The Stolen Lake (Wolves Chronicles)

by Joan Aiken

  Lieutenant Windward exclamed impatiently, "Come, come, my man, what the deuce ails you? This is moonshine! Battles—alliances! Ah, well, I reckon you are all tottyheaded yet. We had best be on our way. Make haste, the rest of you—pack up those things. There is no sense in lingering here. At any moment the clouds may lift and aurocs be upon us." And he added privately to Mr. Multiple, "Let us hope there will be some surgeon or physician at King Mabon's court who can set the poor fellow's wits to rights. Otherwise he won't be much use to us. Bustle about now, Miss Twite!"

  Holystone, however, flatly refused to get back into the litter. He said that he was well enough to ride if they did not go too fast. While he and the lieutenant were arguing about this, Dido felt something rub against her leg.

  "Murder!" she cried, her mind on aurocs; and then, looking down, she added in amazement, "Oh, no! If it ain't another o' them cats!"

  Then, inspired by a hopeful notion, she grabbed the cat and, carrying it to Mr. Holystone, said, "See who's here, Mr. Holy! It's the spit image of Dora. Don't you remember Dora—your cat, El Dorado?"

  "Dora?" he muttered doubtfully, rubbing his brow. "One of the cats of El Dorado?"

  "That's the ticket, Mr. Holy. You'll remember soon enough! And this one's got a message, too, I'll be bound. Yes, it has! Another page from that dictionary."

  Tim Toldrum, said the name on the leather disc. And the leaf of paper informed them:

  To coax. To wheedle, to flatter, to humour. A low word.

  Under the printed words the same desperate little hand had written in dark brown ink:

  For pity's sake, help me! I am suffocating in the dark. Elen.

  "Elen," said Mr. Holystone hoarsely. "Elen?"

  A silence fell around him, as if he were standing on an island.

  Lieutenant Windward cleared his throat and said, "Ahem! We really must—"

  "Elen," said Holystone. "In the dark. Where? We must find her! How can we find her?"

  The cat mewed insistently at his feet.

  "Why," exclaimed Dido, "don't you see, it's dead simple! Moggy here will lead us to her—won't you, puss? 'I'm a prisoner on Arrabe,' the second note said. That's Arrabe—that big black hill up there on the left."

  "We haven't time—" Lieutenant Windward began.

  "Oh, come on, Mr. Windward! The poor girl's shut up, we got to rescue her, don't we? Look, the cat's started already."

  The black flanks of Arrabe were broken, stony, and drear, as if they had been gashed and chipped and scraped raw by some great volcanic explosion. Here and there a bunch of rough ichu grass thrust out of a crack; there was no other vegetation. But the slope was not hard to climb. Leaving the burros hobbled on the lake bed, the party began scrambling up and around and in among the ragged and tumbled boulders, following the cat, who trotted ahead purposefully, tail in air, every now and then stopping to glance round as if perplexed by the slowness of their progress. The wind, which had been rising all day, howled lugubriously, and a few pellets of hail dashed in their faces.

  "Best get a move on there, puss," called Dido, who, being light and agile, was ahead of the rest. "We're all liable to be blown to blazes if we don't find this poor perisher soon."

  Then she stopped short in dismay. For, after threading its way up a narrow gully, the cat jumped lightly up to the top of a massive boulder leaning against a rock face and then, next instant, slipped through a crevice behind the boulder and vanished.

  "The blessed cat went in behind that there rock," Dido said to Mr. Holystone, who, surprisingly, in spite of his recent disability, was the first of her companions to come up with her. "Now what's to do?"

  Although he was so changed and queer, she had at once fallen back into the habit of depending on his advice in difficulties.

  He stood frowning, leaning on the sword, staring at the rock, as if trying to recall something.

  Noah Gusset, arriving next, surveyed the rock, and said dubiously, "Reckon som'un's in behind there, Miss Dido? Us'll never shift that. 'Tis nigh as big as a house."

  "The cat has led us on a fool's errand!" irritably exclaimed Lieutenant Windward, arriving at this moment.

  "Wait, though!" said Mr. Multiple, who was close behind him. "I've a notion." Bringing out a ship's whistle, which he carried on a string round his neck, he blew a long and piercing blast.

  The sound was almost swamped by a great gust of wind that flung more hail in their faces. But not quite. And it had two unexpected results. From somewhere up above them on the rock face two huge mountain owls came flapping down; and from inside the rock a faint voice called, "Help!"

  "There! What did I say!" shouted Dido triumphantly. "Somebody is shut up in back of that rock!—Hey! Murder! Lay off me, you nasty brutes!"

  For the two owls, yellow eyes blazing, wings beating like flails, had swooped at the rescue party and were furiously attacking them.

  "Devil take the fiends! Watch out for your eyes!" yelled Windward, who was already bleeding from a savage peck on the cheekbone. "Ugh! Get away, curse you—" slashing at one of the birds with his cutlass. They were as big as swans, and quite as fierce.

  "Maybe that's their nest—in behind—" gasped Dido, clasping her arms over her face to protect it, as one of the owls alighted on her head, digging razor-sharp claws into her scalp. "Croopus! It's nigh pulling my head off!"

  The next moment she almost had her breath knocked out as a body collided violently against hers; the cruel grip of the talons on her head suddenly slackened. She shook her head, abruptly freed from the owl's weight, and looked round her, rubbing drops of blood from her eyes.

  "That has done for one of them!" said Mr. Holystone. He was surveying the blade of his sword, which now seemed darker than from mere rust.

  The owl that had been on Dido's head flapped away down the gully, bleeding and shedding feathers; it perched on a rock, then slowly toppled off it, and was lost to view among the boulders on the ground. Its companion, screeching and hooting mournfully, circled around once or twice, then planed away into the distance and did not reappear.

  Mr. Holystone hardly glanced at the vanquished owl; he had gone back to studying the surface of the rock that confronted him. Now, with a soft exclamation of satisfaction, he found what he was looking for: a small slit in the surface of the stone. A little lichen grew over it, which he rubbed away with his thumb.

  "Looks like a keyhole," Dido said, and was immediately reminded of the great cumbrous keys in Bath, shaped like swans or dragons, with keyholes to match. "But where's the key?"

  Mr. Holystone, without answering her question, inserted the tip of his sword into the rock and thrust inward strongly, so that the weapon, by slow degrees, vanished up to the hilt.

  "All very well," muttered Windward, "but now what?"

  "Help!" the faint voice called from inside the cave.

  "We're here! We're a-trying to help you!" Dido called.

  Mr. Holystone laid both hands on the hilt of the sword. His forehead bulged, his veins swelled; beads of sweat rolled down his cheeks into his beard. His wrists and forearms knotted with exertion. He began to twist the hilt.

  "He'll break that sword, sure as a gun," grunted Windward. No one else said anything.

  The hail was rattling down like grapeshot, but nobody heeded it; all their attention was focused on those two straining hands. Suddenly there came a sharp crack! like the sound of a sail flapping in a high wind; and a V-shaped crevice appeared in the center of the rock barrier, as its two halves gradually tilted sideways away from each other.

  Mr. Holystone stepped back, slowly withdrawing the sword from the widening crack. He was gasping; his chest heaved with effort. But otherwise it was hard to believe that this was the man who, day after day, had lain unconscious without speech or movement. He glanced at his companions; his eyes lit on Dido.

  "You are small; you can climb in through that gap," he said curtly. Without a word, Dido did as she was directed, ignoring Windward's peevish interjection of "Wait a moment
, now—how do we know what's in there?"

  Dido levered herself cautiously through the narrow aperture.

  "Anybody at home?" she inquired.

  It was pitch dark inside, but she was heartened and encouraged by the feeling of the cat vigorously rubbing against her leg. The air was terribly scanty, stale, and bad; she found it only just possible to breathe.

  "Hey!" she gulped, putting her head back through the crack. "Fetch up some o' those rumirumi flowers, can you?"

  "Ay, ay," answered Multiple, and she heard his feet thudding off down the gully. Then came a loud cry of amazement or fright.

  Dido ignored that. Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the dim light, and she could see a small figure huddled in a corner of the cave.

  "Hilloo?" she said softly. "Who's that? Can you speak? Are you Elen?"

  "Yes ... Elen..." came the faint answer. "Air ... please, air!"

  "Don't you fret. Air's just a-coming. Rest easy!"

  Groping her way across the cave, Dido felt about and found a thin hand, which she clasped comfortingly; it seemed very small, not even as large as her own.

  In five minutes or less, Mr. Multiple was back with an armful of rumirumi lilies which he thrust through the gap; outside, beyond the rock, Dido could hear him excitedly telling the others some piece of news which evoked gasps of amazement and disbelief from Windward and Noah. "Go look for yourselves!" said Mr. Multiple.

  Dido meanwhile held the bundle of flowers close to the prisoner's face.

  "There!" she whispered. "Breathe deep now. That'll set you right in a brace o' shakes!"

  The prisoner breathed, gulped, and coughed. Cough, thought Dido; a convulsion of the lungs. She felt around on the floor of the cave and discovered a small, thick book, which felt as if it was bound in leather.

  "Guess you won't need to tear out any more pages now, hey? Feeling stronger, are you? Think you can manage to climb out? Or shall I ask them outside to pass in a bit of bread and a hard-boiled egg?"

  "No ... no ... I am better now, thank you. I think I can climb out."

  "That's the dandy. Wait till I help you up. Slowly does it."

  Assisted by Dido, the prisoner scrambled slowly through the narrow crack. Willing hands were waiting to receive her on the far side.

  When Dido emerged herself, holding the book, she discovered that the hail had changed to freezing, driving snow. Lieutenant Windward, Mr. Holystone, Noah, and the rescued prisoner were already making their difficult way down the gully. Mr. Multiple had waited to help Dido.

  "Well done, young un!" he congratulated her. "Reckon she'd never a got out if it weren't for you! But come on now—don't dally—it's cold enough to freeze a brass baboon."

  "You take this book and the flowers, then I'll carry the cat"—for it had jumped back through the gap with Dido. "What was all that yelling about?" she asked, as they slipped and stumbled down the rocky hillside in the blizzard.

  "I'll show you. Just look here!" Mr. Multiple paused by a big rock. Something purple and silver gleamed beyond it. With total astonishment, Dido, coming up beside him, saw the body of a woman sprawled among the black boulders. Already snow was veining the folds of her satin dress and whitening her disheveled hair. She had been wearing a loo-mask, but the string had broken, and it lay beside her face. Dido recognized her.

  "It's Mrs. Vavasour, the dressmaker. How the blazes did she get here? Is she dead?"

  "As a doornail."

  "But where did she come from?"

  "You remember the big owl? The one that lit on your head, and Holystone spiked it with his sword? Well, that's her! I saw the owl fly to that rock, and then it toppled off dead. And there she lies. She was the owl!"

  "Mussy save us," whispered Dido. She was really stunned by this discovery.

  "I used to hear tell, when I was in the West Indies station," said Mr. Multiple, as they went on slithering down the hill, "of witches who could turn themselves into hares or foxes or birds; but I never believed it above half."

  "There were two owls," shivered Dido. "I wonder where the other went?"

  She thought of the two women who had abducted her; of the two who had accompanied Lady Ettarde. Were they the same? Where was Mrs. Morgan now?

  "It better not come near me," said Mr. Multiple cheerfully, "or I'll give it neighbor's fare. I'll settle its hash like that one."

  "Maybe you need Mr. Holystone's sword," said Dido.

  By the time they reached the burros, the rest of the party was mounted and waiting for them impatiently. There was no time for talk or congratulation; the weather had become too wild.

  "Come on!" called Mr. Windward. "I reckon the guardian's stable that Dylan told us of can't be too far off. If we don't get to it soon we'll all freeze in our tracks!"

  The rescued prisoner had been laid in the litter, wrapped in sheepskins, and Mr. Holystone had mounted one of the baggage burros. They set off at a rapid speed. Snow slashed their faces like cutlass blades, and the donkeys slipped and staggered as the stones became coated with ice; it was horrible riding. Fortunately, in less than twenty minutes they reached the end of the lake; by then their faces, clothes, and all exposed surfaces were cased in a layer of ice. Not a moment too soon they came to a low building, solidly built of clay and thatched with ichu grass; the door, though closed, was not fastened, and they all bundled inside, pell-mell, riders and beasts together.

  "Anybody about? May we come in?" shouted Windward, but there was no reply; the place was empty, save for a few mules and a couple of llamas, which stared placidly at the intruders.

  Noah and Mr. Multiple instantly began to kindle a fire, having discovered a clay hearth and a pile of thorn and llama droppings apparently intended as fuel.

  A wide clay shelf along the side of the building was evidently meant to serve as table, chairs, and bed for any travelers making use of the place. Lieutenant Windward heaped some ruanas on a section of this near the fire, and then assisted the rescued captive to lie down.

  "How are you feeling now, miss?" he inquired very politely.

  The fire blazed up. Dido could see now that the prisoner was a girl perhaps four years older than herself. Elen wore a very plain gray dress with a white tucker, and a brown pinafore over it, reaching to her ankles. She had blue stockings, buckled shoes, and a blue cap that fitted her head closely and had four square corners. She was desperately thin and frail. Despite that, she was the most beautiful person Dido had ever seen. Her face had a kind of transparent clearness—like the mountains at sunup, Dido thought, or one o' them waterfalls. Her eyes were large and gray, her nose straight, her mouth wide and smiling. Silky brown curtains of hair fell on either side of her forehead.

  "I am alive!" she said, in answer to Windward's question. "Thanks to you all! And to Toldrum here." The cat had jumped up beside her and she was fondling its head.

  "How did you ever get behind that rock?" demanded the lieutenant.

  "Are you King Mabon's daughter?" said Dido.

  The girl smiled at her and held out a hand.

  "Yes, I am Elen. And I have to thank you, especially, for climbing through that cranny, and thinking to get me the rumi flowers!"

  You have to thank me for a deal more than that, Dido thought, taking the small, thin hand for the second time and smiling back at the princess of Lyonesse.

  "How many o' them cats did you have to start?" she asked.

  "Five. Poor faithful friends ... I am afraid aurocs or wild beasts must have killed the others."

  "Not all o' them," said Dido. "Three got through. But—like the loot here asked—who put you in there?"

  "Queen Ginevra, of course," said Elen, as if surprised that anybody should ask such a simple question.

  Dido noticed that Mr. Holystone—who, since entering the warm, dim stable, had seemed wrapped in dreamy reverie, gazing at the fire—started slightly at this name and looked round.

  "The queen put you there?" Windward gaped at the princess. "But—why?"

  "For
a sacrifice to Sul. The Temple of Sul is up above here on the mountain."

  "Why?" he said again, incredulously.

  "For long life, naturally!" Elen raised her beautiful brows. "Many short lives make one long one. How can she live until her Quondam king comes back unless she takes a great many other lives—young lives, of girls?"

  Windward stared at her, speechless, stiff with horror.

  "That's why there weren't any girls in Tenby or Bath? It ain't the aurocs at all?" Dido nodded, her suspicions fully confirmed.

  "I daresay the aurocs may have had one or two every year," said Elen. "But they mostly remain in the mountains. You have only to ask the guardian of this place; he will tell you how many years he has been throwing girls into Lake Arianrod. And his predecessors before him."

  "I never heard anything so disgraceful in my whole life," said Lieutenant Windward hoarsely. "And she calls herself a civilized woman! But how did she manage to get hold of you, miss?"

  "Well—when I was seven my father sent me to school in Queen's Square, in the other Bath—in England. Lyonesse ought to be safe enough; but, my father thought, best take no chances. So I went to school for nine years. And on the way back my ship was captured by pirates.

  "Pirates? They were in Ginevra's pay; her watchdogs. Those three witches of hers throw their net far afield. And a king's daughter, by their reckoning, is worth far more than any ordinary girl. Her bones give six months of life; mine—who knows how long? Six years, perhaps..."

  "Bones?" whispered Mr. Multiple, who, now that the fire was burning well, had been drawn by the sound of Elen's level voice.

  "Thrown into the lake. Eaten by Sul's sacred fish. Then the bones are made into a paste, which, eaten daily by Ginevra, has preserved her life for many hundreds of years."

  Dido thought of the fat queen, lolling on her couch, languidly tasting thick white porridge from a silver dish. My reflection, she thought suddenly. I wonder if it ever came back—like those watches beginning to go again? But even if it didn't—better lose your reflection than be thrown into Arianrod for the fish to munch and then have your bones ground up into porridge.