Drowned Ammet (UK)

by Diana Wynne Jones

  “Not any lot I know,” said Siriol. “This is bad. It could have the Earl stopping the Festival.”

  “He’d better not!” said Milda. “I’ve trained Mitt for this for years. And the clothes won’t fit him if we have to wait another year.”

  Siriol thought, in his customary unhurried way. “If the Palace thinks of staying at home,” he said, “we’ll hear it soon enough on the grapevine. Meanwhile, it wouldn’t do no harm to see if we couldn’t start a bit of a panic. Go round letting on that it’ll be terrible bad luck for Holand to stop the Festival, and that kind of thing.”

  So the Free Holanders dropped a word here and another there. Most of them were content simply to hint at dire bad luck. But Mitt felt he could not leave things so much to chance. Whenever Hobin was not by to listen, Mitt would whisper passionately to anyone who happened to be in the workshop, of floods, fires, famines and plagues. “And that’s just the least of what’ll happen if old Hadd’s too scared to hold the Festival,” he would conclude, and pull a dreadful face to suggest all the other unspeakable kinds of bad luck. When Milda was out shopping, she said things even more highly coloured.

  Four days later the rumour came back to Mitt when the arms inspectors called on their weekly visit. “Hear what they’re saying?” said one. “They say if Hadd stops the Festival, the sea rises up and spews out monsters over Holand, and all manner of ignorant nonsense.”

  “Yes,” said the other. “Monsters with heads like horses and horns like bulls. I mean, I know it makes you laugh, Hobin, but you must admit it shows how much happier everyone would be to know there is going to be a Festival this year.”

  Hobin was still laughing after they had gone. “Monsters!” he said. “Don’t let me catch you listening to that sort of nonsense, Mitt.”

  “No fear!” said Mitt. Secretly he was awed by the way the rumour had grown.

  Next day Hadd announced that the Festival would be held as usual. Hadd was no coward, and no fool either. The news Harchad’s spies brought him showed him well enough how much he was hated in Holand. He knew that to cancel the Festival might be the thing that could spark off a real revolution. So he did not cancel it. But he forbade any of his grandsons to take part in the procession. The procession, this year, was to consist of servants and merchants and their sons – all people who did not count.

  The news was a great blow to Ynen. He had looked forward to the Festival for months. He had counted on hitting Hadd with a rattle. He had dreamed of himself whirling the rattle round and round under Hadd’s great pointed beak, closer and closer, and at last, bash. But now … It did not console Ynen in the least that he was allowed to come to the feast afterwards. And it was the last straw to learn that his father was to be in the procession. Harl was quite content to stay in the safety of the Palace. Harchad, of course, would be busy supervising the soldiers and spies posted to keep Hadd safe. But someone in Hadd’s family had to carry Libby Beer, and Hadd chose Navis. Navis was his most expendable son. Besides, Hadd did not like Navis much.

  “It’s not fair!” Ynen said to Hildy out of his disappointment. “Why is Father allowed in the procession, and not me?”

  “Now you know how I feel,” Hildy said unsympathetically. Girls were never allowed in the procession at all.

  When this news filtered down through devious ways to the Free Holanders, Siriol was rather pleased than otherwise. “Less chance of our Mitt being recognised,” he said.

  The other safety measures were much more disturbing. In the week before the Festival, all boats were ordered to the far side of the harbour. Siriol had to move Flower of Holand to a distant mooring, where she was bumped and rubbed by six other boats crammed in round her. He grumbled furiously. He grumbled even more when, for two days before the Festival, no boats were allowed in or out of the harbour, and all were searched by soldiers every few hours. At the same time Harchad had all the tenements on the waterfront knocked down, and a large rubbly space cleared in front of the harbour. This was more serious. The street where Mitt was supposed to join the procession vanished. They had hastily to choose the next inland. Milda and Mitt were furious. They had lived in one of those tenements.

  “The whole lot down, just to keep his nasty old pa safe!” said Mitt. “Talk about callous tyranny!”

  “They should have come down years back,” said Hobin. “They were nothing but rats and bedbugs. And ‘callous tyranny’ is the kind of talk I’m not having.”

  “But those poor people are turned out in the street!” Milda protested.

  “Well, it’s cleaner there,” said Hobin. He was combing his hair and getting ready for a Guild meeting. “Anyway, to my certain knowledge, three trades have offered them room in their guildhalls, Gunsmiths included. But there’s new houses being built for them, back in the Flate.”

  “The Earl’s building them houses?” Mitt asked incredulously.

  “No,” said Hobin. “Would the Earl do a thing like that? No. It’s one of the sons – Navis, I think.” He put on his good jacket and went away downstairs, as far as Mitt could see, rather annoyed with Navis for stealing the Gunsmiths’ thunder.

  “He’ll come back talking of Waywold,” Mitt said as the door slammed. “You see. Still, it won’t matter you going back there after tomorrow.”

  “Mitt, I’m nervous!” said Milda. “All our planning!”

  Mitt felt pleasantly excited, no more. “Don’t you trust me or something?” he said. “Come on. Let’s have a look at those clothes.”

  Milda laughed excitedly as she fetched the red and yellow costume from its hiding place under her newest carpet. “I don’t think you know the meaning of fear, Mitt! Honest, I don’t! Here, now. See if they fit.”

  It was a strange and rather ridiculous costume. The breeches, which came halfway down Mitt’s thin calves, had one yellow leg and the other red. The jacket was red and yellow in the opposite halves. Mitt was a bit thin for the jacket. But he buttoned it up and added the jaunty cap, which had a double crown like a cock’s crest. “How do I look?”

  Milda was delighted. “Oh, you do look handsome! You look just like a merchant’s son!”

  Mitt looked in the little mirror, all prepared to agree. He felt very fine. And he had rather a shock. He looked good, it was true. But there were things in his face one never saw in the smooth faces of wealthy boys – lines which made it look old and shrewd. It was the knowing face of the poor city boys who ran about in the streets, fending for themselves. And yet – this was the thing which shocked Mitt most – it was a babyish face too. Under the lines there were empty curves, emptier than in any boy’s face he had ever seen, and his eyes stared as round and wide as his baby sisters’. Mitt made haste to alter it by putting on his most joky smile. The empty cheeks puckered, and the eyes leered long and sly. Mitt flipped the crest of his cap. “Cock-a-doodle-do!” he said. “Roll on, Festival!” Then he turned away from the mirror and did not look in it again.

  ON THE DAY of the Festival, Ham called for Hobin soon after dawn. That’s got rid of him! Mitt thought, hearing them clattering away downstairs. To tell the truth, he had not slept as well as usual. But since this was a holiday, he stayed in bed another good hour. I reckon they’ll be questioning me all tonight, he thought. I better get all the rest I can. But when Milda called him, he was very glad to jump up and put his own holiday clothes on, on top of the Festival costume. They were supposed to be spending the day at Siriol’s house. So they went there first, Milda, the two babies and Mitt, very bulky and warm in his double set of clothes. They were not to go to the side street until word came that the procession had already left the Palace.

  The procession left the Palace a little before midday. Ynen watched it from the upstairs window of a merchant’s painted house. He was crowded round with hearthmen and hearthmen’s sons, all of whom had strict instructions to keep Ynen safe. Ynen could hardly see for them. His was the first and worst position anyway. The other boy cousins were all in houses from which they could see the clea
red space by the harbour. Ynen could see it only if he craned, and if he craned, someone was sure to take hold of the back of his jacket and pull him respectfully back inside.

  Ynen could hardly bear it, even before the first of the procession came past. When at last he heard the thump, thump, thump of the horsehair drums, followed by the squealing of scarnels and joined finally by the groaning of cruddles, his frustration was almost boundless. Perhaps he was not very musical. It struck him as the most exciting sound in the world. Then he heard shouting. Then the lovely, lovely din of the rattles. And at last came the first of the procession, ribbons fluttering from silly hats, banging and blowing and scraping as they marched, with a beribboned bull’s head bobbing among them, and the lucky boys with rattles tearing in and out between their legs. Lucky red and yellow boys.

  “Oh, why can’t all the revolutionaries drop dead!” wailed one of the hearthmen’s sons.

  Ynen wished they would too. But for Hands to the North, he would be down there in the stirring din and the bright colours. And here came Grandfather, looking strange and rather silly. Ynen had an excellent view of Hadd’s cantankerous old face under a hat loaded with fruit and flowers. On Hadd’s shoulders, and trailing behind him, was a magnificent creamy mantle, embroidered with scarlet and cherry-red and gold. Over that was draped a garland of wheat-ears and grapes. Not much of the rest of Hadd was visible, because Old Ammet was in the way. Ynen had very little attention to spare for Old Ammet. All he saw was ears of wheat bristling at head, hands and feet, cherry ribbons and a girdle of apples. Ynen was chiefly impressed with Hadd’s skinny legs, cased in scarlet stockings, strutting underneath Old Ammet. Ynen giggled at the important way those legs walked. He had not realised before how vain his grandfather was and how much he enjoyed being an earl. At the sight of those red, strutting legs, Ynen longed to seize a rattle and whirl it in his grandfather’s face. To his annoyance, the red and yellow boys were on their best behaviour. None of them dared wave a rattle at Hadd. If only they would! Ynen thought, craning, and being pulled back.

  Navis came next. Ynen giggled again. His father’s feet were in buckled boots, so his legs did not look as ridiculous as Hadd’s. But he had ribbons at his knees and fruit in his hat. And juice was coming out of Libby Beer and running into Navis’s ribboned sleeves. Flies were following her. Navis was looking hot and bothered – most unusual for him – and obviously wondering if he could get Libby Beer to the harbour still in one piece.

  Behind Navis were two merchants who had been pressed into the procession. One wore a hat with ears, the other a hat with horns. They looked right idiots, and they knew they did. All the boys at the window shrieked with laughter. Ynen leant out again and yelled insults, which were drowned by the next batch of cruddle players. After that the procession was all music, things on sticks, boys with rattles, until it got smaller and smaller and wound downhill out of sight. Ynen sat back with a sigh. He desperately envied Hildy. She and the girl cousins, as the most important of Hadd’s grandchildren, had seats at the window of a house on the very edge of the cleared space.

  Mitt was by now in the side street, with Milda, Siriol and Dideo, hastily climbing out of his own clothes. In front of them were the backs of the crowd lining the main street. They were solidly Free Holanders and their families. Most of them had been there since dawn to make sure of the position. Mitt could already hear the thumping and skrawking of the procession, very near. As he passed his jacket to Siriol and put the crested cap on his head, a bull’s head on a stick went by above people’s heads. The noise was deafening.

  “Be careful, Mitt,” said Siriol. “And remember you say, ‘I’ve come to meet Flind’s niece,’ to the one that meets the cart at Hoe. If he says, ‘She’s expecting another little one,’ then it’s all right to go with him. Got that?”

  “Yes, all in my head,” Mitt said, attending to this no more than he usually did when Siriol talked of such arrangements. The din of the scarnels was making the back of his legs jump.

  “Old Ammet’s coming!” said someone in the crowd. “Pass it back.”

  “Old Ammet in sight.”

  Siriol handed Dideo the lighted taper. Dideo bent over the bundle he was carrying.

  “Oh, Mitt, be careful!” Milda said. She was smiling and looking sad, both at once. Mitt looked from her to the sister in her arms, and then down at the other sister, unsteadily standing and holding Milda’s hand. They upset him. He could not think of anything to say to them.

  He was glad when Dideo passed him a bundle on a strap. It was scarlet to match Mitt’s left side, and it had a stiff twist of paper coming out of it, which sent off little puffs of smoke. “There,” said Dideo, and his face was netted in smiles. “That’s long enough to last to the cleared space.” He patted Mitt’s shoulder as he hung the bag on it.

  Siriol passed Mitt a rattle and banged his other shoulder. “Off you go. Good luck.”

  Mitt slipped in among the crowd, and they parted to let him through. He was on, after years of waiting, and he could hardly believe it. He came to the soldiers, who stood in a line in front of the crowd. They ought to stop him.

  A soldier glanced down and saw the red and yellow suit. “Sorry, sonny,” he said, and moved to let Mitt by.

  Mitt was in the roaring, skirling, streaming procession. For just one second, he was small and sort of blunt and did not believe he was really there. But he was. And there was Hadd. Mitt had not seen Hadd close to before, but he knew him by Old Ammet in his arms. The bad-tempered old face was exactly what he expected. That face, Mitt told himself, is asking to have a rattle under its nose before it gets blown up. And he was off to do it, whirling from one side of the procession to the other, rattle spinning, crested cap flopping, and keeping a wary eye on the puffing bundle under his arm as he went.

  He caught up with Hadd just on the edge of the cleared space. Hildy saw him clearly, from where she sat at the window jammed in among her five cousins. They had soldiers in the room with them, soldiers downstairs and soldiers lining the new open space by the harbour. They were safe. Nevertheless, the cousins were very nervous and disposed to scream at things. They screamed when the first musicians came between the soldiers and straggled across the open. They screamed at the bull’s head.

  “Oh, look!” screamed Irana, as Mitt ran in front of Hadd, whirling his rattle neatly under Hadd’s irascible nose as he went.

  Mitt checked after he had done that. Holand looked so strange with no waterfront buildings and all the shipping cleared to one side of the harbour, that he had another moment when he could hardly believe it was real. But the bundle under his arm fizzed. Sparks puffed out with the smoke. Mitt knew the time had come to get rid of it. He turned and plumped it down at Hadd’s scarlet feet. Then he did not know quite what to do next.

  Hadd’s legs stopped walking. His bad-tempered look did not alter. He simply stopped and stood like a statue, with Old Ammet beneath his chin. Both of them stared at Mitt, and Mitt stared back. And the cousins round Hildy screamed in earnest at the sight of the smoking bundle on the ground. Behind Navis, everyone in the procession began to run into the backs of the people in front, and still Hadd stood, and so did Mitt. Hildy could not think what the boy thought he was doing. It seemed stupid behaviour, even for a revolutionary. Old Ammet seemed to be staring at him, unblinking as a cow over a gate, from under raised wheat-ear eyebrows, as if he shared Hildy’s wonder.

  Sparks poured out of the bundle. Navis saw that nobody else was going to do anything. He hoisted Libby Beer to his shoulder and dashed forwards. This was more what Mitt had expected. He got ready to pretend to run. But to his astonishment, Navis took no notice of Mitt. Instead he aimed a great kick at the fizzing bundle. Mitt saw the ribboned leg go out, the buckled boot connect, and the bundle, in an arch of smoke, sail away behind into the open space.

  And the fellow hasn’t a hair out of place! Mitt thought, rather astonished. He wanted to shout to Navis, “Hey! I dedicated a lifetime to this lot! And you just w
asted it!”

  By this time the merchant with ears on his hat had pulled himself together too. He made a rather dubious grab for Mitt. Mitt dodged him easily.

  This made Mitt think: might as well give them a run for their money.

  He turned to run. As he did so, the explosion came and sent him reeling. The force of it rattled all the windows and sent a gust into Hildy’s face. The cousins screamed again. The rest of the procession came jostling out from behind Navis, some of them demanding to know what had happened, some of them after Mitt. Hadd turned and made a sign to one of the captains that Mitt should be taken alive. Since Hildy now knew that this was the worst way to be taken, she shivered a little as she watched the boy running. He ran like a deer, ribbons fluttering, dropping his rattle as he ran, straight towards the soldiers coming out from the edge of the crowd to meet him. Hildy thought that if it had been her, she would have run to the edge of the harbour and jumped in.

  So would Mitt have done if he had meant to escape. But he was supposed to be caught. His ears hurt from the explosion. They seemed to be plugged with wool. He saw the soldiers mouthing as they came but could not hear a word. Mitt dodged and swerved as only someone brought up in the poorer parts of Holand could. Looks more natural, he thought. A huge hand snatched at his face. Mitt ducked under it and twisted sideways. A blurry face mouthed curses. A bevy of big boots clodhoppered at him from all directions. This way and that went Mitt, that way and this. He leapt a boot, dodged another, missed an enormous stretching arm, and tripped over another great boot. A jerk and a sudden coldness on his back told him – where his furred-up ears could not – that his jacket had been grabbed and torn. He was flat on his face and up again in one moment. But he was still not caught. He felt his jacket leave him, jerk, jerk, and he was still sprinting forwards. Too good to last, Mitt thought, and he dived, pushing and shoving, among the big bodies of the ordinary people crowded behind the soldiers.