The Stolen Lake

by Joan Aiken

  'Blockhead! The glass is not at fault. I have destroyed your image, don't you see? And I can do the same with you, yourself. It only – '

  Perhaps fortunately, a voice was heard at this moment, calling, 'Make way, there, make way, for the Queen's Mistress of the Robes!'

  Queen Ginevra calmed down. Her freckled hands, which had been shaking, relaxed; two red spots disappeared from her cheeks; she began to smile again and tucked her chin, what there was of it, among her draperies.

  'Dear me! Talking politics!' she said. 'That will never do.' Looking over Dido's shoulder she remarked, 'Dearest Ettarde! Just when I need you, as ever. Advise me.'

  Turning round, Dido saw, without joy, that the dressmaker was approaching, accompanied, at a respectful distance, by her two assistants. All three were dressed very elegantly, in spangled lace gowns over silk petticoats, with feathers in their high coiffures, and silver-embroidered velvet cloaks. The two assistants still wore their black loo-masks. All three curtseyed deeply. Lady Ettarde, tiny and hunchbacked, looked grotesque, like some overdressed doll. She clambered up the steps of the dais.

  'Your Royal Mercy,' she said. 'How can I help you?'

  'Counsel me about this child,' said the queen. 'Should I send her off to Mabon and get the lake back? Or -or keep her here?'

  Lady Ettarde turned and stared at Dido disparagingly, from brogans to threadbare jacket. Dido, trying to look nonchalant, stuck her hands (one of them holding the little mirror) into her pockets. It was some comfort, at this moment, to remember that she still had the cat's whiskers knotted round her index finger.

  'You said as how if I went to King Mabon you'd let out Cap'n Hughes,' she began.

  The ladies ignored this.

  'Madam,' said the dressmaker, 'you would be well advised not to keep her here. The child is a troublemaker. She has a bad horoscope. Send her where she can be of use. What need to keep a sparrow when you have a bird of paradise?'

  'Blister me!' muttered Dido. Nobody heeded her.

  'Besides – dear lady! Think! Only this year – according to the astologers' predictions – this very year – if all goes well – your noble quondam lord will be restored to you.'

  'They predicted other years as well. If I could be sure . . .' murmured the queen.

  'Then – Your Royal Highness will have no further need of – birds. His presence will restore you – like the sun's rays on a growing plant.'

  'Perhaps you are right.' But still the queen looked at Dido; as if she found it hard to let her go. It was a covetous, greedy stare; it made Dido quite fidgety.

  'If I could jist have that permit, Your Royalship,' she said politely, 'I'd be on my way.'

  'Permit, what permit?' demanded Ettarde sharply. 'You would not send the child by the Pass —'

  But now there came another interruption: shouts of 'Make way, make way there, for the Queen's Soothsayer!'

  To Dido's amazement, who should come walking forward but Bran.

  He had changed from the shabby clothes in which Dido had last seen him to a stiff taffeta gaberdine gown, striped in red and black, richly lined with fur. His long white hair flowed smoothly back over the collar; on his high, thoughtful brow he wore a square black cap. The white bird sat motionless on his shoulder. Both of them looked extremely dignified.

  But, as he approached the queen, Bran surprisingly burst into song, and carolled, in a manner that seemed highly inappropriate and carefree:

  'Eating a nuncheon

  All by myself

  Isn't much fun;

  But when it's with you

  Any old stew,

  Any ragout

  Would do!

  When it's with you, it's a whizz

  Who cares a fig what it is?

  Going upstairs

  All on my own

  Isn't much fun

  But when it's with you

  Any venue

  Would do!

  Just name a rendezvous . . .

  When it's with you, it's a treat

  Who gives a hoot where we meet?'

  The queen, Dido observed, looked quite startled, even alarmed, at these words; in fact her expression, as Bran approached, seemed a mixture of pleasure and apprehension, as if he were a much-respected teacher who was almost certain to find fault with her, but who was able to tell her secrets that she could find out nowhere else.

  Lady Ettarde, on the other hand, seemed wholly put out at Bran's arrival; her brow grew dark and she muttered something furious under her breath. As for the two assistants, they let out faint whimpers of distress and slipped away into the shadows.

  The queen greeted Bran in a rallying tone as he bowed slightly.

  'Well, my soothsayer? Why have you been absent from our presence for so long? Where did you go, and what have you been doing?'

  'Oh,' he answered rather vaguely, 'I have been wandering here and there about Your Grace's dominions, to and fro, up and down. Today I was in the silver-mines; I brought this for you,' and from a pouch slung at his girdle he produced a great chunk of rough sapphire, as large as a brick. Even Lady Ettarde let out a squeak of admiration.

  'You could make yourself an hour-glass from it, or some such thing,' Bran said carelessly.

  The lump was so heavy that the queen could only just hold it in her weak puffy hands. After turning it about to catch the blue gleams of light, she let it roll to the ground. 'Why should I want an hour-glass?' she demanded pettishly. 'The hours go slowly enough as it is. Tell me a story, Bran, to while away the time.'

  'I should have thought your time passed pleasantly enough,' observed Bran. 'You have company.'

  His eyes rested on Dido, but she was surprised to see that he gave no hint of recognition. On the point of greeting him, she changed her mind.

  'Company, oh yes,' said the queen coolly. 'But your stories are better than all. Because one day you will tell me that the king has returned, and it will be true.'

  'Meanwhile I will tell you a story that I heard in the silver-mines.'

  The queen settled herself comfortably to listen. Lady Ettarde, like a monkey, hopped up on to the couch, and began carefully brushing Ginevra's hair with a silver brush.

  'There was once a poet who worked in the silver-mines,' said Bran. 'He kept a cockatoo, which he daily left in his house while he was working in the pit.' Bran stroked the white bird that sat so still on his shoulder. 'But one night the poet dreamed that the bird had picked up his heart (which he took out every night before he went to sleep, and hung on a stand by his bed); the bird had taken his heart in its claws, and flown up the chimney, carrying his heart with it. Next morning when the poet woke up, sure enough, the bird was up the chimney, and he had to go to work in the mine leaving it there. He told his dream to the companion who worked in the same gallery with him. But that afternoon the gallery roof caved in, and the poet was killed. His mate escaped. But now, the miners say, nobody will live in the poet's empty cottage, because his dream is still up the chimney.'

  'His dream, or the bird with his heart?' asked the queen.

  'His dream, his bird, his heart; they are all the same.'

  'What does the story mean, soothsayer?'

  'It is a true story; so you may choose your own meaning for it, Ma'am. Now, are you going to give that child her permit to climb Mount Damyake and go to Lyonesse?' Bran asked without any change of tone. Dido was very much startled.

  'Oh – do you really think I should? Very well – very well; in a minute or two; there's no hurry,' said the queen petulantly, jerking her head, so that Lady Ettarde gave a smothered exclamation and nearly dropped the hairbrush. 'Bran – dear Bran,' the queen went on, 'can't you give me any news? Any hope? No matter how faint? How far-distant?'

  'All I can tell you, lady, is that it will be this year. When I know more – more shall be told you. If there weren't such a lot of cobwebs and shrunken heads in this palace,' Bran said – his tone was not critical, merely matter-of-fact – 'I might be able to see further.'

>   The queen appeared to ignore this remark. After a moment or two she said,

  'Well. . . another story, then!'

  Bran sighed a little, as if he found the request tiresome, hut he thought for a minute and then said rapidly,

  'A man called Ianto was walking across the town to his place of work when, looking down, he saw a gold-and-diamond necklace lying on the cobbles. "That cannot be real gold," he thought. "It must be worthless, or someone else would have picked it up already," and so he left it lying and went on. But, when he was halfway across the town, waiting to cross a busy street, he looked down and saw the same necklace, or one just like it, lying in the roadway. "The Civil Guard are laying police traps for me," he thought. "If I pick it up, one of them is sure to jump out of a doorway and accuse me of intending to steal it." So he left the necklace lying where it was, and crossed the street. But when he came to his place of work, there, in front of the entrance, he saw what appeared to be the selfsame necklace, lying in the dust. "Well," thought Ianto, "now I know it must be meant for me. It is my destiny to have this necklace." So he picked it up. And it turned into a snake and bit him.'

  'Well, really!' exclaimed the queen indignantly. 'What kind of a story is that? What are we to make of such a tale? Did the man die?'

  'He was a doctor,' Bran said, 'and his place of work was a hospital, so he was able to treat himself with snake-antidote. He was ill, but he did not die. And from his adventure he learned that, if life has a necklace for you, or a snake, you may as well take it the first time, for it is sure to come back sooner or later.'

  So saying, Bran presented the queen with a gold-and-diamond necklace, which he drew from his pouch. She accepted it, half-laughing, half-nervous.

  'Will it turn into a snake and bite me?'

  'No, Ma'am; it is only dust; yellow dust and sparkling dust. A snake would be worth much more.'

  'Why?' demanded the queen, as Lady Ettarde clasped the chain round her throat.

  'A snake is alive. Each live creature is unique. Take its life, and something is gone for ever. But stones have no life, no identity. You cannot kill a stone.'

  An odd silence followed Bran's words. After quite a long pause the queen said irritably,

  'But if he picked up the necklace the first time, his life might not have been saved. – What was it that you wanted me to do? – Oh, I recall – a permit for the girl. Where are my tablets? Asclabor!'

  A chamberlain came forward, bowed and offered her writing-materials. She scribbled on a scrap of parchment, the attendant dropped hot wax on it, then the queen pressed her signet-ring on the wax.

  'There you are, child! I am sure I do not know what all this fuss is about. Run along – be off – make yourself scarce. Gracious knows why you have been bothering me for so long.'

  Dido took the signed and sealed parchment. She would have liked to make some retort, but prudence withheld her. She curtseyed and turned to go, noticing that Lady Ettarde's assistants, halfway along the hall, were moving unobtrusively towards the entrance.

  'I will escort the child to her companions,' said Bran.

  'No! Stay and tell me more tales!' said the queen.

  'In a moment, Highness; I will tell you the story of the sailor who dropped his anchor down a well. In one moment I will return.'

  With two rapid limping steps Bran overtook Dido, and walked beside her down the length of the hall and round the curving gallery. Dido noticed that all the officials they met bowed to Bran very respectfully. None of them approached him.

  'I liked that story about the bird, Mister,' said Dido. 'Did it happen to you?'

  'Why should you think so?'

  He began levering himself down the stairs by the marble handrail.

  'Because – I dunno! I just thought it might! Hey, there's Lieutenant Windward and Mr Mully. I thought they mighta got tired o' waiting and gone home.' Dido flourished the ribboned permit joyfully at her companions, and called, 'I got it, all right and tight!'

  'Took long enough!' remarked the lieutenant. 'Did she -' He was evidently about to say, Did she give much trouble, but checked himself, seeing Dido's escort.

  This here's Mr Bran, the Queen's Soothsayer,' said Dido.

  'I say, sir, do you think there's any chance that Her Majesty will change her mind and let Cap'n Hughes out of jail?' the lieutenant asked. But the soothsayer shook his head.

  'She will not let him out. But he will not be in prison for very long.' Then he glanced at the revolving door, which was stationary. Apparently it began to move only when it was in the correct position for people to use it. 'You have another five minutes to wait,' Bran said.

  'When do the big doors open?' asked Dido. 'The ones that the whirling door's set into?'

  'Not until the return of the king. On that day, and that day only, they will be opened.'

  'I say, sir, isn't that a load of moonshine?' suggested Lieutenant Windward diffidently. 'I mean, about the king's return?'

  'Moonshine? No indeed. All the omens predict that his return is close at hand.'

  Mr Multiple, overjoyed to find someone both knowledgeable and prepared to answer questions, burst out with one that had been bothering him,

  'I beg your pardon, sir but – those heads! The ones on the waiting-room wall, you know – are they real?'

  'Certainly they are real.' Bran turned to glance through the waiting-room door at the rows of shiny, shrunken objects. 'There are tribes in the Forest of Broceliande who make them. It is an ancient skill. They extract the skull, insert a hot stone, then sew up the lips and the slit through which the skull was removed. The head is then hung upside down for a year, to appease the owner's spirit.'

  'Wouldn't appease me,' said Dido.

  'Foreign travellers buy many of them; they are one of Cumbria's principle exports.'

  'I call that a bit much,' grunted Lieutenant Windward. 'I mean – for the queen to have them in her palace -'

  'She wishes to encourage native crafts,' said Bran. His face was quite devoid of expression. 'Now the door will start to revolve,' he added. 'You can tell because it begins to make that humming sound.' In a lower tone, covered by the hum of the door, he went on, 'Make all possible haste to leave Bath. And take your sick companion with you. Bath is excessively dangerous for any person suffering from a disorder of the consciousness. Or for children.'

  'How did you know about Mr Holy?' Dido said.

  But he had already turned and was beginning to ascend the great staircase.

  The revolving door began to spin, and they hurried through it.

  'I wish he could come with us,' said Dido, when they were outside.

  'Him? Climb mountains with a wooden leg? Are you dicked in the nob?' said Mr Multiple.

  'I say, don't the mountains look queersome, though,' said Dido. For the ring of great peaks, some of them spouting lurid smoke threaded with sparks, now stood silhouetted against the pale sunset sky, like a stony crown encircling the twilit town.

  'We will start at dawn tomorrow,' decided Lieutenant Windward. 'I'll ask the hotel to provide us with a guide and provisions for the journey. Now we had best go back and study the map.'

  8

  The hotel provided them with a dozen burros, for riders and baggage, and so they proceeded at donkey-pace. Two of the burros had a litter slung between them, into which the unconscious Mr Holystone was fastened. The procession was led by a guide, Marcus Dylan, who, with provisions for the journey, had also been supplied by the hotel.

  'What did you do about paying?' Dido asked Lieutenant Windward, edging her burro alongside his. Captain Hughes had had much of the expedition's supply of ready cash about his person when he was imprisoned, and so they were short of funds.

  'Oh, the management at the Sydney would give us anything when they saw the queen's permit! I told them that we would return in six or seven days, and that the captain would pay the whole shot at the end of our visit. I do not propose to fork out any of my own bezants while he is a prisoner. We may need what
little money we have on our way to Lyonesse.'

  'I dunno what we'd spend it on,' said Dido. 'I don't see too many hot-pie sellers or cockle-stands round here.'

  They were crossing the stony upland plain which surrounded Bath Regis. Much of the ground was rocky and uncultivated, studded, here and there, by sigse thorn and a species of cactus resembling a giant spiny hand. Not a human was in sight.

  'It sure is a drearsome part.' Dido shivered. Yet, despite the cold, her spirits had lifted on leaving the town of Bath Regis. So had those of her companions. Even the waxen face of Mr Holystone had taken on a faint tinge of colour. Having left it, they realised for the first time to the full what a terribly oppressive atmosphere permeated Queen Ginevra's capital.

  'We have several hundred miles to go before reaching Lyonesse,' pointed out the lieutenant. 'There must be towns or villages along the way.'

  'Hope so,' grunted Multiple. 'Or it's going to be sharp sleeping at night.'

  The pre-dawn air was razor-cold. As they left the plain and began to crawl at what seemed snail's pace up the vast slopes of Mount Damyake, the increasing altitude rendered breathing harder and harder. Lieutenant Windward had, however, prudently seen that the party was equipped with a large bundle of the rumirumi lilies, wrapped in damp moss, for the use of the travellers when distressed by lack of oxygen. The donkeys, fortunately, seemed unaffected by the thinness of the air. Dido was very glad of her mount; she was not certain that she would have been able to walk far on her own; moreover it was comfortably warm, like riding on a barrel of hot tar covered by a hearth-rug.

  Presently, however, the sun shot up, and at once began to send down rays of such torrid heat that they made haste to don the straw hats with which Windward, on the advice of the guide, had also provided them.

  'Awkward sort o' climate,' remarked Dido. 'Freezing one minute; roasting the next. Hey, Noah – don't you want to lay a hat over poor Mr Holy's face? No sense in getting him sunstrook on top of all else.'

  During the days of Mr Holystone's illness no one had shaved him, and his beard, of a brownish-gold colour, had grown several inches; so had his hair, which, previously, he had worn very short. He's a right good-looking fellow with a beard, Dido thought, as Noah carefully balanced a sombrero over the invalid's face.