithering behind him, his sharp red eyes fixed on Sauna. He had eaten her one remaining shoe; or, at least, she could not find it anywhere. Her muscles twitched with the impulse to deal him a bash with a three-legged stool, but she knew she would never catch him; he was infinitely too quick for her.
After she had sliced one toecap from a boot she left the cup-shaped bit of leather lying on the yellow newspaper. The rat scooted out from the wall, seized it and gnawed up the stiff semicircle in two chews and a swallow.
“He’d chew off your feet, if I told him,” twittered Auntie Floss gaily and threateningly.
“You think I’d let him? I’d kick him from here to—”
“Ah, my suckling, but I could put you in a deep sleep. And then what? Just fancy…”
The frightening thing was that Sauna suspected this was true. If she let her eyes remain for too long on the hateful yellow grinning face (not that she ever intended to, goodness knew, but sometimes it seemed to happen by compulsion) she could feel herself becoming drowsy, slipping into a helpless, trancelike state in which this crazy, cut-off life in the cottage seemed like a bad dream, was only a bad dream, perhaps …
What terrified her was the idea that, lulled, mesmerized into such a state, she might do anything that Floss told her, go and fetch that book, cut off her own means of escape perhaps.
Gritting her teeth, Sauna somehow shoved her foot into the left boot—it was agony—and began carving at the right one. She felt hollow with hunger and weakness. They had almost come to the end of what was edible in the cardboard box. All that remained was dry mustard, paraffin wax, knife powder, and dandelion coffee.
“Would you like some dandelion coffee, Aunt Floss?”
One of Sauna’s own weapons, kept up for her own satisfaction, was the pretence that she believed the thing on the bed was her aunt, had any connection with her family. Since coming to the cottage she did not believe so. Even in Manchester, Sauna thought, even in Spain when she came to fetch me, I don’t reckon she was ever who she said she was. She was sent to get hold of me. But why? Just for that book? Why do they need it? And who are they?
* * *
Climbing up the track in a snowstorm, Dakin and Uli came to the point where a huge fir tree had fallen and blocked the way. Uli let out short angry barks of frustration, and ran back and forth as if undecided which way to go. Down below on their right was a cliff, dropping to a gorge. That was no use. They must climb up to the left then, thought Dakin, gazing in dismay at the huge mass of wreckage. And it was growing dark …
Then he remembered his Kelpie gun. What could singe and scare off a Kelpie might perhaps do useful work burning a way through all this debris of timber and branches and needles and twigs.
He tried it, and blasted a highly satisfactory alleyway in among the wreckage. Uli, on his haunches, watched with intelligent eyes and whined eagerly.
It worked well. But there was a very long way to burn through the wreckage. And I’m making a devil of a lot of noise and commotion and sparks, thought Dakin. This rescue job’s supposed to be done quickly and quietly, while the battle’s going on. Suppose the row fetches along some Chimeras or Basilisks? Still, there’s nothing for it; I just hope the battery doesn’t run out. On he went, burning, stamping and hacking.
Mercifully the battery lasted—almost to the end, at least. Dakin had to slash away the last few yards of wreckage with his Kelpie knife. And I hope to Habbakuk, he thought, that we don’t come across another fallen tree. For if we do, we’re done.
U
li bounded through and ran joyfully ahead as soon as the tree was passed; Dakin had to race to keep up with him.
But now just what Dakin had feared came to pass: a flock of winged attackers plunged down on him. It was too dark to make out what they were; but plainly their intentions were hostile.
His knife was blunted, his battery run down. What the pize am I supposed to do now?
Then the simple answer came to him: his drum.
He whisked off the cape, unshipped the drum from its portage sling, whipped out the drumsticks, feverishly screwed up and tightened the twitches, and beat out a wild noisy tattoo: titherum-tum-tum, titherrum, titherum, tum, tum, tum!
Rat-tat-tat, rattle-rattle-rattle-tat-tat.
The creatures above sheered off, dismayed and thwarted. They vanished into the black trees overhead.
But then a worse menace appeared: a far, far worse menace.
Wreathed in horrible grey luminosity it came towards him down the track—bigger than a grizzly bear, deadly, pitiless, unspeakably terrifying. A Mirkindole.
Now I really am done for, thought Dakin. No use beating my drum at him.
Mirkindoles are deaf, he remembered the archbishop once telling him. No use trying to frighten them off with noise.
And indeed it could be seen that Uli, who was half bursting himself with hysterical barks and snarls, made no impression at all on the creature. On it came, implacably.
It had a tiger’s body: huge, sleek, muscular, rippling, striped; twice the size of any normal tiger. And, strangely, at the front of this formidable body was the face of an elderly, peevish man, framed between two massive curling horns. The face looked irritably at Dakin, as if he presented a disagreeable task, which it would be best to get over with as soon as possible. The Mirkindole paused, raised a paw the size of a tractor-wheel—in which could be seen a dozen curved claws each capable of ripping out someone’s throat.
What had Dr. Wren said was the best way to deal with a Mirkindole? It’s the same as—some other creature, same family. Which? What had he said?
The muscles of Dakin’s mind seemed paralysed with terror. They refused to function.