The Whispering Mountain

by Joan Aiken

  “Hang me, it is! But a certain worshipful gent bespoke me and my cully to do a bit o’ work for him, said he’d line our pockets with white money.”

  “Lord Malyn?”

  “Ah, never mind, my clever young co! There’s others besides his ludship, remember.”

  For the first time Owen remembered the odd conversation he had held through the peephole. What had the foreign gentleman called himself? The Bey, the Dey, No, the Seljuk, that was it.

  “The Seljuk of Rum,” he said to himself.

  “You hold your whids, my twiggy young cull, and don’t be so free with your prattle.” Prigman advised him. “If my mate was to hear you going on so, he’d tickle your ribs for sure.”

  As Bilk was now waiting for them, Owen fell silent again, pondering over what information he had. He was fairly certain that the man in the carriage who had asked about the museum must have been Lord Malyn himself, who had presumably then summoned Mr. Hughes for an interview. The Marquess had asked about Bilk and Prigman too. So was he Prigman’s “worshipful gent”—or was he merely trying to discover if the two men were working for the Seljuk? Would Lord Malyn be likely to employ a man who had stolen a gold dish from his own kitchen?

  “Cut out the canting now,” grunted Bilk as they came up with him, “We don’t want any row or we’ll start the whole hill a-sliding.”

  Very slowly and gingerly the ponies made their cautious way down a little narrow slippery path which crossed a whole hillside of loose scree. As they descended, high shoulders of hill rose about them; at length a winding track by a stream led them into a narrow, gorge-like valley, so deep that it was almost dark at the bottom, although high overhead and in front the last pink rays of the sun still gilded the crown of Fig-hat Ben.

  There was a drear, dank feel about the glen; yet it was not cold but unnaturally, steamily warm, and became warmer as they made their way along it, following a tolerably well-surfaced track.

  Far ahead of them some lights twinkled in the gloom.

  “It’s a drodsome place, if you ask me,” Prigman muttered, “I’d as soon live in a cameleopard’s den.”

  Even the ponies seemed subdued by the atmosphere of the gorge; they snorted and twitched their skins, and set their hoofs down with exaggerated care.

  Owen did not dare ask Prigman if the lights were those of Nant Agerddau, though he felt certain they must be. A dazzling thought had just flown, like a comet, into his mind: somewhere, not too far away, Arabis and Tom Dando would be established in their wagon, cutting hair and selling herbal remedies, for they had planned to stay in Nant Agerddau during the week of the fair. If only, somehow, he could get in touch with them!

  “‘Tis a doomid outistical sort o’ place to hold a fair, by my way o’ thinking,” Prigman muttered.

  “Where is the fair held?” Owen asked hopefully.

  “Up at the top end o’ the town; we shan’t pass up that-ways, cully, so it’s not a bit o’ use you readying yourself to roar out for help,” Prigman replied. “Our stalling-ken is just here-along.”

  In fact almost at once the ponies turned aside towards a little dark row of five houses, set right underneath a great overhang of cliff that shelved out above them, cutting a black wedge against the twilit sky.

  Not a light showed in any of the windows, not a thread of smoke issued from any chimney. It was plain that the whole row had been deserted, though the houses seemed in reasonably good repair; what could be the matter with them? Owen puzzled vaguely over this but could not arrive at the reason; stupid with weariness after a day and most of a night in the saddle, all he really wanted was to throw himself on the ground and go to sleep.

  “Right,” said Bilk. “You take the young co into the ken and hobble him up good and tight; I’ll go on and get some ink and paper. Shan’t be long; back afore darkmans.”

  “Get a bit o’ prog while you’re at it,” Prigman called after him softly as he rode away, “And a drop o’ bouse!”

  Then he propelled Owen before him towards the middle house of the row, gave the front door, which was not fastened, a kick to open it, and entered a dark room which smelt strongly of hens. Owen stumbled on the rough dirt floor and was kept from falling only by Prigman’s grip on his bound hands.

  “Through here,” said Prigman, who appeared familiar with the house, and guided Owen into what seemed to be a back kitchen. “Us doesn’t want anybody a-spotting our glim. Now, you stall there while I make things trig.” He dealt Owen a sharp clip on the ear, taking him by surprise and knocking him over. While he struggled in vain to get up, Prigman calmly struck a light, revealing a small empty room in which generations of hens had certainly roosted. Its furniture consisted of two beams crossing the room at knee-height, which had evidently served as perches. A piece of sacking hung over the one small window. There was a pile of straw against the back wall.

  “Snug, eh?” Prigman said cheerfully. “No one won’t live here nowadays, acos there was a bit of a landfall last Michaelmas and they reckon some day the rest o’ the mountain will come ploudering down on the roof, but I say that won’t happen till Turpentine Sunday, and meanwhile it makes a famous ken, dunnit?” Intercepting Owen’s longing glance at the straw he added, “Tired, are you, cully?” Owen nodded. “Well, soon’s you done scribing those papers for us you can snooze all you’ve a mind to.”

  Owen summoned all his resolution.

  “Mr. Prigman,” he said firmly, “I’m not going to write any letters for you.”

  “Ah, now, mate, don’t you be so twitty,” Prigman said earnestly. “Acos I tell you straight, my cully Bilk can’t abide to be crossed. If you cuts up rusty, it’ll be the last thing you ever does.”

  Owen felt he hardly cared. His eyes were closing, all he longed for was sleep. Death seemed just as harmless.

  “Hey! roust there, cully!” Prigman said sharply. “You’d best get up on your stamps; no shut-eye for you till the scribing’s done.” He drew his knife and prodded Owen with it to make him stagger to his feet, helping him with a jerk of the arm.

  “Right; you hold up like that against the wall—here, by the beam—and I’ll lay old Biter up against your ribs so—she’s mortal sharp, ain’t she?—and you just keep your glaziers open till Bilk gets back!”

  Nobody wants a knife between the ribs. Owen dragged his eyes open and stood as straight as he could, leaning away from the point of Biter, back against the wall. Prigman, always keeping the knife steady with one hand, contrived with the other hand to drape a truss of straw across the beam and sat on it at his ease facing Owen. He then observed that he couldn’t abide the smell of cackling-cheats, which Owen took to be hens.

  An hour went by. Several times Owen nearly toppled forward and Prigman roused him by a sharp cuff or a jab with the point of Biter. Meanwhile he kept up a stream of talk to which Owen hardly listened—something about Lord Malyn’s house in London where even the door-knobs were made of gold—something about his highness the Prince of Wales who was mortal fond of hunting the wild boar—something about the Ottoman gentleman who had travelled all the way from the Costa Fraucasus to Pennygaff—why? what could he want in such an out-of-the-way little place?—something about old Mr. Hughes, stubborn and foolhardy in refusing to hand over an object that was no possible use to him.

  At last the door flew open and Bilk lurched in, accompanied by a strong odour of metheglin.

  “You been in the bousing-ken!” Prigman said indignantly. “And never brought me a dram, I’ll lay a barred cinque-deuce.”

  “I have, then.” Bilk produced a leather bottle.

  “And the scribing-gear?”

  “Ay. But see here, we ain’t staying in this ken. Why, the whole miching, impasted hillside’s due to come col-loping down any day now. They was on about it in the ale-house.”

  “Old stuff!” Prigman said scornfully. “We knowed that afore. Don’t ferret your head about it.”

  “No, but they reckon it’ll be any cockcrow now—the whole cliff’s bee
n diddering and doddering hereabouts and great nuggins of rock keeps a-tumbling down. That’s why no one won’t even keep their grunters and cackling-cheats in these houses now. Hark!”

  In fact, even as Bilk spoke, they could hear a rumbling fall of rock not far away, and several stones bounced on the slates overhead.

  “I’m gasted,” Bilk said. He was pale and sweating. “Let’s get out o’ here.”

  “Ay, tol-lol, all in good time,” said Prigman, less convinced of danger. “Let’s make the young woodcock do his scribing first. That won’t take but a wag of a lamb’s tail.”

  “Why?” Bilk was itching to be off.

  “Why, you abram, then we can leave him here, it’ll save dropping him off Devil’s Leap. The cliff’ll come down and that’s the end of him, no fault of ourn.”

  Bilk nodded once or twice in acknowledgement of this. “Ah, that’s probal. So, let’s press on then. Does he hear us? He seems half aswame.”

  “Wake up, drumble-head!” Prigman said, poking Owen with Biter. “Fetch a board, Bilk, for him to scribe on, while I unties his fambles.” He took the cloth bindings from Owen’s wrists and tied them instead round his ankles.

  Owen, so weary by this time that he was only half conscious of what was happening, found a pen thrust into his hand and a paper presented to him.

  “Now, scribe what we say or I’ll slit your gorge,” Bilk ordered, pressing a knife against his throat.

  “No!” Owen said faintly. The knife pressed deeper and he felt a trickle of blood start down his neck.

  “Easy, mate; don’t go at it too skimble-skamble and mar all! Try him with a drop o’ bouse,” Prigman suggested hastily. “He’s still dozey as a dormouse.”

  Owen’s teeth were pried open and the neck of the bottle forced between them—half a cupful of fierily strong sweet liquor was jerked down his gullet.

  “Now,” Prigman said optimistically, “with all that inside him, I’ll lay he’ll scribe as nimbly as the Veritable Bede himself. Off you go, my young spragster—and don’t act tricksy and make a slubber of it a-purpose, acos I can read, don’t forget that, even if I can’t scribe. ‘My lord’—set it down, that’s the dandy—‘my lord, I have the harp what you wot of and will part with same on consideration of one hundred gold guineas, same to be left in Devil’s Leap cave atwixt cockshut and cockcrow afore St. Lucie’s day or harp will never be seen more.’ Got that? And sign it ‘Owen Hughes’.”

  Half fainting, stupefied by strong drink, with a knife pressing on either side of his throat, Owen mechanically wrote down the words Prigman dictated. The only way in which he attempted resistance was by making his spelling and handwriting as bad as possible; this was not difficult to contrive, for his fingers were cramped and swollen from having been tied up all day. Prigman shook his head over the clumsy script, but said it would have to serve. He did not notice the spelling errors. “Now another, cully—the same words, but this one begins ‘Your Royal Highness’.” ‘Yor roil Hynuce,’ Owen wrote, while the two men leaned over him, breathing fumes of metheglin into his face. A third letter was addressed to ‘Dere Granphadder’, and a fourth to ‘Yor Warshipp’.

  “There! Ain’t that gratulous!” Prigman said buoyantly when the last letter was signed “Owainn Huwes’.”Now you can sleep, my young co, just as long as you like. Lay him on the strummel, Bilk, while I fold these and put ’em in my prig-bag. Ah, and here’s the young co’s bundle—best leave that beside him. Now I’ll loose the prancers while you dowse the glim and we’ll be on our way.”

  “I’ll just make sartin sure he doesn’t mizzle out o’ here,” said Bilk, and he retied Owen’s hands and made various other arrangements while Prigman, having folded the letters and put them carefully in his satchel, went to untether the horses.

  “All rug?” said Prigman, meeting Bilk outside.

  “He won’t stir from there in a hurry,” Bilk replied grimly. Then, as another shower of stones rattled down on the roof from the hillside above, the two men hastily mounted and rode away into the dark, Bilk, as before, carrying the harp slung over his shoulder.

  4

  Arabis was sitting in an oak tree, munching a piece of oat bread and waiting for the sun to rise.

  She had come out in search of medicinal ferns, which she liked to pick with the dew on them, but it was still a little too dark to tell one plant from another, and so she leaned back contentedly, cradled in a fork of the tree, and listened to the voice of Fighat Ben, the whispering mountain. Up here the whisper was clearly audible, a sort of sighing murmur, like that of a sleeper disturbed by dreams. The tree in which Arabis sat grew on the side of a quarry situated above the little town of Nant Agerddau, where the road came to an end and the sides of the gorge drew together to meet in a semicircle of rugged cliff.

  Long ago, before the town grew up, the road through the gorge led only to this quarry, where men had once mined for gold, until the day came when the last sparkle of gold had been scraped from the mountain’s veins. The sloping cliffs, now all grown over with a tangle of trees and bushes, were pocked with little eye-shaped mine entrances. Some of these openings were screened by ferns and briars; cascades of reddish water poured from others. One of the biggest openings was halfway up the cliff, right under the gnarled roots of the oak into which Arabis had climbed. Ferns half concealed the cave and had taken root, also, in the tree’s mossy bark, sprouting on trunk and branches like a green mane; Arabis had established herself in a sort of nest, almost hidden among their feathery thickness.

  Presently she was surprised by the sound of voices uplifted in a rude chant.

  “The harp that once in Tara’s pad

  —Yo ho ho and a bottle of perry—

  Did hang, is now upon the gad!

  Hey diddle diddle and derry down derry!”

  In the dim, pre-dawn twilight Arabis could just see two men lurching clumsily up the steep slope.

  “Watch out, Bilk, you silly cullion! Don’t raise such a garboil, or we’ll have half the macemongers of the town on our tail.”

  “Garboil! I like that! You’re the one as is making the most of the whoobub. If you hadn’t swigged so much tickle-brain down there at the Boar’s Head, we’d ha” been here long since. Look at the sky! It’ll be lightmans in twenty minutes. Anyone might twig us.”

  “Tush—hic!—who’s abroad? All snug in their libbeges. Anyways, here we be—let’s stow the bandore under this big rufftree, nobody’ll come prying here-away.”

  “I’m willing,” said the other man. “Poop it in plenty deep, so no one won’t lay their glaziers on it.”

  There was a grunting, rustling and shuffling in the ferns directly underneath Arabis. She longed to see what was going on, but did not dare move in case they heard her; plainly they were up to no good.

  “All rug?” said one of the voices at length.

  “I reckon she could lay there till Doomiesday, no one would twig. Back to the bousing-ken, eh? Us could do with a dram of hot stingo.”

  “You go on, then, cully, and lay on a dram for me; I’m agoing to give my napper a rinsing in yonder freshet.”

  “Tol-lol; I’ll meet you at the bousing-ken then.”

  The two men fumbled their way down again; Arabis heard them slipping and cursing among the rocks and brambles. Though dying of curiosity she judged it prudent not to move from her hiding-place until they were some distance off, and it was a good thing she waited, for after about five minutes she heard one of the men returning, much more quietly, though he panted a good deal and sometimes let out a bad word.

  “Where the deuce is the miching thing, then?” she heard him mutter. “I made sure we laid it hereabouts. Aha! There she be! Now, let’s fool old Bilk, let’s lay her in another o’ these here vaultages, down there-along.”

  Arabis, craning out warily from her nest of fern, saw him withdraw a large sacking-wrapped bundle from the cave-mouth underneath, and transfer it to another hole in the cliff some twenty yards distant. In the still morning air sh
e distinctly heard him chuckle to himself as he retreated through the bushes:

  “Oh, won’t old Bilk-o be set back on his pantofles when he finds the bandore’s not there any more. Ho, ho, I can’t wait to see his nab!”

  He disappeared in the direction of the town. Five minutes went by, and still Arabis, with her habitual caution, remained crouched in the fern. Then a dark figure rose up from behind a curtain of ivy on her left, and made its way towards the bundle’s new resting-place.

  “Thought you’d diddle me, eh, Prigman, my sprag young co? Think yourself tricksy as a weasel, eh? But old Bilk knows a prank worth two o’ that. Just you wait, my woodcock!”

  He withdrew the bundle once more, and moved it to yet another cave mouth. Arabis heard him grunt to himself:

  “You lay there, my pretty, and old Bilk’ll be back for you afore Turpentine Sunday. Then us’ll turn you over to the highest bidder. And then it’ll be velvet gaskins and satin galleyslops for Sir Toby Bilk, ah, and a cloth o’ gold weskit and frumenty every night!”

  Chuckling deeply, he, too, made off in the direction of the town.

  “Well!” Arabis said to herself. “There goes a fine pair of rapscallions, each one cheating the other! But I’d dearly like to know what this treasure is they’ve been so careful to hide away.”

  The sky was now quite light; indeed the first rays of the sun were beginning to gild the tops of the distant Black Mountains, though the gorge of Nant Agerddau still lay in shadow under the great peak of Fig-hat Ben. Looking down towards the little grey stone town Arabis could see a few threads of smoke beginning to trail upwards from the chimneys. Between her and the houses stretched the flat quarry floor, now overgrown with a thick carpet of moss and lichen. Here the gypsies and fair people had pitched their tents and halted their gaily-coloured caravans, but as near to the town and as far from the quarry-face as possible, for there was a general belief that the caves and cliffs hereabouts were haunted by little black, furry, elvish people who came out at night, and who had a thieving and malicious disposition. It was said that strange lights shone at midnight in the caves, that weird wailing sounds could sometimes be heard; anybody who saw the lights or heard the sounds was supposed to be in danger of becoming deaf and blind. These beings were referred to politely as the Tylwyth Teg, the Fair People, but some townsfolk asserted that the name should really be Fur People, or Fur Niskies, and many believed that they were the black imps of Old Bogey-Boo himself. Arabis, however, did not worry about such tales; she had never met anybody who could truly say they had seen the little people, nor had she herself, but if she did, she felt sure she would not fear them.