by Derek Smith
‘Is there a Hall for Deposed Queens?’ asked Toby.
‘There is,’ said Nom. ‘Smaller.’
They had just come through the entrance; the snow was melting off their shoulders. Toby noted all the men were singular, none spoke to any other. They each had a small rock on the ground. Some were seated on it, others standing nearby. But none far off it, as if they were afraid this very last bit of their kingdom would be stolen too.
Nearby was a man in armour. Toby presumed he had died in battle. Another in bed clothes. Poisoned or stabbed in bed.
‘None have their wounds,’ he said.
‘It would be unfair to have to wander in the Underworld,’ said Nom, ‘headless, legless or with half a body. It’s enough to lose a kingdom.’
More than enough. The cavern quaked with despair. Something he could recognise. He had been a prince. The chosen of his kingdom. And had it all ripped away. None of these men knew who they were.
‘I must find my father,’ he said.
Nom left him to it. Toby’s search was like wandering through a graveyard staring at the stones, seeking the right one. Those with their backs to him, he had to walk round to see their faces. Those seated on rocks, their heads in their hands, he had to peer at closely to make sure. Most seemed not to care about his presence as he wandered between them, so long as he stayed off their territory. A foot in the wrong place gave him a malevolent scowl, reminding him of dogs barking off intruders.
None wore crowns, nor any regalia. No gold chains, sceptres, orbs, in fact no jewellery of any sort. Not even rings or brooches. Their clothes were well made, in fine colours, some with gold thread. But without attendants and regalia – they were simply men. Some short, some tall, some medium height – the full range of men. And quite unremarkable. Toby had seen much despair in the Underworld, and a cavernful certainly belittled it.
So what had made these men kings at all?
Birth, Toby knew. But that wasn’t enough. A king had to stay a king. He needed an army, castles, ships.
Good fortune.
Should he ever become king, would he end up here with these miserable souls? All killed so some other could have the throne. And would that other not come here too? Deposed as he had himself deposed. Part of that long chain of murder that kept living kings awake in their beds.
Chapter 41
His father was strolling round his rock, as if on a small island in the sea. Toby was able to watch him unobserved as his father paced round his rock. Nothing outside his space was of any interest to him. He could have been out in the garden, thought Toby, walking round a shrub, planning affairs of state. He wore the clothes Toby had last seen him in at that fateful dinner: a long green tunic with yellow leggings. The sleeves of the tunic were short, and under it was a white undershirt which could be seen about the throat and down to his wrists. What on earth was he thinking in these relentless circuits, thought Toby. Of him? Of his stepmother? Of nothing at all? His hair was down to his shoulders and he had a full grey beard, which he pulled at as he walked round and round.
‘Father,’ called Toby.
His father stopped and turned his head, startled out of his thought. And looked long at Toby, who was perhaps four paces away. His back had been bowed in his walk, but now he stood upright. And went to straighten his chain – which was not there.
‘Why have you been so long?’ he complained.
‘I came as quickly as I could,’ said Toby, coming in closer.
‘You call this quick!’ shouted his father, his face contorted in rage. An expression that Toby knew well, but no longer had the same effect on him. For though it was his father shouting, it was not his king.
‘As soon as I knew, I came, Father.’
‘You lie, boy!’
Toby felt the same impulse that had sent him charging out of the room, those few weeks ago. If he’d had a horse he would have run to it. Realising, though, the foolishness of that impulse (hadn’t it caused him trouble enough?) he stood his ground.
‘I am not lying, Father. And it’s unfair of you to yell at me like this.’
His father strode to within a couple of feet of Toby, boiling with rage. He went to strike Toby around the head but Toby caught his wrist.
‘Let go of me, boy. I am your father. I am your king,’ he exclaimed as he struggled to release himself.
Toby let go of him.
‘You are not my king. And a poor father you have been.’
His father stepped back, his eyes blazing, clutching his wrist. Toby had forgotten the strength of his hands. But he had the advantage and did not wish to lose it.
‘I was thrown in the dungeon after your murder, accused by your foul Queen and her son of being the murderer. I was to be executed on the block. I have been on the run, chased by dogs and soldiers after my blood. And all brought about by that bitch’s leavings you dared bring to replace my mother.’
This subdued his father. He bowed his head and paced round his rock.
‘She murdered me,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘Her and her son… what’s his name? I forget things here.’
‘Pig’s snout,’ said Toby. ‘Called Zeke by some.’
‘They came to my chamber. He stabbed me in the back then she in the front.’
‘And blamed me for it.’
His father stopped his pacing and faced him.
‘I know.’
‘How?’ said Toby.
His father waved a hand. ‘Down here we see, we are told – and can do little.’ He stopped, and almost pleading said, ‘Why have you been so long?’
Toby clutched at the air. ‘I have told you, I came as quick as I could.’
‘The journey is swift,’ said his father.
‘Perhaps when you are dead,’ said Toby, ‘but for the living it is long and it is dangerous. I have come down Hell’s Chimney, climbed down a cliff of ravens, evaded a three-headed dog and crossed molten lava. I could have died many times. And then, if I had died, been with you as quick as you wished.’
‘I am sure you could have come more quickly.’
If Toby had any doubts this was his father, then he had them no longer. Here he stood, dead, without a throne, and as stubborn and as stupid as he had been in life.
‘I could not have.’
His father turned away. Toby turned away. And for some minutes they did not speak. Toby thought of his stepmother, her petulance and temper. And her recourse to his father, who always saw only her side. Banished him to his room, forbade him riding and meals. Left him to the scorn of Zeke. Yet still, even after his murder, his father must maintain his rectitude. Here in this cavern of stripped monarchs he imagined he still had authority over more than just his little rock.
Toby burned with anger.
And yet what was the point of argument? Toby had come all this way because his father had something to tell him. Surely, something more important than that he could have come more quickly? There were times he and his father argued, there were times they got on well. The switch could come in an instant. But if Toby had his father’s temper, Toby had also learnt, in the last few weeks, that there were times to curb it.
He faced his father and said as calmly as he could, ‘I am sorry, Father.’
Its generality had the desired effect.
His father said quietly, ‘My boy, I am glad you have come. And I have something of great importance to tell you.’
Toby listened while his father strode round his rock, his arms behind his back.
‘My queen – I admit your judgement of her was correct. I was swayed by her beauty…’
‘And her lies,’ interjected Toby.
‘And her lies.’ He raised a hand briefly in admission. ‘I was a fool. I was her path to power – so had to be removed. You, too…’
‘She was in no hurry to kill me,’ said Toby, ‘but couldn’t explain the complexity to her soldiers.’
His father nodded.
‘You know she is a witch?’ he said.
‘No,’ said Toby, more startled by this information than he should have been.
‘She has some guardian creatures. I can’t help you with those as I know little of them. But down here I have discovered that she is not as she appeared.’ He stopped pacing and faced Toby. ‘She told me she was thirty-six years old.’ He shook his head. ‘But she is not. Oh, most certainly not. She is in fact 297 years old.’
‘How is that possible?’
‘The stone she wears round her neck. The yellow one – you must know it. She never removes it. Not even in bed. It is the Stone of Oull. And gives its wearer eternal life. You must take it from her and smash it. And she will die.’
‘That won’t be easy. To get the stone.’
‘No,’ said his father. ‘But you got down here, even if you took your time. Smash the stone! Smash the stone!’
The thought took him over. He paced wildly round the rock uttering the same incantation. Toby tried to intervene, but it was as if a wall was surrounding his father. He left him waving his arms, repeating angrily, ‘Smash the stone!’
Chapter 42
He was depressed when he met again with Nom in the passageway outside the Hall. He felt, again, that ache of dismissal. His father had no concern for his journey, no concern for his troubles in the living world. Simply his own demands.
‘He gave me not one kind word.’
‘He will not learn kindness down here,’ said Nom.
‘I will never see him again,’ said Toby, ‘and I am dismissed with his orders. No embrace, no goodbye, no hopes for a safe journey. Just the commands of a king who isn’t a king. I am thinking – is that all my father is?’
‘It is all he is now,’ said Nom. ‘And he will be even less. But it is not who he was. And that’s what you need to remember. Coming down to the Underworld can never renew feelings. He is but a shadow of what he was. Your interview had to end in disappointment.’
Toby nodded reluctantly. And wondered what he’d been expecting. A coming together, a proper parting. Forgiveness, an admission that his father was wrong. But above all, comfort. Someone to tell him it would all come right. Someone who believed in him, rather than someone who yelled at him for being late.
He closed his eyes and sighed. This was where he was. Not some dreamy world of wishing, but the land of the dead. And he knew what he had to do. But he ached with renewed loss, as if his father had just died.
‘I must go back to the living world at once,’ he said wearily. ‘I’ve had too much of the Underworld.’
‘I can see that,’ said Nom. ‘This is no place for living men.’ He indicated a narrow tunnel off the passageway. ‘Let’s go this way. It’s a shorter way to the river.’
They turned into it, and were just able to walk side by side. The tunnel was gloomy, lit by an occasional fire torch. Toby was reminded of the dungeon hallway outside the cells – and how he had made his escape. He thought of Far, Orly and Erdy and how he wanted to be with them. With real people who had needs like his own.
He must accept the death of his father. He had spoken to a man who looked like his father. Who had some of the attributes. But he was dead. And the dead aren’t the living. Can never be. Will never be.
My father is gone, he said to himself.
And I have work to do.
He must get over the pain of the meeting. And of the parting. It would be hard. But he must take away only the knowledge he needed. Not renew the suffering he had felt with his father the King and his Queen.
The passageway opened into a well-lit, large hall. All about the floor were scruffy children, mostly seated or crouching, in small groups. Quite a few were playing a game with stones he did not know. There was laughter even. This amazed him. In the Hall of Deposed Kings there had been only despair and anger. But here, well, he would almost describe it as happiness.
‘Where are we?’ he said.
‘This is the Hall of Dead Street Children.’
Some of the children were small, just beyond toddlers. Others almost as old as himself. Boys and girls, dirty-faced, torn clothes. The hall was full of chatter that echoed in the walls, the clicking of stones, and yes – laughter.
‘Why are they so content?’
‘These children,’ said Nom, ‘lived on the street. They begged for food, they fought for it, they stole it. Here, there is no need for food. They were abused, beaten, despised. Who is here to do that to them? They were frozen and wracked by disease. That too is over.’
Toby shook his head. Something was wrong. It came to him.
‘Why are they not fighting?’
‘Because they cannot hurt each other. They can kick and scratch and bounce on a child’s head – and make not the slightest dent. Why then fight?’
Why indeed, thought Toby. Every fight he’d ever had was to hurt someone or defend himself from hurt. So why fight without that? It becomes like tumbling or dancing.
‘There are boys and girls,’ said Toby. ‘Do they not…?’
‘Death ends all sexual feeling,’ said Nom.
And ends another reason to fight and abuse, thought Toby. These children had had the worst of everything. No wonder they could enjoy the simple pleasure of sitting. Without cold, without hunger, without abuse.
‘It’s awful,’ he said, ‘that they are happier here than in their lives.’
‘Who cares about street children?’ said Nom.
He did not answer, as his reply would do him no credit. He had cared little. Often his father had decreed the streets be swept clear of them. And how they suffered, because of that, had not concerned him.
They continued through the hall. The children ignored them, intent in their own play. Or simply sat. They did not have toys or even bats and balls. Chips of rock served.
‘They do not stay here long,’ said Nom.
‘Where do they go?’
‘I do not know.’
They were at the far side. Toby took one last look back. This hall was such a contrast to the one where his father paced round his rock. He should have been glad for the happiness of these street children. But he was not. They had been murdered or died of disease or cold in his own world. And life should not be hell for anyone.
They came out onto a hillside.
‘There is your river,’ pointed out Nom.
And there it lay, just at the bottom of the valley. Here once again was the green light that shone in the hinterland of the Underworld. And there, rowing across the river, was the boatman with a passenger.
‘Thank you, Nom, for all your help. I don’t know what I would have done without you.’
‘Please don’t thank me. Before our meeting, I had not had a conversation for over a hundred years. No one had asked me a question or enquired about me. Until you came. And if my answers have been less than adequate, then I apologise. There are things I never knew, there are things I have forgotten.’ He stopped and bowed his head. ‘Thank you, Toby, for letting me be your guide.’
Toby’s eyes welled. This, from a stranger. When his father could not find a good word.
He took Nom by the hand. It was cold. He did not mind, as it meant his own was warm – and Nom would feel it.
‘Goodbye, my friend,’ he said. ‘And good luck.’
And they parted. Nom went back into the caveway. And Toby set off down the hill to the jetty.
Chapter 43
He stepped into the boat. The boatman, deep in his cowl, looked up. It was the same man as before. The same bony face, the skin so tight it was almost a skeleton, the deep hollow eyes.
He said, ‘You did not pay me.’
So much had happened, that Toby had forgotten how he had run off and cheated the boatman. And now he was back demanding a ride again. But, he thought, the boatman must go back. His passengers are on the other side. Toby had got in as an old woman had got out; normally there would be no-one here. The boatman must row to the other side. All Toby need do was sit it out.
‘You did not pay me,’ s
aid the boatman.
‘I am sorry,’ said Toby.
‘Now you must pay double.’ The boatman held out a bony hand.
‘I don’t have any money,’ said Toby, wishing he had remembered all this earlier. He was sure Nom would have helped him.
‘Then you must row,’ said the boatman. And he stood up in the boat.
Well, yes, he could do that. It wasn’t far across the river. There was no current. It would be easy enough.
‘Very well,’ he said, standing up himself. ‘I will row.’
They changed positions, causing the boat to rock. The boatman sat himself in the passenger seat. And Toby sat in his place with the oars.
It was at once plain the boatman intended giving him no help. Toby had trouble getting the oars correctly in the rowlocks. He had often been in a rowing boat, but he had never rowed. Princes don’t row. His father would not allow him to do such things. ‘Why do we have servants?’ he would say.
Turning the boat round to face the far jetty was a chore. He began by using the wrong oar and crashed into the jetty. The boatman did not say a word. Nor did he smile. His face was empty. With much splashing, Toby got the boat facing the right way.
Then he began to row with the two oars as he had seen rowers row. At first he dug them too deep into the water and they came up with a splash, then too shallow, barely skimming the top so that they gave little forward motion. It wasn’t tiring for Toby, simply awkward. He was strong enough but lacked any skill. In fact, rather too strong, with the effect of his bracelet; and much of that strength went into splashing and wasted motion. But in a little while, he adjusted, and thought he was doing quite well. He had a rhythm going. Pull and stretch, lift the oars, forward. And felt quite pleased with himself.
But then he noted that he was quite out of line with the jetty he was facing, the one he had left. And so must be out of line with the one he was going to. He glanced behind. That was true enough. And someone was waiting.
With one oar he circled the boat until it was aiming for the jetty, then rowed in. Every so often he had to turn round and pull with one oar to keep heading for the jetty. Rowing was more difficult than it looked. And he admired the skill of the boatman. But then he’d been doing it for hundreds of years. And this was Toby’s first attempt.
