The Mill

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  There was no change until they reached stations and stopped with a grinding jolt and a screech of the horn. Each stop allowed for running to the privy, comprising ten little cubicles – doorless, lightless, containing wooden benches with holes dropping directly into sand or water beneath, and emitting a stench that proclaimed their usage but terrified even the most desperate customers. The engine drivers changed and stomped off for food, bed, and wives.

  Then onwards they travelled, with the horn booming, the wheels rolling, the engine spurting its flame and smoke, and the passengers cursing and wishing they were home.

  They crossed the Corn once more and sped on. The heat rose like blisters on a scar and the train windows became sand grimed, increasingly difficult to see past. But in any case, there was nothing to see.

  “A vulture,” said Symon with interest, pointing upwards. “One o’ them big blue ‘uns. Loses their temper mighty quick, they does. I seen ‘em afore.”

  No one else was interested in the brief blue smudge of a flying bird and did not turn to look. Actually Symon was talking more to himself than to the others. “Where does we stop and start the search?” he asked eventually.

  The towns and villages in the south are few and far between,” Jak told him, “since the land is inhospitable, and the living is hard. And sadly, since none of us are accustomed to the southern plains, we do not know where to go. I therefore thought to start as far south as logic takes us, and then travel slowly up and around until we arrive back at Eden City.” He yawned. “But since we are neither clear on where to look, nor even whether our entire journey makes the slightest sense, I wish to do this in as little time as possible. We’ll travel by train and we’ll visit habitation, not places without hope. I cannot be away for more than two more ten-days. And since I have searched for this friend for several years, I have no special hope of finding her this time either.”

  Tom pursed his lips. “You don’t sound as if you wanted to come at all, my lord.”

  “I am here,” Jak said. “And would not be, had I not wished it. Indeed, my heart is deep into this exploration. But my hopes are limited, and I have no intention of pretending more ingenuity than I have.”

  Symon shook his head. “I ain’t bulging wiv no hope neiver,” he said. “T’wer the story o’ the mill wot seemed likely. An’ I reckon she might’a bin there once. But not no more.”

  Looking through the window as the sands deepened, Jak did not turn back to his friends as he spoke, but said softly, “I also had hopes of finding Freya at the mill. But we found only signs of misery, of fighting, and perhaps of death. That was a sad place.”

  “Well, I,” said Tom, “am thoroughly enjoying myself.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “It was because of the previous king, the morons of Shamm, and the Lord of Lydiard,” Fraygard told his majesty, “that we lost our daughter. And in spite of the many years lost, she must still be young, and may learn to love her parents.”

  Frink snorted and examined the small hole beginning to unravel below the knee of his stockings. ‘What king? Who? And I’ve really no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Then I shall start all over again from the beginning, sire.” Fraygard took a deep breath. “Now then, your majesty. My father sailed to Shamm with the intention of enjoying a wild adventure – ,”

  “Oh, shut the bugger up,” Frink waved one dismissive hand at Chia, who stood very straight at Fraygard’s side. Fraygard, deciding that ingratiation might be the better road, was still down on one knee. “I know all this absurd palaver, as if I want that tedious story again. So you’ve been in prison for years. I didn’t put you there. I had no idea you existed. This idiot wife of yours, yes, alright I know her. And you had a child. People do that in extraordinary numbers. I did it myself. Indeed, sometimes I look at my damn wife’s bulging belly and wonder if I’m having another one.” The king paused, then abruptly yelled for his valet. “Raggy Tumpkin, or whatever your name is, get here now.”

  A buzz echoed back through doorway to doorway and eventually a young and elegant man appeared in a hurry. He bowed before his king. “Raptork at your service, your majesty.” He was far better dressed than his king.

  “Look,” Frink said, lifting one leg, hands beneath his knee to support it, and waved his foot in the air. “These wretched stockings have a hole. How are you pissing stupid enough to give me torn clothes?”

  “There was no damage when I helped you dress this morning, sire,” the valet assured him. “I’m afraid you must have caught them on a nail.”

  “Don’t shitting argue with me,” roared the king. “Get these off me and bring me some more without fucking holes in.”

  Fraygard, Chia, four uniformed guards and two pages waited, staring politely into the distance as the valet knelt at Frink’s feet on the steps leading up to his throne, and helped remove the guilty stocking. A pale heavily veined and undersized calf emerged. As he pulled off the last threads, he gingerly lifted the king’s now bare foot. It seemed clean enough except for a highly calloused heel, and long uneven toenails. A page, entirely out of breath appeared with the new required stocking, and obediently Raptork rolled this up from his majesty’s foot, up the quivering calf, and underneath the bottom of the velvet britches.

  “Get a move on,” Frink roared. “It’s bloody cold.”

  The valet fastened the stocking beneath the britches, pulled down the glamorous britches into their proper place, stood, bowed, and backed away.

  Fraygard and Chia once more stepped forwards. Chia, carefully disguising all expression, regarded her aged relative. “Great Uncle Frink,” she said loudly. “My husband, almost at the moment I gave birth to my beloved daughter, was thrown into the Island Prison for no crime whatsoever. The accusations against him were false, every one, and you now know this. Yet he remained in the misery of the cells for many years.”

  “Which is why I set the bugger free,’ said Frink with considerable impatience. “You both live at court in one of the top apartments. I pay for your food, your drink, and there’s plenty of it, and I even gave you a couple of decent horses. What more do you want?”

  “Our daughter,” said Chia at once.

  “Well, what’s that got to do with me?” Frink demanded. “I don’t have babies hidden away in my trunks. What did you do with her?”

  “I gave my little baby to my friend Hyr,” Chia moved closer, her hand to the throne’s arm. “I lived in her house and she was our dear friend, but without children. This was in Lydiard, but no place of luxury or grandeur. We lived in a cottage on the slopes. But Fraygard and I returned there twice since his release, and they tell me Hyr has died long ago, the cottage is in ruins, and the daughter ran away.”

  Frink shrugged. “Just a local brat, then, and could be anywhere.”

  “Which is why we need help, your majesty,” Fraygard pleaded. “Royal troops to help us search the land, and to give us the authority to question people.”

  But the king was once more staring at his legs, both stretched out into the air before him. Then lifting his chin, he roared, “These stockings don’t match.”

  Unable to avoid the curiosity, everyone in the room stared at his majesty’s legs. One wore the original stocking in very dark blue knitted wool. The second leg was wrapped warmly in a stocking of light blue knitted wool. The king stood, shaking each leg in turn. “Where’s that fucking colour blind Raggedy idiot valet?”

  Once again the page rushed off. At the same moment, however, another scream, higher pitched, echoed down the corridor from some other apartment on the royal level. Everyone looked at everyone else in confused panic. Frink leapt up once more and ran from the room. Fraygard followed Chia who followed her great uncle, and two of the guards followed Fraygard. The remaining page hid his face in his hands, and the other guards stood where they were and stared down at their boots.

  The repeated screams, the other noises of pain and effort, and the clanking of water buckets all swept out from
the queen’s apartment, and Frink hammered on the door, yelling, “You killing the cleaner, Denda?”

  The reply was of necessity a mumble. Denda’s voice, but no clear words. Frink tried to open the door but it did not budge and had been locked. Chia called more softly. “Denda, dear, are you in trouble? Are you sick? Let me in and I’ll help.”

  It was the Good-doer’s voice which answered. “Excuse me, but I am a qualified nurse, and I must continue my work in peace. A dear friend of her majesty’s is giving birth, and I am doctoring her while the queen holds her hand. But this will take a little time. Please leave us and I shall carry out Milldy’s beautiful baby to show your highness, once born.”

  The king scratched his head, puzzled again. “Just why is some unknown female giving birth in the royal bedchamber, I’d like to know. Bloody ridiculous.”

  No answer broke the silence, except puffing exertion from behind the door. And then, in a sudden burst, the squall of a newborn child.

  Denda managed a croak. “Frink, what do you think?”

  “I think you’re mad, stupid and you need a good beating. Who’s Milldy? Where did that nurse come from?”

  This time the nurse answered again. “Your majesty, your dearest wife is exhausted watching her maid give birth. It was not an easy birth, sire. And she, um, that is to say, the mother Milldy is now shockingly unwell. Bleeding everywhere. And therefore, depending on your majesty’s permission naturally, her majesty wishes to adopt the baby.”

  “What?” shrieked the king as he began once more to pound on the door. “Let me in, stupid cow. I order you, unlock this damned door.”

  It opened with a slight creak, and Tandy peeped out. “The maid is not fit to receive visitors, my lord. Having just given birth, half dressed –,”

  “Then send my wife out,” Frink demanded. “Denda, get out here at once.”

  “No,” the queen squeaked back. “I’m too – busy – dear. I’ll, um, see you soon. And, um, shall we adopt this baby? It’s terribly sweet.”

  The king shook his head. “No. Well, alright. That is, I don’t give a shitting damn. But I forbid anyone else to go having babies in the royal bedchambers.”

  “It wasn’t planned, you majesty,” called Tandy from the other side of the door, locked once more. “Poor little Milldy was sweeping out the hearth when she had birth pangs and collapsed on the floor. Her majesty immediately called for me.”

  “Bloody hell,” muttered Frink, walking away back down the corridor. “Looks like I have another child.” He stopped for a moment and called back, “What the devil is it, anyway? Boy or girl or something else?”

  Milldy sniggered, stifled it, and called back, “Bless your majesty for asking. This is a son. My son. A wonderful boy and so beautiful. But I could never have done this without your wonderful wife’s help.”

  Marching onwards in his mismatched stockings, Frink muttered to himself as Chia, Fraygard and two guards followed, although he ignored them. “Load of pissy rubbish,” the king mumbles. “I’ll wager the damned kid is hers. There’s no maid giving birth in her bed, that’s for sure. And she wants to adopt it. Yes, ho, ho, ho, how likely is that. Well, we’ll see about this. Not as simple as it sounds and that’s my wager.”

  “And about my daughter, uncle?” called Chia, hurrying behind.

  Frink turned abruptly. “You’ve had another one too?”

  “No, no, sire, the same one as before,” Chia said, half on the run. “Freya. She’d be twenty-five by now.”

  “Twenty-five isn’t a baby no more,” sniffed the king, “so you can’t adopt her. So buzz off and leave me alone.”

  Staring at the ruin of the village around them, Udovox, Symon and Tom stood quite still just outside the train station, and Symon said, “It ain’t right. Tis the end o’ the world, I reckon. First the Bridge and now this. Tis them gods as don’t like us humans no more. And bloody right too, fer we’s a mucky lot, that we are.”

  Jak was no longer there and had strode immediately back into the shelter of the station. The sand had not yet fully settled, and the golden dust was thick in the air. The station master sat behind his small table with a glower of misery, and said, “Nothing I can do about it, my lord. You think I blew up the winds myself?”

  “Don’t be insolent,” Jak said, eyes cold. “I ask only whether this entire village still contains hospitable areas, or whether the destruction means I should take the next train back. I also wish to know when the train back towards Eden City is due.”

  “Hospitable?” complained the station master. “Nothing here, my lord, ruined buildings and roads clogged with rubble. Even the rover’s bunged up. No point staying, none at all though tis hot enough to sleep outside.”

  “And the next train in the opposite direction?”

  “Tomorrow morning when it gets here,” Jak was told. “We try to be punctual. Looks good if we’re punctual. But doing our best isn’t always what works best.”

  Jak sighed. “But tomorrow morning and not before?”

  The other man shook his head. “Supposed to be ten of the clock. More or less, that is. Best come and wait sometime after Nine.”

  “And meanwhile sleep in the dust and dirt?”

  “That’s it,” said the station master. “Or on the floor in here. Least there’s a roof.”

  Returning to the other three of his travelling company, Jak recounted the good news. Everyone said “Shit” at the same moment.

  “I’ve certainly heard of sandstorms and the damage they can cause down here in the south. But I am fairly sure they don’t normally wreck entire villages. And it seems distinctly unfortunate that we come here for the first occasion in all our lives, just two days after the worst storm in a century.”

  Wandering down what had once been the main streets brought them alongside the river, narrow here, and now clogged with rubble. There was also a barn, roofless but piled with enough straw to make temporary beds. Symon said, “Tis fine fer me. I slept on worse.”

  “Me too,” Udovox said. “And there were times back on the farm when I chose to sleep on straw with the chickens. Even when it was cold up in the north, I liked the solitary privacy, knowing the chickens wouldn’t call me names.”

  Tom did not look so enthusiastic, and Jak said, “I doubt if we’ll find better. I’ll make some effort though, to see if the place belongs to a family who needs it first.” He wandered off while Tom stared at the stalks, knew it would scratch, and contemplated the ruin of his best striped stockings and his green silk under-coat.

  Walking out from the barn’s lopsided doorway, Jak nodded to an elderly woman walking past, and asked, “Being homeless, like nearly everyone else in this unfortunate place,” he said, “my friends and I wondered if this barn would suit us as well as anything else for one night’s sleep. Would you know, madam, the owners of this building.”

  Evidently the woman had little else to do and wanted to chat. Certainly no home required cleaning anymore, no facilities existed for cooking, and the shops were as destroyed as the houses. The woman stopped, smiled, and said, “This barn was a store-shed for Mistress Gandria and her husband. But they both left the town yesterday, with their grand house all broken tiles and the roof blown halfway across the desert. I’d think you could sleep there, no trouble, sir. But you look too mighty well dressed for sleeping on straw. You’re a lord, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “I am, madam,” Jak said. “Do you have suggestions of more comfortable places to stay for the night?”

  But the woman shook her head. “I’ve one little room intact at my house, but I’ll need it myself.”

  Another woman passed by, and stopped, interested to join a conversation. “There was a hotel,” she said. “But it’s gone, every bit of it. The roof didn’t blow away – but now it’s on the floor and no way to climb underneath.”

  “Then I shall sleep in the straw here,” Jak smiled. “No man has yet been killed by straw to the best of my knowledge, and I consider myself lucky to have a
rrived today and not two days ago.”

  “Two days ago,” nodded the second woman, “it was one nightmare after another. Yet it started with good magic – then ended in bad magic. We had a theatre just out of town. Not much used in past years, but folks put on mummings and puppet theatre sometimes for the kids, and the church liked to use it for choirs singing holy songs. We went there and danced when it was something special – like mid-summer or last day of winter. Not that we get winter down here. It’s spring that brings the storms.”

  “And,” continued the first woman, “all of a sudden there was a pretty young man started on that same stage every single night, playing music and singing. Just beautiful it was. There was a troop of entertainers bin there fer months, but they never did much proper entertaining. Boring stuff. Reading stories in blank voices. But the new lass and especially the musical lad – well, they was marvellous.”

  A third woman, hearing this discussion, hurried over. “He was wonderful, truly he was. Pod was his name, and if I ever hear of him doing the same elsewhere, I shall be off to hear him right away.”

  “But after a ten-day, he stopped,” said the first woman. “And the stage was taken over by the full troop, all folk got together by the fellow who owns the theatre these days. And they put on what they called a play. Written by a young woman, it was, and so funny and so exciting, and every seat was taken and we loved it. I was there, and I clapped so hard my hands ached.”

  “Me too. And when I couldn’t clap no more, I cheered.”

  “We all cheered, It was magnificent.”

  “But then,” continued the second woman, “we started to wander home. No rush of course, since we were happy as bulge fish and wondering if we could afford to come again the next night.”

  “And I wasn’t even home yet,” said the first woman, “when up comes the storm. Not too bad at first. Then worse and worse. Tumbling around us, and not a house left standing. But worse – the dead. I think more than fifty.”