by Joan Aiken
“Only it didn’t work out like that. So now what’s happening?”
The Angrians were divided, Tylo said. The ones in Regina town were for Manoel, because they knew him, and he promised to reduce taxes and make it legal for anybody to grow djeela trees (which at present were King’s monopoly) and he had plans to cut down more and more of the forest and increase the pearl fisheries and grow more spice plantations.
“So who don’t want that among the Angrians? What do the others want?”
Some old-fashioned Angrians, living in the forest, like the Ereiras, said Tylo, had not come down yet on one side or the other; and John King’s own bodyguard, living up at Limbo Lodge, were devoted to King, despite his deafness and short temper, and wanted no changes.
“How many of those?”
Tylo spread out his two hands ten times.
“About a hundred. And how many in Regina town?”
Maybe five times that number, Tylo guessed.
“Doesn’t look like King stands much of a chance, then.”
But Tylo was hopeful. Everybody knew, he said, that Aratu was the centre of the universe. “Ritari-ga’ar!” – the central axis on which the whole globe and the skies revolved. Some day, everybody in the world would die, and then they would all go to the great forest: in the Underworld, where everything grew upside-down and revolved in the other direction; but that time would not come until the last three of the great stones up on the hilltop had fallen and crumbled away. Much would happen before then. And he personally thought, and so did many of the Forest People, that, since matters were so satisfactory – on the whole – now, in Aratu, so kaetik, the gods would not allow any great change to take place.
“I do hope that’s so,” said Dido thoughtfully. “But I guess the Outros folk don’t think everything’s so kaetik—”
“So maybe all kill each other,” Tylo cheerfully repeated.
They went on climbing.
“Bless us and save us,” sighed Dido after what seemed like several hours. “Is this mountain ever going to end? My knees feel as if they’d been used for swabbing the deck . . .”
Tylo peered ahead. “Mist come again. Better leave horses in cave. If Guard up top, may need to dodge and hide—”
“Yus. I’m right with you there,” said Dido. “Horses would be nothing but a nuisance. Are we near the top, do you think?”
Not far, Tylo guessed. So, as they were passing a capacious cave, with twisted stalactites round its entrance, making it easy to recognise, they left the horses inside, with an armful of keedo-grass and sprinkle of kandu nuts to protect them from snakes. Tylo also laced a tendril of opoë vine across the cave mouth.
“What’s that for?”
“Smell bad. Stop horse from stray, stop wild beast get in.”
Herodsfoot had remained silent all this time, wound up totally in his own woe.
As they climbed on, the mist became ever thicker. Presently Tylo sniffed, and said, “I smell meat, bread, cook on hilltop. Better we stop here, hide in cave till mist lift. Guard up yonder.”
The lip of the gorge, Dido gathered, where the bridge to Limbo Lodge (if it was still there) spanned the ravine, was quite a dangerous spot. There was a sheer drop to the rapids of the Kai river, hundreds of feet below. Easy enough, in a thick fog, to step over the brink into eternity.
“I wonder folk took the trouble to go over the bridge to the Cliff of Death.”
Well, but that was a holy place, Tylo explained. People went there if the gods commanded them to.
“Do the gods ever command it?”
Oh yes, Tylo said. Every now and then, if the Forest People grew too many for the island to support them in a kaetik manner, the gods would recommend that a hundred or so should go and throw themselves off the Cliff of Death.
“And folk don’t mind doing that?”
Of course not, if it was for the good of all, said Tylo patiently. It was an honour. There were always enough volunteers. They knew they would only be moving on to the next great forest in the other world. They took with them their favourite songs, their favourite games, a pocket full of bark bread or djeela fruit and the best jokes they had heard lately to tell the ancestors, the dwellers in the upside-down groves that awaited them there.
“Hush, now! I hear voices!” Tylo’s acute hearing, like his sense of smell, was way ahead of Herodsfoot’s or Dido’s. “Go in cave here, wait!” he breathed, touched Dido’s hand, and beckoned her sideways off the track. She, likewise, caught Herodsfoot’s hand, pulling him after her.
The cave Tylo had entered was dripping with stalactites and lined with glow-worms which made it possible to see that it was a long, narrow crevice leading backwards into the hillside. Dido could not help wondering what unfriendly creatures might inhabit this dark passage, as well as the glow-worms; however, they saw nothing by the faint glimmering light, but heard a great many bats, faintly squeaking and flittering overhead. Dido thought of snakes and crocodiles and sting-monkeys and devoutly hoped they were all elsewhere. Crocodiles, she told herself firmly, would never climb as high up the mountain as this, and sting-monkeys lived in trees, not caves.
“Now wait here,” whispered Tylo, “while I go-see.”
Dido found a ledge of rock for herself and another for Herodsfoot to sit on. While they waited, she thought of Talisman. How long would it take to climb that lofty cliff? An hour? Two hours? Three hours? It would not be long now, till the end of the day. If Talisman had not reached the top before dark fell, she would be done for – had she thought of that, when she began her climb? And the mist, too, would make the climb infinitely more difficult and dangerous, because she would not be able to see far enough ahead to plan her route.
Oh, Doc Tally, thought Dido fervently, I sure do hope you’ve made it to the top by this time.
She heard a faint groan come from Herodsfoot; his thoughts must run parallel to hers.
And then suddenly Tylo was back with them, pressing his fingers against their lips in urgent caution.
“What’s up?” Dido was beginning to whisper, when she heard the cause of his alarm – voices and footsteps of men inside the cave.
Dido’s first impulse was to slip farther back along the narrow passage. But Tylo’s hand now warned her to keep still, and she could see this made sense; Herodsfoot would not be able to move quietly enough to retreat without discovery. The men – there seemed to be three of them – had not come into the cave hunting for them, but apparently to have a private conversation. They stood just inside the entrance and talked in low voices.
“You have guards posted at each end of the bridge?”
“Certainly, Gerente.”
Ha, so the bridge is still there, thought Dido, and poked Tylo in the ribs. She could feel his nod in reply.
Is one of those men Manoel? Dido wondered. Is he the only Gerente, or are there others? She could not be sure if the voice was his. But when he spoke again, she decided that it was Manoel.
“You have brought me one of the fire-trimmers?”
“Yes, Gerente, I have brought Zmora. He nine-treetime Halmahi, know much about forest fire.”
Dido heard Tylo beside her suck in his breath – with horror, with grief, with astonishment? His grip on her hand tightened.
“Good,” said Manoel’s voice – Dido felt more and more certain that it was Manoel – his voice had a nasal arrogant twang about it which she had taken a strong dislike to when having breakfast at his house. “Now then, you, Zmora, it seems you are the man we want.”
“For what can you want me, I wonder, Shaki-sir?” inquired a polite, elderly voice.
“You know much about the forest. And you know about fires, how they start and how they can be stopped again.”
“One branch-length I know about such things. A whole tree-length, not so.”
“What does the fellow mean?” said Manoel impatiently. “Does he know or does he not?”
“What you wish to find out, Gerente?”
“L
isten, you, Zmora. You fellows have the knack of setting fire to the forest, isn’t that so, when you choose to do so. With that glowing fungus of yours? And then, you can put the fire out again when you choose, can’t you?”
“Small fire, Shaki, golly-likely. Big fire, not so.” Here Zmora went into a complicated explanation, partly in the Dilendi language, from which Dido gathered that putting forest fires out depended mainly on the weather.
“If I want to light a fire now, a big fire, burn half the forest on the island, could you put it out?”
Zmora burst out laughing. Quite plainly this suggestion, this crazy notion, was the best joke he had heard in months. “Oh-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho! Shaki-sir! You make great fun with old Zmora! No one, no one, but the greatest fool in the world would, at this time, burn half the forest on the island! And if you so much as burn half, you could never put fire out again. You would burn whole island. Aratu would be dead, finish. Like Pati island, Shaki-sir!”
“So you won’t, or can’t, make a fire for us, eh?”
Zmora’s reply was in the Dilendi language, and Dido could not follow it all, but she gathered that he was saying a very firm no.
Manoel gave some order, in an undertone, to the third man, who said,
“Shall it be done now, Gerente?”
“Yes, certainly now! We do not want him going back and talking about this to any of his mates. Over the cliff with him—”
There followed a brief scuffle, and a low cry from Zmora, as he was hustled out of the cave by the two other men; another cry, part grunt, part gasp, and then Manoel came back into the cave, remarking, “That will prevent him from telling tales, at all events! But it is a cursed nuisance that he could not be any use to us. Tiresome old fool! Find me Capitan Ereira, will you, and bring him here. I must think.”
“Yes, Gerente.”
The second man’s footsteps died away up the path, and a small red glow near the mouth of the cave suggested that Manoel had lit a cigar. The warm scent of tobacco floated back along the passage, and Dido could feel Herodsfoot make a sharp movement, which was instantly and firmly suppressed by Tylo. She herself was in a state of shock. Something dreadful, horrible, had happened, under cover of the dark, recorded by nothing more than a couple of brief cries: a man had been killed, thrown over the cliff, simply because he would not agree to light a fire which might destroy the whole forest.
I always reckoned that Manoel was a wrong ’un, Dido thought. I wonder if his brother’s as bad? If so it’s a poor look-out for Doc Tally, even if she gets to Limbo Lodge; shame these poor Forest Folk have such a scaly pair ruling the roost round here. If it weren’t for them – and the Angrians – Aratu wouldn’t be a bad place to live . . .
More footsteps. The second voice announced respectfully: “Here is Capitan Ereira, Gerente.”
“Good. You may leave us now.”
When the steps had gone again, Manoel said: “Mateo. Is there any news of your sister?”
“No, Gerente.”
“Where do you think she has gone?”
“I think she may have been making for the Cliff of Death. I fear she might have got there before the guard was set on the bridge.”
“That was a wretched piece of bungling stupidity!” said Manoel angrily. “The bridge ought to have been guarded all along – certainly as soon as the news came that she was gone from your parents’ home—”
“I know, I know, Gerente,” said Mateo’s voice apologetically. “But I myself did not receive the information until half an hour ago—”
“Is there any further news of the party with the English lord and Irmala?”
“Some of them spent the night with the madman, Ruiz. But not Irmala. She was with a woman of the forest.”
“Where are they now?”
“They were last spotted going in the direction of Manati beach.”
“In that case they may not be far from here now. Order your guards to be extra vigilant.”
“Yes, Gerente. I have already done so.”
“That woman is a great danger to us.”
“Which, sir? Irmala – or my sister?”
“Both, both! If Irmala gets to Limbo – or if your sister comes into contact with any of the Forest People – if only they would stay in one place, instead of shifting about as they keep doing – it is so devilish difficult even to judge how many there are—”
“A good forest blaze would wipe out most of them, sir—”
“Yes, yes, no doubt! But the ones who escaped would be exceedingly ill-disposed.”
“They might not guess who began the fire.”
“Oh, they would. They would! There is no deceiving them in such matters. And they have such unexpected powers—”
“What is your plan regarding the d – regarding Irmala?”
There was a long pause. Then Manoel said: “If she is to remain alive—” he hesitated – “if she is to live, she must marry. She is dangerously wilful and wayward. Her marriage is essential. She escaped from the House of Correction – she must have had help to do that. From whom? We don’t know. She has spent nights in the forest with the Dilendi people. Already it seems they trust her. She is a capable doctor – she was able to heal that young sailor’s head injury. News of that has spread across the island. It seems she already has standing as a Kanikke and a witch.”
“We need a doctor – there has not been one on the island since O Medico died.”
“Yes, but we cannot allow her to go running around loose. She would take the part of the Forest People against the Angrians. She would impede all our plans. Would you marry her, Mateo?” Manoel suddenly asked.
“I?” There was another long pause. “I – I have no mind to marry, Gerente. And – and I do not think that would work – not from what I hear of her.”
“I suppose I could marry her,” Manoel said thoughtfully.
“You? But you are her uncle!”
“And who is to know that?”
“Does she know it?”
“I am not certain. She knows some of her history – that she came from here. It is the greatest misfortune that she should have survived,” Manoel said gloomily. “When I heard of the child being picked up by the Dutch freighter, I could hardly believe that ill-luck had targeted me yet again.”
“You and I, Gerente, are both sons of the Night-Woman. Do you remember what that crazy witch said when you had her put in the stocks for not wearing a headdress – she said that women of our families would bring us great trouble.”
“I had forgotten,” Manoel said slowly. “Yes, I had forgotten that. This island is plagued by women! Without them, we should do better. If my brother had never married – if that child had never been born – if your sister Luisa had never met that hot-headed young poet Kaubre—”
“What about the Englishman? Do you think that he might marry Irmala?”
“What’s-his-name? – Herodsfoot? Oh no. He is of no account,” Manoel said. “He travels about collecting games and butterflies – for some trifling purpose. Irmala would never marry him, I am certain of that. He is a poor creature – a no-account fellow. No, I think that Irmala had better die. The island must do without a doctor. Order your men to maintain an active search for her, and, as soon as she is found, she had better follow Zmora over the cliff.”
“What about the rest of the party – Herodsfoot and the English girl, and the sailor who suffered the head injury? There is also the captain of the ship.”
“Too many to die by snake-bite,” Manoel said thoughtfully. “We do need that fire. Somehow it must be contrived. I feel sure the old fool was wrong. The Dilendi are superstitious about fires. But come, it grows late. We should go back to camp. What was that noise?”
“What noise, Gerente?”
“For a moment – just then – I thought I caught the sound of a baby crying—”
“Heaven forbid!” said Mateo, shivering.
The two men left the cave and walked away up the cliff path.
Ch
apter Nine
THERE WAS A HORRIFIED SILENCE FOR A NUMBER of minutes after Manoel and Mateo had left the cave.
Then Tylo whispered: “Us go more back far in . . .”
They did so. When they had gone what Tylo considered a safe distance along the windings of the passage, he blew on a piece of fire-fungus, which gave off a glow not much brighter than that of the glow-worms, but was sufficient to show them each other’s shocked faces.
“That Manoel!” breathed Dido. “That Manoel is a real hellion. Fancy murdering that poor old fellow, that Zmora, just because he wouldn’t set a fire for them—”
“Zmora,” said Tylo mournfully. “Zmora my father’s cousin’s aunt’s tree-uncle. Very wise man. Very tree-old.”
Herodsfoot came out of his long silence. He said, “Am I right in thinking they killed that man? I was never so shocked – never so scandalised! It is the most monstrous thing! If there were a British Resident in this island, I would record the strongest possible protest – I would demand proper retribution—”
“But there ain’t a British whatshisname,” Dido pointed out. “So any retribution we gotta do ourselves – though I don’t quite see how—”
“What is that wretched man up to?” demanded Herodsfoot. “What is his aim?”
“Why do they want somebody to marry Doc Tally?” Dido wanted to know.
“Is that who they mean when they say Irmala – why do they call her that?”
“Forest name for her,” explained Tylo. “When she born, nurse-woman in King’s house Asgard – her ma die when she born, but nurse Kanikke called her Irmala.”
“How do you know that?”
“Aunt Tala’aa tell me.”
“Aunt Tala’aa seems to know everything – What a lot of names Tally’s got – Jane – Talisman – Irmala—”
Herodsfoot heaved a great sigh.
Poor Frankie, Dido thought. She did not say it aloud. It was a bit hard on him though, she thought, hearing that scaly Manoel say all those nasty things about him – that he was a no-account, a trifling fellow, a poor thing. And it ain’t true, besides. Frankie is a bit slow, and a mite careless with his glasses, but he’s as decent a fellow as ever walked down the pike . . .