by John Buchan
“In Grachovo. By the river side, in a disused warehouse. There are men here they call the Water Rats — secret people who have long defied our police. They are Kuno’s instruments. This night I am to be taken down the river away from Grachovo. They spoke of killing me first, but Kuno forbade it. ‘Not yet,’ he said. But he means to kill me, Beel, and hide my body far from Gracia, so that none will ever know my fate.... Oh, take me away! Save me, dear Beel, save me!”
There was an hysterical note in the boy’s voice which alarmed Bill. He stroked his head and put his arm round his shoulders.
“You are quite safe. Don’t be afraid. But you are the King now, you know, and must look a bit ahead. We can’t leave Kuno here.”
“We will return with a regiment and surround this place.” A wholesome wrath was entering Anatole’s voice.
“He might escape, Besides, you don’t want a big public row just at present. It would only stir up the Kunoites. Far better shift the brute to some place where he can’t get away in a hurry. Our first job is to settle with Kuno.”
“But you will not leave me!” Terror was mounting again.
“Let’s both go. He is sleeping pretty sound?”
“He is very weary. He said that he must have eight hours’ sleep, for he flew from somewhere far away.”
“All right. Now do exactly as I tell you. Get a firm hold of my braces. We are going on a journey.”
Anatole rose staggeringly and balanced himself on his bare feet. Bill kicked off his shoes, his best shoes. They were never seen again, and their loss led to fierce recriminations from Elsie the nurse.
The two boys stole across the room to the heap of straw where sprawled the figure of a sleeping man. Kuno was still in the clothes which Bill had last seen at Glenmore, including the fur-lined overcoat. But someone — perhaps Lanerick, the Lord-Lieutenant of Perthshire — had given him a knitted woollen muffler. To Bill’s amusement it was in the colours of his own school. The man lay on his side with his face away from the boys, and his breathing told them that his slumbers were deep.
Bill, as he had done before, grasped the belt of Kuno’s great coat, while Anatole held on to his braces. Then with his right hand he twisted the staff.
“I want to be taken to a quiet place near Moscow,” he said.
It was like tumbling into a cold bath. Bill found himself in what looked like a snow-covered brickfield. It was grey, biting weather, and the place seemed the last word in dreariness, for under the leaden sky the squalid and ruinous houses seemed to stretch endlessly.
Kuno lay on the ground slowly wakening. The two boys slipped off to a distance of some yards and watched him as he rubbed his eyes and shambled to his feet like a great ox.
“This is the place for him,” said Bill. “He will be at home among the Bolshies.... Golly! it’s cold. Speak to him, Anatole. Say good-bye nicely.”
Anatole, freezing in his silken pyjamas, managed to say a good deal. It was in a tongue which Bill did not understand, but its effect on Kuno was plain enough. Amazement, fear, and fury chased each other across his expressive countenance. The last words of all must have had a special sting, for with a roar the big man started towards them.
“We had better hop it,” said Bill. But before he twirled the stick he added to the commination service something on his own account, in the most abusive French he could compass. It was “Sale bête! maintenant vous l’avez pris dans le cou.”
The Palace was beautifully warm, and in his own room the frozen Anatole was himself again. He flung himself on Bill and hugged him, and then skipped about the floor to get the stiffness out of his legs. “I must have a bath,” he cried, “and food, for I am famished.” Then he caught sight of a long green case on the table. “What is that?” he cried.
“It’s my present to you,” said Bill. “ I thought you’d like it. It is a sporting rifle just like my father’s.”
The boys were deep in the examination of its marvels, and Anatole was lying flat on a couch sighting it over a cushion, when the hour of midday boomed from the Cathedral tower and reminded Bill of his duty. He unlocked the door, rang the bell, and summoned a servant.
“His Majesty requires the attendance of Prince Zosimo,” was his order.
When Zosimo, still dishevelled and grey with care, presented himself, he was confronted by his King in fluttering pyjamas holding a small rifle at the present.
“Rejoice, my uncle,” said Anatole, “for all is well. The great Beel has brought me back, and, as you see, he has armed me. Bid the police cease their activities. The Water Rats we will gather up at our leisure. As for friend Kuno, the good God has him in keeping. At this moment he is perhaps trying to explain to the Soviet officers what he is doing in the suburbs of Moscow. I think the task will not be easy.”
Thereafter Bill walked into a romance which was beyond his craziest dream. He was given a bath in hot scented water, and though he cordially disliked all scents he rather enjoyed it. Then came a little man in white linen who begged permission to arrange his hair, and Bill, who did not love barbers, submitted as to a high ceremonial. Then a valet dressed him in the clothes which had been appointed — a jacket and breeches of white satin with gold buttons, white silk stockings, and wonderful white leather shoes with black rosettes, since the Court was in mourning for the dead monarch. Round his waist was clasped a belt of fine gold mesh studded with rough turquoises from the mountains, and from it was suspended the curved sword of a Gracian noble. On his left breast was pinned the gold star of St. Lampadas; it had five points set with brilliants, and in the centre was the enamelled figure of that saint in his famous act of bearing the lit Lamp of the Temple through what appeared to be a cyclone. From his shoulders hung an embroidered cloak of purple velvet, and on his head was a peaked cap with an osprey’s plume set in a jewel of emeralds.
By all his standards he should have felt a fool, for had he not invariably made a scene at home when he was compelled to go to a fancy-dress party? But Bill did not feel a fool. I am afraid he felt rather like a hero. He had his lunch alone, but, though the lunch was excellent, he ate little, thereby obeying one of his mother’s injunctions that morning.
The afternoon passed like a dream. The city was in mourning, but also keyed up to a tense excitement. There was no music as they drove in the state coaches to the Cathedral through the packed streets, and indeed little sound of any kind. The people were waiting until the sacred Lamp was replenished and the life of Gracia could begin its new year.
In the great, dim Cathedral Bill stood a little behind the new King, while the organ boomed, and the trebles of the choristers rose with the joy of a spring sunrise. Bill had eyes only for Anatole, as he knelt before the altar and received from the hands of the Archbishop the sacred oil. This boy, only a little older than himself, was taking charge of a nation and dedicating himself to a high purpose. Bill forgot all about himself and the magic staff and honour and glory. He felt shy and solemn and abashed, and full to the brim of good resolutions.
But when they emerged from the Cathedral the pomp of the world again laid hold of him. For now the people of Grachovo seemed to have done with their mourning, though the old King lay dead in their midst. They hailed a new King and a new world. The national anthem of Gracia rose like a strong wind. The band of the Royal Guards played it and a hundred thousand voices joined in. Never had Bill heard such music. It was like all the bold songs he remembered—”Rule Britannia” and “Blue Bonnets over the Border” and “Men of Harlech” — blended in one superb defiance. He sat up very stiff in the royal carriage and tried not to cry.
But in the Hall of Audience he did cry, for that was more than flesh and blood could bear. There was no King to present the Crown Prince to the nobles, for the Crown Prince was now King and had to present himself. When Anatole stepped forward, very little and quaint in his Field-Marshal’s uniform, and in a breaking voice asked for the allegiance of his people, there came a shout which made the walls tremble, and a hundred swords
flashed upwards. The King was so small and so young and had come through so much tribulation, that the faces below the dais, many of them grim and scarred, melted into a sudden tenderness. There were tears in the Hall of Audience, a portent which had not been seen for many a day.
Said Prince Zosimo, speaking to himself:
“The monarchy is secure. Nay, Gracia is secure, for she has found an authority which she can love.” An hour later, while Bill was hurrying into his own clothes, Anatole sat by him pale, but happy, and with a strange dignity in his face.
“You will come back soon, dear Beel,” he said. “I shall be busy, for now I must rule with the aid of my Regency Council, but without you I shall be a lonely king.”
Bill arrived in his bedroom in Portland Place about six o’clock. He waited there until it was time to dress, for he did not want to talk to anybody.
“I never heard you come home,” his mother told him, when the family met in the drawing-room before dinner. “Have you had a good day?” Bill nodded. “Good” was scarcely the word he would have chosen. He was very quiet all evening, and played draughts with Aunt Alice besides visiting Peter in bed. Something tremendous had happened to him, a destiny with which he could not quite cope. He had been switched to the top of a high mountain, and he wondered how he was going to take up his road in the valley again. He felt rather old, and yet desperately conscious that he was young and feeble and of no particular account. For the first time in his life Bill knew what it was to be humble.
CHAPTER XXII. THE GOING OF THE STAFF.
NEXT morning Bill rose with a cloud on his mind. He had slept long and deep and had had no dreams, but as soon as he opened his eyes he knew that something was amiss. It was a detestable morning, foggy with a slight drizzle, and he dressed in a mood of despondency which he could not understand.
The marvels of yesterday could never happen again. That was the only thing about which he was clear. Something must come between him and Anatole, for how could an ordinary schoolboy in England, not much respected by his masters, keep up his friendship with a far-away King? And yet he liked Anatole so much that his eyes filled when he thought of leaving him. And Anatole needed him too. He would be very solitary among the old men. And there was Kuno ramping among the Bolsheviks. Some day Kuno would come back and make trouble.
But he had still the magic staff. That was his only consolation amid his forebodings. He handled it lovingly and it gave him a little comfort.
At breakfast he did not look at the papers. No doubt they were full of yesterday’s doings in Grachovo, but he did not want to read them. He preferred to keep his memory select and secret like a dream.
He spent the morning indoors with the now convalescent Peter, making believe to be deeply interested in his new camera. Aunt Alice, after her fashion, announced that he was an odd boy but had clearly a good heart.
In the afternoon came the conjuring show at the Albemarle Hall. In the past Bill had shown an inordinate appetite for such entertainments, but now the idea seemed to him merely silly. What were disappearing donkeys and vanishing ladies compared to the performances which he had lately staged? But he had to pretend to be enthusiastic, feeling that good manners were required from an associate of princes.
When they reached the door of the hall he had an unpleasant shock. He was required to give up his stick and receive a metal check for it. To his mother’s surprise he protested loudly. “It won’t do any harm,” he pleaded. “It will stay beside me under the seat.” But the rule was inexorable and he had to surrender it.
“Don’t be afraid, darling,” his mother told him. “That funny stick of yours won’t be lost. The check is a receipt for it, and they are very careful.”
The world had darkened for Bill, and all his forebodings of the morning returned. While Peter gurgled and giggled, he spent an hour and a half of black misery. This was worse than last half when the stick had been left behind at home. He kept his eyes tightly shut, for he could not take the slightest interest in the antics on the stage. Happily his mother could not see him; she thought that his stillness was due to an intense absorption.
When the performance came to an end he dragged his mother and Peter furiously through the crowd; but they had been near the front of the Hall and were slow in reaching the entrance. With his heart in his mouth he pushed up to the counter. There was no sign of the man who had given him the check. Instead there was a youth who seemed to be new to the business, and who was very clumsy in returning the sticks and umbrellas.
When it came to Bill’s turn he was extra slow, and presently announced that he could find no No. 229. Bill was almost in tears. His mother, seeing his distress, intervened, and sent the youth to look again while other people were kept waiting. But the youth came back with the same story. There was no duplicate No. 229 or any article corresponding to Bill’s description.
After that he had to be allowed to attend to the others, and Bill waited hysterically until the crowd had gone. Then there was a thorough search, and Bill and his mother and Peter were allowed to go behind the counter.
But no No. 229 could be found, and there were no sticks left, only three umbrellas.
Bill was now patently weeping.
“Never mind, darling,” his mother said. “We must go home now, or Aunt Alice will be anxious. I promise that your father will come here to-morrow and clear up the whole business. Never fear — the stick will be found.”
But Bill had the awful conviction in his heart that it was lost.
When Bill’s father went there next day and cross-examined the wretched youth he extracted a curious story. If the staff was lost, so also was the keeper of the walking-sticks, for the youth was only his assistant. The keeper — his name was Jukes and he lived in Hammersmith — had not been seen since yesterday afternoon during the performance; Mrs. Jukes had come round and made a scene, and that morning the police had been informed.
Mr. Jukes, it appeared, was not a very pleasant character, and he had had too much beer at luncheon. When the audience had all gone in, he had expressed to his assistant his satiety of life.
The youth’s testimony ran as follows:
“Mr. Jukes, ‘e was wavin’ his arm something chronic, and carryin’ on about ‘ow this was no billet for a man like ‘im. He picks up a stick, and I thought he was goin’ to ‘it me. ‘Percy, me lad,’ says ‘e, ‘I’m fed up — fed up to the back teeth.’ He starts twirling the stick, and says ‘e, ‘I wish to ‘eaven I was out of ‘ere.’ After that I must ‘ave come over faint, for when I looks again, ‘e ‘ad ‘opped it.”
Mr. Jukes’s case is still a puzzle to his bereaved wife and to the police, the general idea being that he had levanted to escape the responsibilities of his family. But Bill understands only too clearly what happened. Mr. Jukes and the staff have gone “out of ‘ere,” and where that may be neither Bill nor I can guess.
In the miserable weeks that followed Bill reasoned out the matter with himself and came to this conclusion. The staff was not Beauty, but Bands, and he attributed his loss to the fact that he had been thinking too much of his own amusement. He did not believe that Bands had republican principles and disliked monarchies. But Bands had come to dislike him. He had been too proud and had thought a great deal about his own cleverness, when it was the staff that did everything. Bands wanted to teach him humility, or perhaps Bands meant well and understood that Bill had simply got himself into a position where going on was impossible. He had cut in on the road too far ahead, and must now go back and retrace the path from the start.
So Bill wrote to Anatole and told him what had happened, and received in return a letter which made him howl, but which also heartened him. Some day Bill would come to Grachovo, or if he did not Anatole would come to England, for, said the King of Gracia, “We two have gone through so many difficult places that fate cannot separate us.”
Bill is very humble nowadays, and at the back of his head he has a faint hope that somehow or other and sometime or other t
he staff may return to him. He would even be content if he knew that it was back in the ordinary world, though in the possession of someone else, for he cannot bear to think that a thing so wonderful should have gone altogether out of human life.
So he wants me to broadcast this story.
Let every boy and girl keep a sharp eye on shops where sticks are sold. The magic staff is not quite four feet long and about one and a quarter inches thick. It is made of a heavy dark red wood, rather like the West Indian purpleheart. Its handle is in the shape of a crescent with the horns uppermost, made of some white substance which is neither bone nor ivory. If anyone sees such a stick, then Bill will give all his worldly wealth for news of it.
Failing that, he would like information about the man who sold it to him. He is very old, small and wizened, but his eyes are the brightest you ever saw in a human head. He wears a shabby greeny-black overcoat which reaches down to his heels, and a tall greeny-black bowler hat. It is possible that the stick may have returned to him. So if you meet anyone like him, look sharply at his bundle, and if it is there and he is willing to sell, buy, buy, buy, or you will regret it all your days. For this purpose it is wise always to have a farthing in your pocket, for he won’t give change.
THE END
THE COURTS OF THE MORNI NG
The Courts of the Morning was first published in September, 1929, by Hodder & Stoughton. The adventure novel features a prologue narrated by Buchan’s famous character, Richard Hannay, who first appeared in The Thirty-Nine Steps. The narrative is set in Olifa, a fictional country on the west coast of South America. The novel’s protagonist, portrayed as a friend of Hannay, is Sandy Arbuthnot, whom Buchan based on his real-life friend Aubrey Herbert (1880–1923), a British diplomat, traveller and intelligence officer associated with Albanian independence.
In the narrative, Sandy Arbuthnot’s friend John Blenkiron discovers that a charismatic industrial tycoon is plotting to rule the world from his base in the small South American country of Olifa. Following Blenkiron’s disappearance, Sandy is drawn into the mystery, eventually finding himself leading a revolution to thwart the plot and allow the Olifans to decide their own fate.
