by Garth Nix
“‘He never should bow down to a domineering frown!’” roared Merlin.
“How interesting!” shouted Susan. “Do go on!”
The alluring melody was growing stronger, too, attempting to break through the cacophony of Merlin’s singing, Vivien’s droning lecture, and Susan’s shouting. It was beautiful, but incomplete, and every part of Susan ached to hear it properly, to give in and listen to the most beautiful song she had ever partially heard. But she resisted it, and the violet eyes, opening her mouth to make a soft coughing sound in time to Merlin’s singing, and lidding her eyes so that all she saw were the backs of Vivien’s heels.
“The Old Man of Coniston rules two leagues north and west of his eponymous mountain, and two leagues south and east of the lake.”
“How far is a league?”
“A little under three and a half miles,” said Vivien.
“‘His nose should pant and his lip should curl,’” roared Merlin. “‘His cheeks should flame and his brow should furl!’”
“Would that include Lake Windermere?”
“The western shore at least, in my considered opinion,” replied Vivien, very dry and matter-of-fact. “Ah . . . the Fenris of Onundar Myrr. The Sacred Wolves of England do not come under any particular rule, but they could be bound for a time at least by a sufficiently powerful Old One.”
“The Fenris that kidnapped me was most definitely compelled to do so,” shouted Susan. “Merlin did think Father might have sent her! I don’t agree.”
“The extremely distinguished and knowledgeable even-handed Helen thought it most likely your father is no longer extant,” replied Vivien, still talking in her stilted, pedantic fashion. Susan had to struggle to hear her over Merlin’s raucous singing and the melodious siren. “Or you would not have inherited whatever power has begun to stir within you.”
“I think he’s alive!” shouted Susan. “And I don’t think I have any power. I sense something sort of waiting inside me, but nothing more than that. Except I feel very strongly I need to go to my father, which suggests he’s still around. Maybe he did send the Fenris to fetch me. . . .”
“Your old man isn’t an inimical one, and he has no power in old Luan-Dun,” sang Merlin, continuing the tune of “A British Tar” but changing the words. “Wouldn’t have killed the men, or born monsters from an old caul-dren.”
“My colleague has a dismal rhyme but he makes an important point,” droned Vivien. “Whether the Fenris was sent by your father or not, I believe that after we take counsel from the Grail-Keeper it may prove our most efficacious course is to go to the Old Man of Coniston and—”
Mid-sentence, Vivien vanished from the road ahead. A moment later, Susan felt the ground beneath her feet disappear. The alluring music stopped abruptly and the darkness and the violet-eyed shadow were replaced in that same moment by warm, golden sunshine, reflecting from the waters of a clear but reedy-edged lake.
Susan stood on the very edge, in two inches of crystal-clear water, with sand and pebbles underfoot and tiny silver fish circumnavigating her Docs. Ahead of her, there was a narrow strip of beach before the ground rose to a wooded island, or perhaps a peninsula, since she could not see whether it joined some mainland on the other side. The island was at least a mile long, the lake bending around it at either end. Whether that was south and north or east and west or something else Susan had no clue, because despite the pleasantly warm sunshine, she could not see the sun, no matter where she looked.
Behind her, the lake extended into a hazy distance, any terrain beyond invisible. Certainly she couldn’t see any mountains or hills, and the lake was far too wide for it to be the Lake District of England. Besides, she instinctively knew this was somewhere else.
She saw a cormorant dive and come back up with a wriggling fish. The wind moved across the lake, but there were only small and gentle waves. In fact, it was impossible to imagine this place ever had any wilder weather, the lake becoming storm-tossed and dangerous.
Presumably this was Silvermere. Something about the perfection of the golden light and the warmth of the air, with the faintest touch of pleasant coolness from the breeze, suggested this was a fabled place. It fairly oozed with peace and calm and a deep sense of rest. In other circumstances, Susan would have happily taken off her shoes and waded in the shallows, basked in the sunshine, watched the natural world go by.
There was no sign of Vivien and Merlin. Or anyone else.
But there was a path ahead, a well-trodden way between the alders that leaned over the narrow sand and pebble-strewn beach. The path then went on between two protruding gray stones into the forest of oak and beech, sweet chestnut and rowan, and there were bluebells peeking up amidst the grass between the trees. A wood warbler flashed by, a fleeting glimpse of white and green.
Susan stepped up out of the water, and onto the path.
Chapter Twenty
I ’ave a bright new sixpence
I found upon a sty
And with this wealth I will go hence
You know the reason why
THE PATH ROSE STEEPLY FOR ABOUT TWENTY YARDS, WHERE THE ground leveled out and the wood thinned a little, still with gray upthrust rocks sticking out here and there. A little way ahead, a larger rock protruded, and a young girl sat on top of it. A brown-skinned, dark-haired, black-eyed girl of perhaps nine or ten, wearing a homespun smock of natural wool, her feet bare. In sharp contrast to her simple clothing, she had heavy gold bracelets on each wrist, beautifully made ornaments of many twisted gold wires wound together.
A small silver-gray hawk sat on her shoulder, talons piercing the smock but surprisingly not the skin beneath, for there was no blood. It looked at Susan with a fierce black-pupiled yellow eye, and launched itself into the sky.
The girl raised a hand in greeting. Susan stopped a good distance away and eyed her cautiously.
“Hello,” she said. “I’m Susan. Who are you?”
The girl stood up on top of the rock. Her knees were skinned and her feet were dirty.
“I am the Grail-Keeper,” she intoned, making Susan jump backwards, because her voice was not that of a young girl, but a much older and deeper-voiced man.
“Oops,” said the Grail-Keeper. She coughed a couple of times before continuing, her voice becoming higher, more gentle and childlike. “That didn’t come out right. I thought appearing in this guise would make things easier for you. But it is long since I have walked in this skin, and I do beg your pardon.”
“Sure,” said Susan. A horrible suspicion entered her mind, which she had to banish immediately with a direct question. “Um, that hawk, it wasn’t . . . Merlin?”
“A merlin, certainly,” said the Grail-Keeper. “But not Merlin St. Jacques. Nor his sister, since I see you are concerned that might be the case.”
“Where are they?”
“They are here.”
“This is Silvermere?”
“Yes. The lake, the island, the house. All are Silvermere. Though like me, they may appear in different guises for different visitors. The St. Jacques, for example, have a common view of what Silvermere should be, and so it is,” she explained chattily.
Susan listened to this adult explanation, coming from what appeared to be an enthusiastic child, but which she knew was really some sort of ancient mythic entity. Perhaps an Ancient Sovereign herself. Or maybe the Grail-Keeper was some sort of hybrid of mortal and myth, as the booksellers were? And, Susan realized, as she was herself. . . .
“Similarly, they have shared expectations of the Grail-Keeper, and that is what they get. Come, walk with me.”
She jumped easily down from the rock and smiled, a brief, mischievous smile. The kind that if she were the little girl she seemed to be might lead to some sort of innocuous trick, but given who she actually was, made Susan feel very nervous.
“You will be safe here,” said the Grail-Keeper, her face serious, the smile vanished. Susan wondered if she could read her mind, or at the least, detect her
fears.
“Safe from all your enemies. Until you leave, of course.”
“All my enemies?” asked Susan. “Plural. As in more than one.”
“Did I say that?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who they are?” asked Susan.
The girl nodded.
“Can you tell me?”
“I could,” said the Grail-Keeper. That mischievous smile flickered across her face again. “But I won’t. I’m not supposed to interfere in what goes on beyond Silvermere. So I don’t, on the whole. Perhaps a little nudge, here and there, nothing of great moment.”
“My enemies,” repeated Susan. “Plural. I don’t suppose you’ll wink if I guess who they are?”
“No,” said the girl. She paused to wink ferociously several times, alternating eyes, before skipping on again. Susan followed her, but her mind was elsewhere, thinking about “enemies” and their possible motivations.
The Grail-Keeper suddenly stopped skipping and skidded to a halt as the path ahead forked, though in both cases it continued through the wood and the two paths looked no different.
“Shall we take the left- or right-hand way?”
“I don’t know,” said Susan. “Where are we going?”
“Where do you want to go?”
Susan opened her mouth, shut it, and thought very carefully. One part of her simply wanted to go home and go to bed and pull the Moomintroll quilt her mother made her when she was eight over her head, and have Jassmine absentmindedly bring her cold cups of tea she’d made hours before. She even felt this might be possible, that this strange, fey little girl before her might be able to arrange that. But she also knew her mother’s house would be only a very temporary refuge. Whatever had been set in motion would carry on to the end, whether she hid from it or not.
Then there were the booksellers. Though she had serious doubts about Thurston and Merrihew, she had total confidence in Merlin and Vivien, and the even-handed Aunts Helen and Zoë had impressed her. Perhaps if she could go to the Old Bookshop, she would be safe and the booksellers could sort out what was going on. . . .
But neither of these felt right. Susan knew where she really needed to go.
She opened her mouth again and spoke forcefully.
“I want to go to my father. I’m sure he isn’t dead, or gone, or whatever it is Helen and Zoë think. I want to go to the Old Man of Coniston.”
“Then you shall,” said the Grail-Keeper. “In fact, both these paths will take you there. The question is, which one?”
“Where are Merlin and Vivien?” Susan asked again. She looked past the girl to the separate paths. Both looked essentially the same, well-trodden trails through the wood. “Are they at the end of either of these paths?”
“No,” said the Grail-Keeper.
“But they’re all right?”
“They’re enjoying a rather good dinner,” said the girl.
“Dinner,” sighed Susan. Her stomach twinged and she felt momentarily faint, and a touch confused. She hadn’t had breakfast or lunch, and it was already time for dinner? “They couldn’t wait for me?”
“They have, for the moment, forgotten you are here,” replied the Grail-Keeper.
“What!”
“The Silvermere of the St. Jacques is not for you, at least not on this occasion. You may pass through this Silvermere with me, but you may not linger, nor may you eat or drink, for you are not an invited guest. I have allowed Merlin and Vivien to bring you here, but not to stay.”
“And I have to leave without them? Without Merlin and Vivien?” asked Susan. She tried to sound strong, but couldn’t help a faint tremor in her voice.
The girl nodded, very solemn now.
“This isn’t one of those things where one path leads to my doom and the other to redemption or something, is it?”
“Perhaps both paths lead to your doom,” said the Grail-Keeper. “But either one will take you where you say you want to go.”
“I’m not simply saying it’s where I want to go!” protested Susan. She took a breath and repeated herself, slowly and firmly. “I need to go to my father. To the Old Man of Coniston. I’d love to have the help of Merlin and Vivien, because I do believe they are my friends. But I will go alone if I have to. And I will take the right-hand path.”
“Good,” said the girl. She winked and added, “It’s a bit quicker.”
They took the right-hand path and walked on through the pleasant wood, with great oaks and slim ash trees and here and there bright rowan trees caught between bud and berry, the white flowers not entirely fallen and the berries coming into their full color. The sunshine shone down to make a dappled light, and many flowers grew amongst the grass to either side of the path: a carpet of bluebells and bursts of celandine, wood sorrel, lords and ladies, and ransoms.
But Susan was too hungry, tired, and generally apprehensive to appreciate the beauty of this wood. She strode on behind the Grail-Keeper, who walked fast and occasionally began to skip, which was even faster. The fizzing, expectant sensation inside Susan was still there, even growing stronger, but it was counterbalanced by a heavy feeling of lonely dread.
The path began to climb a little, and they came to a grassy clearing. The girl crossed it and climbed upon a strangely flat-surfaced lichen-covered rock that thrust up out of the earth, the greater part of it buried. Though at first it seemed an entirely natural outcrop, Susan realized it was in fact a roughly worked and truly enormous obelisk, bigger even than Cleopatra’s Needle, fallen on its side and buried, with only the last dozen yards projecting out of the earth.
“Come on!” said the girl.
Susan clambered up the sloping face of the great stone to the end and stood next to the Grail-Keeper. She was surprised to see they had come to the other side of the island; the shore had been screened by the trees. The stone projected out over the lake. Clear water lapped directly against the rocky shore of the island underneath, some thirty feet below where she stood. The water beneath looked very deep, the sunlight only illuminating the upper reaches.
The Grail-Keeper gestured below.
“There you are.”
“What?” asked Susan. “Do I jump in?”
It was a long way down.
“You could dive, though I don’t recommend it,” said the Grail-Keeper. “If you walk forward here, you will walk forward there.”
“There being somewhere close to the mountain? To the Old Man of Coniston?”
“Indeed,” said the Grail-Keeper. “Off you go.”
Susan hesitated, looking down into the dark water. She glanced at the Grail-Keeper, wondering if she should trust her.
“Yes,” said the Grail-Keeper. She sighed in exasperation and added, “You should have jumped straight away. Now there’s an unnecessary complication.”
“What?” asked Susan, but the Grail-Keeper had disappeared. Susan looked down but the girl was not in the water, not on the rock or in the clearing. Nowhere visible.
But someone else was.
The left-handed bookseller Merrihew, dressed as she had been in the New Bookshop, in a fisherman’s vest over a sleeveless dress, but this time she had on black Wellington boots rather than shoes. She looked cross, her face set in stark lines, and she was stamping her feet as she crossed the grassy clearing.
Merrihew saw Susan, and without hesitation, a small, bright knife appeared in her hand. She flicked her wrist and it flew straight at Susan’s face, so fast there was no chance to do more than flinch as it sped straight at her eye.
But it didn’t hit her. In one instant the knife was in the air, death imminent, and in the next it was held by a tall, balding but white-haired and white-bearded man very reminiscent of a portrait Susan liked of Charles Darwin, the one by Walter William Ouless.
But his deep black eyes and the gold bangles of wound wire on his wrists indicated who he was, despite the change of gender and the rumpled gray suit he wore rather than a homespun smock.
There was
no doubt he was another aspect of the Grail-Keeper.
“I don’t allow killing on Silvermere,” chided the Grail-Keeper. “Not by others, at any rate. You know that, Merrihew.”
“You do not interfere in the business of the St. Jacques, Grail-Keeper,” said Merrihew. “That is the law.”
“Beyond my borders, that is so,” said the Grail-Keeper. She looked at Susan and smiled her enigmatic smile. “But here, my rule is absolute. You may leave us, Susan. Simply step off into the water; you will be where you want to go.”
“And I will follow!” said Merrihew vehemently. “And do what should have been done earlier. She’s the daughter of an Old One, and a clear and present danger to all of us!”
“Good title for a book,” shouted Susan scornfully. “Someone should use it. You know I’m not a danger to the St. Jacques. You’re not only rude, you’re a traitor as well, and Merlin and Vivien know it. I bet you even killed their mum.”
The Grail-Keeper sighed, a little girl’s sigh, odd from the old man’s mouth.
Merrihew’s lips thinned to the merest line, and her eyes narrowed.
“How dare you! I would never do such a thing. It was a coincidence, or an accident!”
“Yeah?” said Susan. “I bet you knew. And what about those police officers sent to kill Merlin and Vivien?”
“What?”
“You know!”
Merrihew’s hand sidled to a pocket of her vest, but stopped as the Grail-Keeper suddenly flipped the knife, to hold it by the hilt rather than the blade.
“You’re nothing more than a minor complication in a long and successful operation,” called out Merrihew. She took a couple of slow steps forward. “Which has delivered great benefits to us, and will continue to do so when you are no longer able to cause highly unnecessary trouble.”
“I bet Aunts Helen and Zoë are onto you, too,” spat Susan. “Whatever happens to me, you’ve had it.”
“You have no conception of how we booksellers conduct our business,” said Merrihew. She raised her gloved left hand, and stepped forward again. “I command the left-handed—and the left-handed are both executors, executioners and the executive. If I say something has to be done for the good of all the St. Jacques, then that is so. But perhaps I have been hasty. The Grail-Keeper will not allow me to harm you here. We should talk, more calmly.”