The Whispering Mountain

by Joan Aiken

  “Arabis, I am sorry, oh, I am sorry!”

  Her grave face broke into the smile with the three-cornered dimple.

  “Proper old tartar your granda, isn’t he?” she whispered. “Poor Owen, there’s sorry I am that we came to bring trouble on you. Never mind, boy, we’ll take ourselves off quick.”

  “I wish I were going with you. I hate him!”

  “There’s silly! When he’s giving you a home, and a fine education too? You make the most of it, boy!”

  “But when shall I see you and Mr. Dando again?” he said forlornly.

  “Does he ever let you out for a bit of pleasuring? We’ll be stopping over by Devil’s Leap for a week while the fair lasts—it’s only half a day’s ride. Would he let you go?”

  “Not while I’m in such disgrace, for sure.”

  “Welladay!” she said laughing.

  “Owen!” called his grandfather. “Come here directly!”

  “Never mind,” Arabis whispered. “We’re sure to meet again.” She gave his hand a hurried squeeze and jumped nimbly back into the wagon as it rolled away.

  Dumb with suppressed feeling, Owen moved back towards his grandfather.

  “Now sir, what have you to say for yourself?” barked Mr. Hughes. “Rogues and gypsies off the road, indeed! Never let such a thing occur again, I beg! And now, just now, too, when we are housing such a treasure in the museum. Thoughtless, reckless lad! I trust you did not speak of the Harp of Teirtu while you were hobnobbing with that shady pair?”

  “I—yes, I did, Grandfather.”

  Mr. Hughes raised his hands to heaven. “May all the saints give me patience! Why was I ever saddled with such a millstone round my neck? And now I must go off to see his grace and leave you—you—alone in charge of the harp! I’ve a good mind to take it with me, inclement though the weather be. But no,” he added, half to himself, “in the circumstances that would hardly be wise, until it is certain how matters stand. However, let me be sure that all doors and windows are double-locked, barred, and chained. I have enough to contend with, dear knows, in this town of cockatrices, without risking the loss of my good name. Boy! follow me.”

  In sullen silence Owen accompanied his grandfather as they made the rounds of the windows and the front and back doors. All were securely fastened.

  “Very well,” Mr. Hughes said at last. “Now—while I am gone, unbar to no one—no one at all, do you understand me, boy? No respectable person should be abroad at this hour, in any case. If there should be a knock, open the slot in the outer door, ask the business of whomever it be, and tell them to return in the morning. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And don’t show me that sulky face! While I am gone you may occupy yourself usefully by dusting the glass cases and polishing the Roman, Saxon, and Danish weapons. You will find your supper in a bowl. Do not neglect to stoke the brazier. There will be no occasion for you to enter the library—I do not wish to come back and find you with your nose in a book and no work done! Do not retire to bed until I return—I shall not be late.”

  “No, sir.”

  “No, sir, yes, sir!” snapped his grandfather. “I would wish to have less of your yes, sir, and a more obliging, open manner and honest will to please. But it is no matter. We cannot, I suppose, fabricate a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.—I will take my departure, then. Let me hear you make fast the front door behind me. I have the key of the rear.”

  He stepped out into the night and Owen shot home the heavy bolts.

  When his grandfather’s brisk footsteps had died away across the yard, Owen picked up a feather duster and began listlessly passing it over the glass cases which held Roman pottery, geological specimens, birds’ eggs, and old coins. These, with a stuffed sheep, a crossbow, and some iron tools, use unknown but probably instruments of torture, occupied the two main rooms. The library, a smaller room, shelved from floor to ceiling, housed volumes of sermons and reference books. A sign on its door said: “Sleepers’ Tickets 5/—. Not transferable. No sleeping in the Library without a Ticket.”

  At the rear of the museum a series of small offices had been adapted by Owen’s grandfather, with the minimum of alteration, to serve as kitchen, washroom, and broom closet. Owen slept in the broom closet, his grandfather in the main hall on a truckle bed, erected at night beside the helmet of Owen Glendower, which, up till now, had been their most valuable exhibit.

  The place was bleak and cheerless enough, its sole source of warmth being the small charcoal brazier which served Owen and his grandfather as a cooking-stove. Some rush dips gave a flickering uncertain light and threw odd-shaped shadows.

  In general Owen did not object to being left alone at night in the museum—his grandfather’s occasional absences on town business gave him indeed a welcome sense of freedom—but this evening he felt a strange anxiety and uneasiness. He tried to tell himself that this was merely because of the encounter with Hwfa’s gang, or the second unhappy parting from Arabis and her father. But there was something more to it than that.

  Taking a rush dip he once again made the rounds of all doors and windows listening at each. But there was nothing to be heard save the moaning of the gale outside, as it swept over the bare grassy mountain and licked round the corners of the museum. The wind itself did not penetrate, but the stout little building quivered with each new blast, so that the air inside was agiatated and the candle flames were never steady.

  Having satisfied himself that all was secure, Owen wandered back to the kitchen, where his supper, a bowl of flummery—cold, sour, jellied oatmeal—was set out for him. He had no appetite for it, and covered it with a dish, to wait for breakfast. His heart ached at the thought of Arabis and her father, out on the windy mountainside. Would Galahad still be plodding on his way towards Devil’s Leap, or would they have decided to stop and camp somewhere for the night? He imagined them, snug by their stove, Galahad, good easy horse, turned out to grass, a blanket which Arabis had embroidered with his name, Gwalchafed, strapped round his barrel sides. Tom and Arabis would be telling stories—since it was one of Tom’s talking days—or playing verse games, swapping rhymes. Or they would be singing together, treble and tenor, accompanied by Arabis on the crwth, hymns, probably, for Tom dearly loved a good hymn. Many a time had Owen heard him booming out the strains of “Llanfair,” or “Hyfrydol,” or some other favourite, conducting himself so vigorously that he swayed about like a tree in a hurricane, and seemed likely to lift himself clean off the ground.

  Plucking his thoughts away from this picture, which presented such a contrast to the chill, silent museum, Owen busied himself with stoking the brazier and polishing the weapons. But his thoughts would not be checked; they raced away from him like a pack of hounds, and their cry was that he would be happier anywhere else, working as a clerk, as a labourer, in the fields, in the mines, anywhere rather than this cheerless place, where he was barely tolerated by his grandfather, and treated as an interloper by the boys of Pennygaff.

  Suddenly, almost without being aware of it, Owen found that he had come to a decision.

  He would stay here no longer; he would go to Port Malyn and try to find employment on a ship.

  He would have liked, above everything else in the world, to join Arabis and her father in their roving life, but he was much too proud to run after them begging to be taken up. What could he offer them? Nothing. Of what use was he? None at all. He was unhandy, short-sighted, timid, and the only subject on which he could claim to be well-informed was navigation, since he had been born and brought up on His Majesty’s sloop Thrush.

  No, a ship was the only answer.

  With neat dispatch, he packed his possessions in a bundle: two new shirts, some hose, a comb, a lock of his dead mother’s hair, and his greatest treasure, a little book which had been given him by his father. It was called Arithmetic, Grammar, Botany & c; these Pleafing Sciences made Familiar to the Capacities of Youth. His other treasure, a compass, always hung round his
neck on a cord.

  It would be needful to leave a note for his grandfather: no easy task. Owen wasted five or six sheets of paper in false starts before achieving a message that satisfied him.

  Dear Grandfather:

  I feel I do not truely belong here & can only add to your Troubles. So I fhall not give you the Burden of my Prefence any longer, but fhall try to find Employment on a fhip fo as to follow my Father’s Calling. I am forry to be obliged to carry fome of your Property with me [he meant the shirts] but will fend Money to Repay as foon as I am in a Pofition to do fo. That you may long continue to enjoy the blefsings of Health is my Sincere With. Pray reft afsured that I am very Senfible of the many Kindnefses you have fhewn me & though I feel I am undeferving of them I am & fhall always Remain

  Your moft dutiful Grandfon

  Now, where to leave the note so that his grandfather would be sure to discover it in due course, but not too soon? After some consideration Owen decided to put it under the Harp of Teirtu; his grandfather’s first act in the morning was always to lift the cover off this treasure, but on his return late at night he was unlikely to do more than glance in and make sure that it was still in its place.

  At this moment Owen was startled by a single loud bang on the front door. His heart shot into his mouth. Could Hwfa and the others, discovering that Mr. Hughes (whom the town boys disliked but held in considerable respect) was from home, have agreed that this would be a good time to raid the museum? Or could Arabis and her father have returned? No, sadly Owen dismissed that idea. Full of apprehension for his trust, he made his way to the porch, opened the peephole in the outer door, and looked out.

  He found his face two inches from another—a broad, olive-coloured countenance with two splendid black moustachios and two enormous chestnut-coloured eyes.

  “My dear sir, friend, mister,” said this face, “I beg pardon exceedingly if I have disturbed your repose, but could I speak with the custodian, curator, guardian of your museum?”

  “I am afraid the museum is shut,” Owen said. He did not want, if he could help it, to disclose the fact that his grandfather was not there.

  “Heigh-ho, alack, yes, I have already ascertained as much from your notice,” agreed the visitor. “But the gentleman whom I wish to interrogate, catechize, moot, frisk, reconnoitre—Mr. Hughes—is he within?”

  “He can’t see you,” Owen said stoutly, “He is engaged at present.”

  “O lud, lud! And will he never be at liberty, scot free, out of harness?”

  “I do not think he will be free tonight, sir. May I take your name and make an appointment for you to see him tomorrow?”

  “There would be no chance of a peep, just one glimpse, glance, espial, at all your beautiful treasures and antiquities while I am here?”

  “Oh, not a chance at all, I am afraid, sir. Mr. Hughes is very strict about opening hours.”

  “Lackadaisy! Of this I have been apprised, advised, tipped the wink. In that case, as I would not wish to do anything obreptitious, please to tell him that the Seljuk of Rum will do himself the honour of waiting on Mr. Hughes tomorrow at ten precisely.”

  “The Seljuk of Rum?”

  “If you please! And until then I will wish you the top of the night, my dear sir.”

  The black moustachios parted to reveal a brilliant flash of white teeth, the large face nodded (bringing into view a section of a high cap made of black, tightly curled fur) and then the visitor turned on his heel and was gone.

  Owen, puzzled, anxious, and very much wondering if this mysterious caller had believed him when he said that Mr. Hughes was engaged, shut the peephole again and made his way back to the library.

  The harp stood, for the present, on the big table in this room which, since Mr. Hughes’s unwelcome introduction of sleepers’ tickets, was little used. Regardless of his grandfather’s prohibitions, Owen carefully removed the canvas cover from the harp and stood for a few moments admiring it. It was not the full-sized modern instrument, tall as a man, but a travelling harp, the sort used by Henry VIII, about two foot six inches high, which was intended to be balanced on the player’s knee.

  Owen, who loved mathematics, thought of it as a triangle which had been blown by the wind so that one side had bellied out and up, giving a line like that of a ship’s prow. The maker had evidently seen this likeness, too, because the frame, which was richly carved with leaves and fruit, had a kind of figurehead at the top corner, staring up and ahead, away from the player. The metal of the frame was tarnished with age and dirt to a bronzed dark green, nearly black, and the snapped strings hung curled in fantastic twists and tendrils. But although the harp was dirty and broken, Owen thought it one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen, and he could not forbear passing his hand round the graceful flowing lines of the frame, and then plucking with the tip of his finger at the last remaining string. The sound it gave out was low but piercingly clear; it seemed to fill the whole room with echoes. Glancing nervously over his shoulder—but no one was there—Owen lifted the pillar of the harp and tucked his letter underneath so that one corner showed, then replaced the cover which protected the harp from dust and damp.

  He had no intention of violating his trust by going off and leaving the museum unguarded; he meant to slip away as soon as Mr. Hughes had retired to bed. Meanwhile, as he was very weary, he crouched on the floor; he thought there would be less chance of his dropping off to sleep on the ice-cold flags than if he sat on a chair. Reading was forbidden, so he recited to himself all the poems his mother had taught him.

  When he had gone through all his stock he tried to recall the prophecy that Arabis had quoted that afternoon:

  When the Whispering Mountain shall scream aloud

  And the Castle of Malyn ride on a cloud,

  Then Malyn’s lord shall have and hold

  The … something … harp of gold …

  … Then shall the despoiler, that was so proud

  Fall headlong down from the Devil’s Leap …

  What could the lines mean? The Whispering Mountain was another name for Fig-hat Ben, the mountain that lay between Pennygaff and the next town, Nant Agerddau. Owen knew that it was called whispering—y mynydd sibrwd—because inside the mountain, in the cave known as Devil’s Leap, there was a hot spring which constantly gave off steam and made a bubbling, or whispering sound. In bygone days the place was thought to be haunted by ellyllion—ghosts who stretched long skinny arms out of the water and pulled you in—if not by Y bwci-bo, Old Horny himself. But now people went there to take the waters for their rheumatism, and the little town, Nant Agerddau, had sprung up in the rocky glen below the cave. But how could a mountain scream aloud? And who was the despoiler who would fall from the Devil’s Leap? The Leap itself was a great gulf, boiling with steam, inside the cave, whose depths no man had ever dared to plumb. And the Castle of Malyn was of course at Port Malyn, on the coast, ten miles away. How could it ride on a cloud? Puzzling over these mysteries, Owen tried to remember the last lines. Something about the Harp of Teirtu …

  Then shall the Children from darkness creep

  (what children? what darkness?) and something or

  other about disaster?

  And the Harp of Teirtu find her master.

  It did sound as if the harp were in some way definitely connected with the Marquess of Malyn. Which was a pity, as by Arabis’s account he certainly did not deserve to possess such a treasure.

  Owen gave a deep unconscious sigh, that was half a yawn. His eyes closed. With a guilty start he forced them open and sat upright, but in a few minutes his head was nodding forward again.

  “Arabis,” he murmured, nine-tenths asleep. “Arabis … no use waiting at … Devil’s Leap …”

  Then, gently and silently as sand falls in an hour-glass, he toppled sideways on to the floor and lay curled up, fast asleep, underneath the table. One slow tear trickled from his cheek to the dusty flagstone on which it was pillowed.

  His slumber was so
profound that he never heard the crunch of footsteps outside, nor the cautious creak of the back door as it slowly began to open.

  2

  The Dragon of Gwaun was a small, glum-looking inn which stood just below the bridge, on a narrow piece of flat land rather too close for comfort to the foaming Gaff. Heavy drinking was beyond the means of the people of Pennygaff, and anyway discouraged by Mr. Morgan the landlord, and this was just as well: a man whose legs were led astray by mead or cider so that they carried him into the river could easily be swept into a pothole and never be seen again until his body floated past the wharves of Port Malyn and out round the Shambles Lighthouse on its rock. For more than half its course the river Gaff ran underground.

  From the centre of the bridge it was possible to look down into the coffee-room window. Old Mr. Hughes did so, pausing in his brisk march; the room was much more brightly lit than usual, which was what had caught his attention; clusters of candles burned everywhere. A man stood at the window looking out; he could not have seen much for all outside would have appeared dark to him, but Mr. Hughes had a clear view of his face, which was illuminated by the candle he held. It was a handsome face, though singularly lacking in expression; the well-formed eyebrows curved upwards like the markings on a tiger’s forehead. The nose was straight and the mouth somewhat thin. Due to the candle-light, a sort of halo seemed to encircle the man’s head because of the fairness of his hair, which appeared either white or yellow. He wore a loose gown of saffron velvet and stood looking out, or listening to the voice of the river as it rushed by in the dark. Then, with an impatient movement, he rattled the curtain across, and old Mr. Hughes went on into the crowded public room of the inn.

  This was not a place he would ever have entered from choice; he stood distastefully eyeing the clumsy wooden tables, marked with wet circles from beer-mugs, and the sawdust floor.