by Joan Aiken
He gave her a cordial welcome.
“Greetings, and may your nets never lack for fish, our noble deliverer! How shall I call you, maiden? What is your name?”
“Arabis, sir, my name is.”
“Arabis?” he repeated. “That sounds like a word from our language. Where did you have such a name?”
“It is a Welsh word, sir, meaning witty. Also it was my mother’s name before me.”
“And your mother? Was she Welsh?”
“Why no, sir,” Arabis said. “She was a travelling singer, who came from the island of Melita.”
“Melita?” Yehimelek became quite excited. “But how strange! That name is woven into the history of
“He is an elder of our tribe, a man with a bottomless memory for the old histories. Although it is so long since our forefathers came from there he can describe the streets of Sa’ir and Taidon as if he himself had set foot in them.”
Maybe it was the land of Italy your ancestors came from then? Not far from Melita, I am thinking?”
But, try as he would, Yehimelek could not recall if Melita lay east or west, or, he presently began to wonder, north or south of his homeland.
“If only Abipaal were here,” he sighed.
“Who is Abipaal, sir?”
“He is an elder of our tribe, a man with a bottomless memory for the old histories. Although it is so long since our forefathers came from there he can describe the streets of Sa’ir and Taidon as if he himself had set foot in them.”
“Where is he to be found, sir? Can I be fetching him along for your excellency?”
But Yehimelek shook his head.
“Abipaal is a solitary—a hermit. When the town of Nant Agerddau began to grow in size and many people came there to take the waters, and outsiders entered the caves which had been our undisturbed home for so many hundreds of years, we feared discovery. We had long been used to navigating the Malyn river in our camel-skin boats, coming down the underground ways to the shore to catch fish by night. So we migrated, and made dwellings in this cliff, for ourselves and our few remaining camels. But Abipaal would not leave; he loves the mountain and prefers to stay there in hiding, playing his music and remembering the old tales. And because of his surly temper, the others were not sorry to part from him.”
Arabis was interested. “He plays music, sir? What kind of music would that be, I am wondering? I see you have a picture of a harp hanging over your door.”
“In the old days,” he explained, “my tribe were renowned for their skill in making harps; the conquerors used to buy them. At one time there used to be quite a number of old harps lying about but, these days, since we cannot dispose of them, they have mostly been melted down into more useful articles, such as fish hooks or cooking-pots.”
“Eh, dear, there’s sad!” exclaimed Arabis warmly. “Dearly would I have liked to buy one, if I had had enough money. Always wanted a harp, I have.”
Yehemelek looked at her gravely and kindly.
“Then indeed I wish we had one left to give you, lady, but I fear there is not now a harp to be found among us, except that of Abipaal—if indeed he has not broken his in a passion. For it is a curious thing that, although we can make musical instruments and love music, the power of making music itself is not found among us. We can make things with our hands, from gold and ivory, but weaving beauty out of the air is not our gift, and it is a grief to us. Abipaal has more skill than most, but it is not great; often in a rage he would hurl his harp down; the sounds he made were more likely to set your teeth on edge than to lift your heart up.”
On a sudden impulse Arabis unslung the little crwth, which she had brought with her, and began tuning it. Yehimelek listened with delight, even to the first odd and wandering notes; Tennes and Strato poked their heads through the doorway, and then stole in; soon several more convalescent patients came tiptoeing along, as if they could not resist the sound. Arabis, having tuned the crwth, began to play a simple lullaby. As she did so, more and more people came quietly into Yehimelek’s cave and squatted down; by the time she was through there might have been fifteen or twenty of them there, lost in silent enjoyment, their eyes dreamy with recollections of things that had happened before they were born.
It almost seemed as if the music were doing them more good than food and medicine.
“Sir,” said Arabis to Yehimelek, after she had played all the airs she could remember, “has your excellency ever heard of the Harp of Teirtu?”
He shook his head. “Not by that name, Lady Arabis.”
So she told him the tale of how Prince Kilhwch, helped by King Arthur, had stolen the harp for Princess Olwen, and how it had later passed into the ownership of St. Ennodawg.
“Do you think that might have been one of the harps made by your people, sir?”
“It seems very probable, my child. Can you describe this harp of Teirtu?”
“I have not seen it with my own eyes,” Arabis said, “but I know the frame is of gold, and there is ancient writing on it.”
“That does indeed sound like one of our make. Where is this harp now?”
“Stolen, it has been, sir.” She told of the theft, and Owen’s quest. “And I am thinking,” she ended, “that it was stolen for the Marquess of Malyn, who lives in the castle at the top of this cliff.”
“That is an evil fate for it,” said Yehimelek. “Even we, living hidden, know of his wickedness. Sometimes we can hear the cries of his prisoners; our topmost dwellings are not far removed from his lowest dungeons; only a thick wall of rock lies between.”
“Dangerous, that sounds, sir? There is a wonder some of his people will not have seen any of your tribe.”
“We are careful, my child. We keep a strict watch at all times. Our lives depend on it.”
Arabis shuddered at the thought of what would happen to the Children of the Pit if Lord Malyn learned of their existence; without doubt they would be enslaved and forced to work for him; she did not think they would last very long under his rule.
“Would old Abipaal know about this Harp of Teirtu?” somebody suggested.
“That is a good thought,” Yehimelek said. “Tennes and Strato, if you are not needed to help with the sick tomorrow, go in search of him and bring him hither.”
Another round of soup was now served out and then Arabis decided that she had better leave; the slit of sky beyond Yehimelek’s window had darkened ominously. A few flakes of snow found their way in.
“Tomorrow I will come back before it is light,” she said. “I will leave my crwth here.”
“A good night to you then, Lady Arabis. Our thanks go with you. May the bird of serenity perch on your roof.”
Arabis ran down the stairs to the cliff entrance. The tide had come in and gone out again; making sure that no one was in view she slipped through the curtain of weed and away along the foot of the cliff.
Dusk fell fast, and the first few flakes of snow were thickening to a blizzard; Tom’s wagon, snug in its quarry, looked warm and cheerful with a light showing in the window. As she approached she could hear the sound of voices; she supposed that somebody must have seen the wagon and come out from Port Malyn for a haircut or a dram of medicine.
She was about to mount the steps when she paused and looked behind her, thinking she heard a footstep in the quarry.
“Is somebody there?” she said. No answer came back; only the sigh of the wind and the flutter of the snow blowing in her face. Deciding she must have been mistaken she opened the door, and was startled almost out of her wits to find the Seljuk of Rum comfortably established in her bunk, smiling from ear to ear and smoking a hookah, while Tom Dando read aloud “The King at Caerleon.”
Arabis was vexed. Why does that fat old bird of ill omen have to follow us about? she thought. Isn’t the hospitality of his fine friend the Marquess good enough for him? It is too bad, just when I wanted Dada’s advice about the tribe.
To her embarrassment the Seljuk seemed to read her thoughts.
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“Heydey! It is the obliging young lady, person, spinster, who told me the way to the Devil’s Leap,” he said with a low bow. “Doubtless you are tired from your day’s labours and wishing me at Jericho, Timbuktu, the ends of the earth, so I shall hasten to be off, take my departure, make myself few and far between, ho, ho! I have had a most pleasant, famous natter, gossip, conversazione with your good papa.”
“No call to go yet,” said Tom Dando, who was dying to read some more of his poem. “My daughter will find us a bite of supper, isn’t it, Arabis, my little one?”
The Seljuk looked as if he would be glad to be persuaded so Arabis, unwillingly mustering what civility she could, invited him to stay, and began crossly cutting up wynwyns and making a stew with wystrys and persli.
“By Jove, that smells most mouthwateringly delicious,” sighed the Seljuk by and by. “I must confess that I find the table, diet, provender of his lordship the Marquess—who serves nothing but yellow food—somewhat monotonous fare; which was why I slipped down to this rustic seaport to see if I could buy a tomato or a cucumber. But, alackaday, your Welsh sabbath! Not a shop open do I find! And the dismal cold! Imagine then my joy, felicity, bewitchment, to discover again my dear acquaintance Mr. Dando!”
Arabis began ladling the stew into bowls, devoutly hoping that Tom had not let fall any hint concerning the Children of the Pit. But she did not think that he would.
Starting to lay the table she was disconcerted to find the Seljuk’s small brown-skinned servant huddled on the floor beneath it; she had not noticed him before.
He shook his head uncomprehendingly when she offered him oyster stew; however when the Seljuk translated her question he changed to a series of grateful nods. Although he was wrapped in furs and the wagon warm as an oven he seemed shivery, and sneezed as he accepted his bowl.
“Caught cold he has, sir,” Arabis said reprovingly to the Seljuk. “There is wrong to bring him out in such weather, look you!”
“I know, indeed I know, my dear young person, but to tell truth he would not be left behind in Castle Malyn by himself; yonder abode puts him in a mortal funk! So I told him he could come along with me, eh, Ribaddi?”
Ribaddi nodded gratefully and broke into a flashing grin; it was plain that he was fond of his master, and Arabis began to think a little better of the Seljuk, who was spooning up the last drops of gravy from his pipkin with a perplexed expression. “In effect,” he went on, addressing Tom, “I am troubled about that establishment myself, and I will be glad to ask your counsel my dear confidant, friend in need, fairy godfather.”
“Glad I will be to give advice,” said Tom. “We are not thinking too highly of the Marquess ourselves, I might mention.”
“In fact, to lay bare my heart, between you and me and the doorpost,” the Seljuk went on, “I partly came out in search of the police, gendarmerie, constabulary, Bow Street Runners, or what have you? But none do I find!”
“Good gracious me, I should think not, indeed, in a respectable Welsh village!” said Arabis tartly. “A lot of robbers, do you take us for?”
“Hwt, girl,” said her father. “Well, indeed, sir, but why are you wanting the police, with you?”
“Two, or three, several, various divers persons have come to the castle of late,” explained the Seljuk. “His lordship, as you know, takes a great interest in things made of gold. I, for reasons of my own, also take an interest in such articles, so—ahem!—I take an interest in his lordship’s dealings. Some of these visitors he interviewed behind a closed door so I was not able to overhear exactly what he said to them”—the Seljuk looked rather provoked about this—“but I formed the opinion, inference, conclusion, that he was not being quite kind to some of them.” Arabis and Tom exchanged a quick, anxious look. “One of these people, I have reason to believe, was the venerable and respected Mr. Hughes, by whom I had the brief honour of being shown round the Pennygaff Museum”—“Eh, dear!” exclaimed Arabis—“another, I have only too much cause to fear, was my old friend and benefactor, Brother Ianto.”
“Brother Ianto?” Arabis was more and more alarmed. “Mercy! Why would his lordship be wanting Brother Ianto?”
“It is to do with a harp, some Harp of Teirtu, I apprehended, conceive, hit the nail on the head,” explained the Seljuk. “I understand he wishes to locate, procure, lay his paws on the harp, and is unable to do so.”
“Indeed?” Arabis gave the Seljuk a suspicious glance. “Thought he had already made off with the harp, I did. But why send for Brother Ianto?”
“It is because Brother Ianto will be the guardian of the Harp of Teirtu, of course,” Tom Dando put in testily, very much surprising his daughter. When she had told him of the harp’s discovery he had been still so wrapped up in his poem that he had not seemed to take in the news. “Brother Ianto will be the last of the monks of St. Ennodawg, in whose keeping the harp was left.”
“Fancy that! How do you come to know such a thing, Dada?”
“Read it in a poem, I did, fach.”
“But, hwchw, in that case Brother Ianto’s life is not worth a twopenny pinch of snuff, up in that nasty place!” Arabis exclaimed in great distress. “And what about the poor old gentleman, Mr. Hughes? Very strong in his notion that the harp should go to its right owner, Owen said he was. And a brisk tongue he has; I am thinking he might easily give offence to Lord Malyn. And, oh, sir, was his grandson there? A boy my age, very thin, with him, and black hair, and a short-sighted look?”
“I am not sure, my dear young friend,” the Seljuk said apologetically. “I did not view, espy, lay eyes on the arrival of Mr. Hughes, but only listened to Lord Malyn’s conversation with him through the door. And, my word, good gracious, gadzooks! They sounded in a huff, in a ferment, in high dudgeon! And I do not believe most of these persons have left the castle yet; I believe they are clapped up there in durance vile!”
“Da,” said Arabis, standing up resolutely. “Do something about this, we must!”
“Indeed I am thinking so too,” agreed Tom, “but what do you suggest, my little one?”
“You must go to fetch the Prince of Wales, Dada. Time somebody gave that wicked Marquess his deserts, and Prince Deio the only one with power to do it.”
“0, possibly so, but where am I to find the old prince?” Tom said, rather startled. “Long way to London it is, look you.”
“If you hadn’t been so deep buried in your poem these last days, Dada, you would have heard he is coming to visit his lordship for the boar-hunting. Talking of little else, the folk of Nant Agerddau, when we were there. Go back along the high road and there is sure you are to meet him on the way. And then you must tell him to come after Lord Malyn with the militia and put a stop to his nasty ways.”
“Right, you,” said Tom, standing up and preparing to set forth at once. “But, now, what about those people up at the castle? Short in the temper, Lord Malyn, so I am hearing; suppose he takes a notion to toss them out of his bedroom window?”
“I do not think he will do that until he has the harp safe,” said Arabis. “But in any case we shall go back to the castle.”
“We?” said the Seljuk. “Us?”
“Right, you!”
The Seljuk’s mouth fell open in dismay. “Really, my dear young creature, juvenile, miss,” he protested. “I am a lover of justice, verily, but is that wise or needful? If I were in my own country with my janizaries about me it would indeed be another kettle of fish, a horse of a different colour; here I am but a private citizen! In the primary place, how do you propose to enter? The Marquess, you may know, has a rooted dislike of all your charming sex, due, I apprehend, to feelings of spite against a young lady by whom he was jilted, given the go-by, sent about his business, when at a younger age.”
“I shall dress up in your servant’s clothes, of course. Anyone can see he should not go out again tonight. He can go to bed in Dada’s bunk, and then Da can drive the wagon towards Nant Agerddau till he meets the prince.”
“My stars!”
The Seljuk was not at all happy about this scheme, but when Arabis was determined upon a course of action other people usually found, in the end, that it was easiest to fall in with her plans.
So, not long afterwards, the wagon set off for Nant Agerddau, driven by Tom, pulled through the snowstorm by the valiant Galahad, with the Seljuk’s servant, full of aconite, belladonna, hellebore, and ipecacuanha, sleeping comfortably inside under a mound of quilts.
And the Seljuk, a-twitter with apprehension, climbed puffing up the steep hill to the castle, accompanied by Arabis, who had browned her face with walnut juice and dressed herself in Ribaddi’s fur jacket and trousers, tucking her black hair inside his astrakhan fez.
When they were halfway up the hill a winged form came flapping heavily through the snowy dark and settled with a martyred croak upon Arabis’s hat.
“There now! I was afraid he might do that, so cross as he’s been because I left him behind when—” Guiltily she bit off her words and addressed the bird. “Why did you have to come out in all this nasty snow? Go home, bad Hawc!”
But Hawc refused to budge.
“You will have to tell the Marquess that you bought him in the village, I am afraid, sir.”
The Seljuk seemed to feel that Hawc was the least of their troubles.
“But what are we going to do when we get to the castle, my dear young colleague, partisan, crony? What course do you propose we pursue?”
“Oh,” Arabis said airily, “I have several plans. We shall have to see. But first we must discover whether all those people are still there—Owen, Brother Ianto, Mr. Hughes’—thank goodness the Marquess doesn’t know about the Children of the Pit, she thought to herself—”and then we must make sure he doesn’t harm them until Prince Deio arrives with Dada.”
