by Joan Aiken
“Excellent coffee, sir,” said the Captain, not a bit discomposed by the incident. “Now: what’s tae be done about this puir laddie in the infirmary? I canna stop for him here past my usual embarkation day for I’ve commissions on other islands, ye ken; I must be on my way. Can the lad be taken back on board – cared for on the ship?”
Doctor Talisman looked doubtful. “I’d not advise that; not for a few days – in case he took a turn for the worse. Best he remain here for a week at least. When will another ship call in here?”
“There’s the Wamena – in three weeks’ time—”
“But what about Lord Herodsfoot – and the games?” said Dido.
“Games?” Manoel’s stare at her was half puzzled, half scornful.
“Have ye not met Lord Herodsfoot?” Sanderson asked him.
“No. I was at the southern end of the island when he arrived. I heard some crazy tale, from my house-boys, of a strange Englishman who cares for nothing but roses, insects, and chess. And dice.”
“Dice!” said Doctor Talisman with a sudden grin. “That takes me back to Bad Szomberg – does it not you, Senhor Manoel?”
Manoel frowned, as if he did not care for such memories.
“Do folk gamble much on Aratu?” asked Dido, thinking of the checkerboards laid out in the cobbles of the quay. And there were similar ones here, in Manoel’s black-and-white pebbled yard, she had noticed.
“Havers, yes!” Sanderson said. “The isle’s known to traders as Dice and Spice Island.”
Manoel frowned again. “It is true, the Angrian townspeople indulge in dice games. And the Forest People have their own diversions – the Hyena game is one—”
“How do they play that?” asked Dido.
“With throwing sticks – tabas – and a spiral board, mostly drawn on the ground, in the earth. The game is to ‘send your mother to the well’ and get her back again. You throw the tabas and add up the value of your throw, and move your piece (mostly a nut or a cowrie-shell). At the well she must wash the clothes – taking so many throws – and then return to the village. There are many dangers. If she does return, the mother becomes a hyena.”
“Does she, indeed?” said Doctor Talisman, much interested.
But Captain Sanderson, anxious to have his problem solved as soon as possible, said: “Dido, it fair fashes me to ask it, but I’d be greatly obliged if ye would go off into the forest at once and find Lord Herodsfoot and bring him back so that we can sort this matter as fast as possible. I’m afeered we’ll have to leave poor Mr Multiple behind, but I ken weel we’d leave him in good hands with Doctor Talisman here. I’ve little serious alarm on his account now – that’s if we get a good report on him this forenoon – so will ye set off directly after Herodsfoot?”
“O’ course I will, Cap – so long as there’s no objections,” said Dido, giving a swift glance at Manoel; somehow she felt he might well raise objections to anybody else’s plans. But he said nothing, he seemed wrapped in deep thought.
“Reckon I’ll need a guide – someone to take me to where the old gager’s got to,” Dido went on.
“That can be arranged,” Manoel said slowly. He called the boy Tonto and gave him instructions. Tonto nodded and ran off.
“I suppose Dido will be safe enough on this errand? How do matters stand in the island now?” Sanderson asked Manoel: “I’ve not put in here for six months.” Suddenly he looked a little doubtful as to the wisdom of sending Dido off into the jungle.
“Just now,” Manoel said, seeming to choose his words with care, “just now things are quiet. Luckily. But the people feel the need of a leader.”
“I thought you said, Cap, that there was a king on this island?”
Manoel looked affronted. “There is,” he said coldly. “Our Sovereign. John King.”
“Where does he hang out?”
“He has his royal residence at the southern end of Aratu – on Mount Fura. In Limbo Lodge. But he is a sick man. He is little seen by the populace.”
“The populace of this island,” Doctor Talisman explained to Dido, “consists of the rather sparse remnants of the Angrians, who came and annexed Aratu four hundred years ago. Most of them left fifty years ago, when the island became independent, and returned to Angria. The rest live in this town. The Forest People call them Los Outros. The Dilendi people live in the forest, which is their natural home (when it has not been cut down and turned into spice plantations).”
“You are well informed about the island,” Manoel said stiffly to the doctor.
“Of course! I know all that I have been able to find out! Haven’t I been reading books about Aratu, any that I could find, since I took a fancy to come back here?”
Dido was interested. “And do the folk get on well together – the Dilendi and the Angrians?”
“Eh, well, there will be a bit of a skirmish from time to time,” said the Captain. “Is’t not so, Senhor Manoel?”
Manoel made an affirmative grunt. It seemed to Dido that he was not all pleased to have island matters discussed. Then she suddenly remembered something. When Doctor Talisman had asked if the hospital people would allow her to operate on Mr Multiple, Manoel had said, “I am the Mayor and Harbourmaster and Leader of the Civil Guard, and the Sovereign’s brother.” Something of that kind. Had he not?
That’s a bit rum, Dido thought. If he’s the brother of this Mister John King, who rules the whole shebang, you’d think he’d have a fancier job than Harbourmaster. You’d think he’d be Prime Minister or summat like that.
Maybe the brothers don’t get on with each other?
Dido poked about in her memory, trying to recall something else that Captain Sanderson had told her about John King. He was an Englishman – that was it – who had been thrown out of England, more than forty years ago, for revolutionary activities. He had been involved in the nefarious Pimlico Plot, an attempt to blow up King Charles the Fourth, and had been deported – that’s right, he had been deported along with his younger brother. But they had escaped from the ship that was transporting them to the convict settlement of New Cornwall and had made their way to Aratu. Had started spice plantations and had done very well there, grown rich. And, of course, had never gone back to England, where they would be thrown into jail. But – wait a minute, Dido thought – that don’t jell. Or not quite. Because this feller, this Manoel – he used to meet Doc Talisman and her Dutch adopted father in Europe, at all those gambling places. Not in England, though. Bad Whatsitsname, in Hanover. And it’s true he didn’t seem at all keen on being reminded about those times. Maybe his big brother don’t care for him gambling. Maybe Manoel’s one of those crazy gamblers that can’t stop.
Dido knew all about those. Her own father, once he heard the rattle of the dice, was lost to the world, so long as he had a sixpence on him. And even when the sixpence was done he had been known to gamble away his wig, his shoes, his cravat – everything but his precious flute. Talisman had said – Dido remembered – that Manoel was not such a lucky gambler as her adopted father. Maybe he had to give up going to Europe to play games of chance; maybe the dibs ran out, Dido thought. Maybe that’s why he don’t like talking about games. Maybe he had a grudge against Talisman and her lucky pa?
Talisman, unaware, apparently, of these undercurrents, had gone back to the subject of games. “Do you remember, Manoel, how we used to play cottabos in Naples?”
“Cottabos? What’s that?” asked Dido.
“Oh, it is an ancient Roman game – or perhaps Greek, I am not sure which. Very ancient, at all events. It is a game of skill, not chance. We could play it now—”
To Dido’s astonishment, Talisman jumped up and walked to the other end of the courtyard, whistling, as a boy might, an odd little three-note melody with a lilting refrain. She’s real happy to be back here, Dido thought. It’s as if it just hit her. But don’t she know how much she’s annoying Manoel?
The doctor stooped and picked up, as easily as if it had been a plate of fruit
, the heavy marble basin into which the fountain played. It was at least a yard across, and thick in proportion, and full of water, but she carried it across the courtyard without the least appearance of strain, then sank to her heels and set it on the floor by the table without spilling a drop.
“There!” she said. “Now, Manoel, we need some sea shells.”
Captain Sanderson had been gaping at the doctor, open-mouthed, in silence, but Manoel, with a scowl, walked into the house and returned in a moment carrying a basket of shells, pearl, pink, and slate-colour. He stared at Talisman, frowning, as if revising his thoughts about her.
“My word, Doctor-lad,” said Captain Sanderson, “I’m thinking ye must have muscles on ye like ships’ hawsers! I couldna lift that basin – even without the water that’s in it.”
“Oh, it is just a knack,” said Talisman lightly. “There is nothing to it, once you know how. Thank you, Manoel, those shells are just what we need.”
She set the shells afloat on the surface of the water.
“Properly, of course, we should use wine, but it is a little early in the day for that! Coffee will do instead.”
With a lightning-quick turn of the wrist she flipped a spoonful from her coffee-cup into one of the floating shells. The brown liquid seemed to pour across in a clear, spiralling curve, a continuation of her arm and wrist, sinking the shell neatly to the bottom of the basin.
“Mighty neat, young fellow!” said Sanderson. “Ye’ll no find me such a hand at the sport.”
Instead of arching clearly down, the coffee jerked out of his cup like a blurred hieroglyphic, but enough of it reached its target to tip and drown another of the pink shells.
“Now you,” Talisman said to Dido.
Ever since helping with Mr Multiple’s operation, Dido had felt that the bond of friendship between her and the doctor had warmed and strengthened; and the encouraging look she now received from Talisman gave her confidence; hardly troubling to take aim she tossed the contents of her cup so smoothly that the shell into which it fell bobbed gently on the water but remained afloat.
“What does that score?” she asked.
“It’s an omen,” said Doctor Talisman gaily. “An omen that you will live to play another day. Now you, Manoel.”
Scowling, Manoel, in his turn, flipped some of the contents of his cup. But he did so unskilfully, and the liquid, instead of flying neatly to its target, seemed to hover in mid air and splashed across the basin, sprinkling all the shells but sinking none of them.
He flushed a deep angry red, but Doctor Talisman (perhaps to distract attention from his failure?) cried out: “Oh, dear heavens! I have just remembered that I left my notebook in the theatre-room at the hospital. I must go back and get it directly.”
Dido said: “Don’t you stir, Doc; I reckon you need a lazy, after that long job you did on Mr Mully. I’ll go for your notebook – you take it easy – I’ll be back in a brace of shakes.”
“The guide will be here in a moment to take you to Lord Herodsfoot,” Manoel reminded Dido coldly.
“I’ll be back by then – it’s nobbut a step to the hospital.”
Dido darted out of the courtyard and ran back up the hill. At the hospital she had to knock for admission, but the green-hooded portress evidently recognised her, unlocked the gate, and let her in.
“O Iivro?” said Dido hopefully, and made a shape with her hands, demonstrating its smallness.
The portress nodded and, gesturing for Dido to wait in the courtyard, went away into the interior of the hospital. Waiting, Dido heard the patter of footsteps behind her, and whirled round, not wishing to be taken by surprise, remembering there were sting-monkeys as well as snakes – she had not seen one of those yet. But in the road outside the gateway was a black-haired girl of about her own age and height, who gasped something and made a beseeching gesture – “Let me in! For mercy’s sake, let me in!”
Her desperate need was obvious and, without waiting for permission, Dido twitched the gate open again. The girl slipped silently past Dido, shutting the gate behind her, then vanished through one of the many dark doorways leading away from the cloister.
One of the nurses? Dido wondered. But she looked young for that. In bad trouble, anyway.
Next moment the reason for her terrified speed became plain. A group of men in black uniforms and silver badges, armed with clubs and long curved knives, strode up the hill, looking this way and that, plainly in quest of some quarry. As they reached the hospital gate, the portress returned with Doctor Talisman’s little notebook. The leader of the group of Civil Guard (for such Dido guessed them to be) rapped on the gate and put some question to the portress. She shook her green-wrapped head decisively and – after some searching looks at Dido – the party of men went on up the hill.
Now I’m in a fix, thought Dido. Should I tell the portress about that gal who bolted in here? But the gal seemed scared to her marrow, poor devil. And I didn’t care for the looks of those fellows. But will it mean trouble for the portress?
She took another survey of the hospital. It seemed a huge old place. Most of it don’t look as if it’s used at all. I reckon there’s a plenty places where that gal can hide herself till the trouble’s over.
I’ll not tell on her, Dido decided.
She made thanking gestures to the portress, left the cloister, and heard the gate clang to behind her, then walked rather slowly and thoughtfully up the hill, giving the guards plenty of time to get ahead of her.
But when she reached Manoel’s house it was plain to her immediately that something had gone badly amiss. The gate stood open – whereas she had heard Manoel lock it behind her when she left for the hospital – and the courtyard was empty. It had a bereaved, untidy look, as if something unexpected and nasty had recently taken place there.
“Hilloo?” called Dido. “Doc Tally – Cap’n Sanderson – anybody about?”
She walked to the table and chairs, which were all askew. A cup had fallen into the stone water-basin.
“Where’s all the folk?” Dido called again.
Captain Sanderson emerged from the house. He looked pale, shocked, and angry.
“The Civil Guard came,” he said. “They arrested Doctor Talisman for illegally performing an operation in the hospital without proper accreditation.”
“Blimey! Couldn’t Manoel stop them? I thought he was the boss of the Guard?”
“There seemed to be some misunderstanding. It’s a good thing you weren’t there or they would probably have pulled you in too for helping the doctor. Manoel has gone off to find a lawyer to help Doctor Talisman – he was very angry, but he said things would sort themselves out. He said you had better go off to the forest with Tylo here, and the trouble will probably have died down by the time you come back.”
“But poor Doctor Tally!” Dido was horrified. “Just after she – he – had done that long hard job too—”
“The doctor did not seem too concerned at being arrested,” Sanderson remarked. “He said a night in jail was no great matter.”
“Where is the jail?”
“Up at the top of the town. Another disused convent, I fancy. You will pass by it on your way to Sorgu. Tylo here is a forest boy; he will take you there. You had better leave at once, in case they come back. I must go down to the ship and carry on with unloading.”
“Who’ll go to see how Mr Mully is getting on?”
“I will try to do that later,” said Captain Sanderson, looking harassed. “Or you can, if you get back in good time with Lord Herodsfoot.”
“Come quick now, Shaki-miss,” said Tylo, the boy who during this talk had been standing quietly, staring down at the stone bowl of water. “Is need to start walk our journey from town. Horses meet us.”
“Chop-chop, I’m a-coming! What does Shaki mean?” Dido asked the Captain.
“I think it simply means Foreign Person. I just hope that you find Lord Herodsfoot without too much difficulty,” said Captain Sanderson, sounding
worried to death. “Manoel ordered horses to meet you at the edge of town.”
“Going in style, eh? So long, Cap; keep your mains’l trimmed,” said Dido, and followed Tylo from the yard.
She still carried Talisman’s notebook.
Chapter Three
“TYLO,” SAID DIDO, “WHY DOES EVERYBODY in this town wear black?”
Tylo smiled, with a flash of large white teeth. He was a golden-brown boy, short, about Dido’s height, with short curly black hair. A Forest Person. His costume, like that of the small men on the dock, was close-fitting knee-length black cotton trousers and nothing else.
“Why? Because, treetime back, old Sovran King John he lose he wifie, Erato. Much-loved wifie. So, says he, all now grieve till I say quit grieving.”
“And he hasn’t said that yet?”
Tylo sighed and spread out his hands. “Old Sovran King John very very sad sick man.”
“How long is treetime?”
“Till djeela-tree grow fullsize.”
Since Dido had not the least idea how long a djeela-tree took to grow, this did not help.
“What is a djeela-tree? Are there any round here?”
Tylo shook his head. “Not in town. In plantation – djeela-trees much costly. Nobody allowed to grow them, only old Sovran King John.”
“Yus,” said Dido. “Now I remember Captain Sanderson talking about djeela spice. It costs twenty guineas for a thimbleful. No other islands have the trees, only Aratu . . . And John King brought the seeds from no one knows where. Is that right?”
“Right as rainbow!” Tylo grinned again. “Only us have djeela, and only Sovran John grow djeela-tree. Anybody else plant djeela-tree in backyard, he quicktime thrown off Cliff of Death.”
“Croopus,” said Dido. “What’s the Cliff of Death?”
“On Fura Mountain. Nineteen hours’ walk from Regina town.”
“This town where we are now?”
“Yes, Shaki-miss. Sovran King John live on Fura Mountain. In Limbo Lodge.”
“I guess you know the whole island very well?”
