“I am the guardian of the spring that feeds the lake,” said the mermaid, in a voice so low and soft that he had to bend close to distinguish it from the lap of the water around the rock. “The dwarfs made a house over the spring. The door to the house opens and closes by the sound of the whistle. Bevel made the whistle, and he made my pretty doll too, long ago. But one day a man came and took my whistle and blew it.” She paused to take a breath and two big tears rolled down her cheeks. “The door to the spring house closed and my doll was locked inside. And then he took my whistle away. I’ve wept for my whistle and my doll for a long time. I want my doll. Give me back my whistle!” And she put out her little hand to take it.
But Gaylen held the whistle out of reach, feeling heartless but determined. “So that’s how it was,” he said. “Yes, I’ll give you the whistle, but first you must promise to do a task for me.”
“What do you want me to do?” asked the mermaid, her eyes never leaving the whistle where it swung from Gaylen’s hand.
“You must swim to the front of the lake,” said Gaylen slowly and clearly. “You must swim down to the dam the men have built and loosen the stones so the water will flow out again.”
“But why must I do that?” said Ardis. “What has that to do with me?”
“Nothing.” He said it for her: “It’s nothing to you. But it’s much to me. I won’t give you the whistle until you promise.”
“I promise,” said the mermaid, watching the whistle. Gaylen looked at her and felt a surge of doubt. Her face was pale and lovely in the dim light, but her wide eyes were as deep and unreadable as the waters of the lake. “I should have made her do it now, before I give her the whistle,” he said to himself, “but it’s too late—too cruel to keep it from her now.”
“You must really do it if you promise to,” he said to her.
“I promise,” she repeated. He sighed and with a shrug dropped the whistle and its chain into her waiting hand. She trembled slightly and put the whistle to her lips. Gaylen heard no sound, but from somewhere nearby came a startled croak and a great black crow rose swiftly from the shadows farther down the bank and flapped across the water. With a little cry of joy, Ardis dropped the chain over her head, flipped off the rock and disappeared into the lake. Gaylen strained forward to watch. After a few moments, far out from the bank, the water bubbled and a white arm was thrust up. He caught a glimpse of a little doll, its linked stone body clinking as the hand that clutched it gave it a shake. Then the arm sank below the surface, taking the doll with it, and there was nothing left but a widening circle of ripples.
Gaylen sat in the moonlight beside the lake and thought about all that had happened since the day the poll began. Past his mind’s eye streamed all the faces he had seen, all the kind, angry, laughing, anxious faces that had peopled the days of his great adventure. And he remembered, too, those others: the woldweller’s gray cheeks fixed into furrows like the bark of a tree; the dwarfs, impassive and calm as the mountains themselves; the wind that spoke through a hundred wayward, invisible mouths; and Ardis with her eyes wet and unfathomable as the lake that glimmered before him. He leaned over and studied the dim reflection of his own face in the water. Young and skinny, he decided, and tired and worried, too. A transient, changeable, ageable face. A people face. “And that’s where I belong,” he said to himself at last.
He stood up and made his way back around the edge of the lake to the dam, and here he sat down behind a boulder to wait for morning. The dam was holding firm. Ardis had not kept her promise. He could see Hemlock’s campfire just beyond the dam on the other side of the V, and two hunched figures, silhouetted against the glow, keeping watch.
“It’s going well so far,” said the man called Rankle. “Tomorrow I’ll be a General!”
“I’ve waited a long time for this,” came Hemlock’s voice in reply, “and planned it all with great care. It’s all worked out just as I wanted it to, except for one thing.”
“What’s that?” asked Rankle.
“Ardis. I never found her. I never got to talk to her. She could ruin it all if she took a mind to.”
“Ardis?” said Rankle. “Who’s Ardis?”
“Never mind,” said Hemlock. “You’d never understand.”
They were quiet then. Gaylen dozed behind his boulder and tried not to think about what the morning would bring. But when the long night had passed and the sky began to brighten once again, he opened his eyes and felt his throat tighten. There could not be much longer to wait. As the sun flooded the mountainside with sudden gold, a bird chirped happily. But Gaylen didn’t hear it. He sat tensely and listened for a different sound. And after what seemed like hours, he heard it—the rumble of a hundred horses’ hoofs and the clear call of a horn. The people were coming at last.
Up from the valley floor, along the muddy stream beds and over the rocks they came, on horses and mules and on foot, all the men of the kingdom and the fiercer women too, in every sort of costume, with every sort of weapon. They were dusty and thirsty and tired. And they were angry. At the head rode the King, proud and severe, the sunlight flashing from his crown, and his horse splendid in red brocade. On his left rode the General, scowling in heavy chain mail, and on his right, uneasy in his saddle but with chin raised firmly over tousled beard, rode the Prime Minister. Just behind them came the army, twenty sober men in leather helmets, with spears held erect. The royal banner fluttered red and black in the breeze and the horn sounded again and again.
Gaylen forgot his anxiety. He sprang out from behind the boulder and waved his arms. “Eee-ow!” he yelled, and went bounding recklessly down the mountainside to meet them. Tripping and stumbling, he ran, and all at once an arrow flashed down and ripped through his sleeve, narrowly missing his arm.
The crowd surging up toward the dam stopped in alarm and the horn was silenced. “Gaylen!” wailed the Prime Minister, sliding down from his horse’s back.
“I’m all right!” cried Gaylen, and he ran the last few yards and flung his arms around the Prime Minister’s neck.
“You’re here at last,” shouted a deep voice. All eyes turned up and there stood Hemlock, triumphant, on the top of the dam.
There was a moment’s silence. Then angry yells burst from the crowd and the soldiers lifted their spears. But Hemlock raised an arm. “If you make a move toward me,” he shouted, “the King will be shot. My men are posted here and their bows are drawn.”
“It’s true! Watch out!” cried Gaylen. “They’re up there behind the rocks.”
“Now, by Harry!” bellowed the King, nudging his horse a step nearer. “What do you think you’re doing up there?”
“I’m waiting,” said Hemlock. He bent and scooped up a handful of water from the lake behind him and splashed his wet palm across his lips. “Hot, isn’t it?” he cried. “Are you thirsty?” The people sighed and licked their lips and the animals strained against their ropes and reins. The sun, as if in league with Hemlock, burned from the sky and the rocks wavered and shone with heat. Hemlock scooped another handful of water and drank noisily. He let the drops trickle down his chin, grinning at the crowd. Then his eyes narrowed. “I will be King,” he shouted, “one way or another. People! Seize the King and the others and kill them and I’ll open the dam. Seize him! If you don’t, my men will have to kill him and many of you as well. And I can hold the dam for days while you wait and die!”
The people muttered and the General cried, “Never, Hemlock! Never in the world!”
But Hemlock ignored him. “People!” he shouted. “Your crops are withering. Your animals are gasping. And your children—don’t you care for your children? Your children are weeping for water. People! Your children are dying!”
The crowd moaned and surged forward toward the King, and his face, under the shining crown, went white. Gaylen pressed his fists against his cheeks. “Ardis!” he whispered. “Oh, Ardis, do it now.”
There was a sudden grinding noise. At the bottom of the dam a plug of mu
d loosened and a little jet of water spurted out. The crowd paused. Then the grinding noise came again and a great stone below the cross of tree trunks holding up the dam began to turn slowly.
“Look out!” yelled someone. “The dam is breaking!”
Suddenly the great stone burst loose. With a thunderous roar it leapt out in a huge arc of mud and drenching foam. A tumble of logs and branches was wrenched free and the dam collapsed. There was a terrible scream and Hemlock was thrown down, down among the rocks, and the water of the lake boiled over and around him and surged again, with a hiss of bubbles, into its old, accustomed channels.
At the first sign of danger, the people had scrambled to get out of the way, and now they stood about on rocks and fallen logs, shaken and silent, watching the water surge down the mountainside, flooding the banks of its old stream beds and carving new ones as it went. But before long the lake was restored to its usual level and the streams were calmed. From the rocks at one side of the V, where the water had tossed him, Hemlock groaned. And they heard at the same time the sound of hoofbeats somewhere up above, as the men who had helped him fled away. But the King sat apart on his horse, his head bowed.
A man sprang forward into the middle of the nearest stream and Gaylen recognized him. It was Veto, the mayor of the second town. “Long live the King!” yelled Veto, and instantly the cry was taken up and the mountains rang: “Long live the King!”
The King raised his head and looked about him. Then he smiled and held up his hand. “Drink!” he shouted. “It’s all over, by Harry! Go and drink.”
And all of a sudden everybody was in the water, splashing and laughing and slipping on the rocks, drenched instantly from head to foot. Gaylen stood with the Prime Minister and the General near the King’s horse and watched, grinning with relief. “Delicious!” a man called to his neighbors, and they answered, “Yes, yes, delicious,” and bent to drink again.
“Why, listen to that!” said the King. “There’s your definition, DeCree. After today no one could ever disagree with it.”
“You’re right!” exclaimed the Prime Minister. “I do believe you’re right. That’s it, of course. That’s it at last! ‘Delicious is a drink of cool water when you’re very, very thirsty.’” And they all laughed and clapped each other on the back.
The people were beginning to disperse now, hurrying away down the mountainside to return to their children, their farms, their own concerns. The King sat for a moment, watching them go, and then he sent his soldiers to bring Hemlock down from the rocks and carry him back to the castle. “A pity he wasn’t killed,” said the King to the Prime Minister. “Now I suppose we’ll have to nurse his broken bones and clutter up the dungeon with him.”
“Banish him when he’s well again. That’s my advice,” said the Prime Minister. Then suddenly he asked, “Vaungaylen, where’s my cockatoo?”
“He’s dead,” answered Gaylen. “Hemlock’s men shot him. I’m sorry.”
“Dead,” echoed DeCree. “Oh, dear.” He stared down sadly at the ground. “All this trouble—the poll, the war, and this business today—and nobody killed. All safe and sound. Except for my poor, blameless bird.”
“We’ll put up a statue to it,” the King declared. “A lovely little statue in the garden. To help us remember.”
They stood together quietly for a long moment, each with his own thoughts, and then Gaylen climbed back up to the lake and found Marrow where Hemlock had tied him under the trees. He pressed his cheek against the horse’s neck and stood gazing out across the sparkling water. “She must be happy now,” he said to Marrow. “I’m glad she has her whistle back again.” He sighed. “I wonder if she kept her promise after all or if it just happened all by itself. I guess,” he said, “I’ll never know. Come on, old friend, we’re going home.”
“Well,” said the prime minister as they all sat down to supper at the castle. “It certainly is a relief to have all that nonsense over with. Now I can finish up my dictionary in peace.”
“So you can, at that,” said the King. “What comes next, after Delicious?”
“Oh, I’m way past the D’s,” said the Prime Minister. “As a matter of fact, I’ve got to the G’s. I’ve just done Golden. ‘Golden is the setting sun.’ How’s that?”
“You can’t be serious,” said the King. “Setting suns are pink. Everyone knows that. Why not say ‘Golden is a ripe lemon’?”
The Queen took a sip of wine and said, “Excuse me, my dear, but lemons are yellow. ‘Lemon yellow’ is how the phrase goes. As for Golden, I’d rather see it read ‘Golden is a clump of daffodils.’”
“Or ‘Golden is a mug of beer,’” suggested the General.
“Now, by Harry,” said the King, “I won’t have it. Let DeCree say what he wants, can’t you? ‘Golden is a ripe lemon’ will do perfectly well.”
“‘Golden is the setting sun’ is what I was planning to say,” put in the Prime Minister. He sighed heavily. “Writing a dictionary is certainly no bed of roses.”
“No bed of daffodils,” murmured the Queen.
Gaylen got up from his place and wandered unnoticed to the window while the argument at the table went on. He leaned out and gazed at the countryside where it rolled away blue and purple in the twilight. The mountains sprawled comfortably across the horizon and from behind a smudge of quiet clouds the waning moon peeped out and touched the dark treetops with silver. Somewhere out there, he thought to himself, the woldweller was peacefully roasting a rabbit. Pitshaft would be playing the flute now by torchlight, while Bevel danced his calm, unhurried dance through the curling smoke from Thwart’s tobacco. Ardis would be splashing softly about in the dark, still waters of the lake, her doll in her arms. And the wind—well, the wind was off somewhere around the mountains, but a newly hatched zephyr breathed in at the window and ruffled Gaylen’s hair. In the room behind him, the argument continued. The King thumped on the table with his fist while the Queen’s voice rose shrill and insistent over the General’s growls, and Gaylen yearned again toward the unencumbered land beyond. Then he heard the Prime Minister calling to him.
“Gaylen! Vaungaylen, dear boy, come and sit by me and eat your supper.”
His heart warmed then, and he smiled. “I’ll go out again from time to time,” he whispered, “but just at the moment…”
“Gaylen, my boy!” called the Prime Minister again.
“I’m coming,” answered Gaylen happily. “I was just getting a breath of fresh air.”
“The air is fresh tonight, by Harry,” said the King. “Fresh as a daisy.”
“Fresh as a daffodil!” murmured the Queen.
Epilogue
One day in early spring a bearded minstrel stopped at the castle and asked for “the young poll-taker.” At first no one knew whom he meant. A page was sent to fetch the Prime Minister, who came creakily to the gate.
“We’ve only had one poll in this kingdom,” said the Prime Minister, “and that was thirteen years ago. So it must be Vaungaylen you’re after.”
“Yes,” said the minstrel, “that was the boy’s name.”
“Well, he’s a boy no longer,” said the Prime Minister. “He’s a man now, twenty-five years old. He’s got a child of his own. A little daughter.” And he beamed with pride.
“Where can I find him?” asked the minstrel.
“He lives in the first town,” said DeCree. “He’s the Mayor there. He married the Mayor’s daughter, Medley, and now he’s the Mayor himself.” And he beamed again.
“Thank you,” said the minstrel. “I’ll go along and find him.”
“Oh, you won’t find him there now,” said DeCree.
“No? Why not?”
“It’s April,” answered DeCree.
“April?” The minstrel was clearly puzzled.
“Yes. You see,” said the Prime Minister, “he goes away every April.”
“Where does he go?” the minstrel wanted to know.
“Well, he goes into the forest, he and Me
dley and the child. And he goes up in the mountains and around the lake.” The Prime Minister peered off through the gate and sniffed the warm spring air.
“Why does he do that?” asked the minstrel.
“It all started with the poll, thirteen years ago,” said the Prime Minister. He frowned. “It’s a strange story. There are parts of it that I’ve never… Well, it’s a very strange story.” He stopped and squinted at the minstrel. “Now that I come to think of it, you might be interested, a man in your profession.” He took the minstrel by the arm and drew him into the courtyard. “Come in, come in. I’ll tell you all about it. It just might be you’d want to make a song about it. It would make a pretty song,” he added as they disappeared into the castle, “a very pretty song.”
Books by Natalie Babbitt
Dick Foote and the Shark
Phoebe’s Revolt
The Search for Delicious
Kneeknock Rise
The Something
Goody Hall
The Devil’s Storybook
Tuck Everlasting
The Eyes of the Amaryllis
Herbert Rowbarge
The Devil’s Other Storybook
Nellie: A Cat on Her Own
Bub, or The Very Best Thing
Ouch!
Elsie Times Eight
Gofish
Questions for the Author
What did you want to be when you grew up?
When I was a preschooler, I wanted to be a pirate, and then when I started school, I wanted to be a librarian. But in the fourth grade, I got my copy of Alice in Wonderland / Alice Through the Looking-Glass and decided once and for all that I wanted to be an illustrator of stories for children.
The Search for Delicious Page 8