The Stolen Lake (Wolves Chronicles)

by Joan Aiken

  Trying to make as little noise as possible, she wriggled clear of the sack and looked around her. Although it was darker now, her eyes were more accustomed to the dimness. She seemed to be in a very large warehouse stacked with many kinds of goods: farm implements, fodder, tools, seeds, bales, barrels, and crates. Narrow alleys threaded between the high piles; it was like a maze, and Dido tried several alleys before she found one that led her to a wall, in which she saw two or three small window squares high above her head.

  They were too small and too high to be any use for escape; she edged her way along the wall, hastened on her way by certain squeaks and scurryings close by; there ain't no shortage of rats here, she thought, and was glad not to be still fastened in a sack with her hands tied behind her.

  At last she reached a wide loading space by a pair of big double doors, plainly the main entrance to the store. But the doors were fastened, as was a little wicket cut through them.

  Dido began to feel annoyed. She was hollow with hunger too. Old Cap'll be real mortallious when he wants to catch that boat and finds I'm missing, she thought. Peering up in the gloom she discovered that the fastening of the double doors consisted of a long iron bar, held in place by four massive staples. All I have to do is knock that out, she thought. But what with? It's out o' my reach. But among all this mollux of goods there must be summat I can use.

  Her luck had changed. She discovered a pile of hay rakes not far away in the murk—fell over them, in fact, and grazed her shin on the sharp tines. Just the job, she thought joyfully, rubbing her leg, and she pulled one free and returned to the door.

  It was impossible not to make a good deal of noise pushing the bar along through the staples. In for a penny, in for a pound, Dido decided, bashing away with her rake head. At least, if those two hear and come back, I've got me summat to thump them, with. They won't put me in a bag so easy next time!

  The bar fell to the ground with a clang. Of their own accord, the two great doors began to open slightly, disclosing a twilit scene outside. Inching her way through the narrow gap, Dido looked cautiously round her. She was amazed to find herself down on the quayside. Fancy! she thought. There must be a passageway right from The White Hart to that storehouse. Underground, maybe. Likely there's a bit of smuggling goes on in these parts.

  Dusk was falling fast—she must have slept for two or three hours. The quay was empty and silent, except for an occasional seagull, pondering on a bollard. But—Dido was delighted to notice—only a couple of hundred yards from the building in which she had been imprisoned floated the pinnace belonging to H. M. S. Thrush, still moored alongside the quay.

  Glancing both ways, Dido broke into a fast run. I'll ask one o' the crew to see me back to The White Hart. Reckon that Vavasour was right in one thing she said—this don't feel a healthy town to loiter about the streets alone.

  A couple of sailors were in the pinnace, doing something to the rudder; she hailed them, panting, as she came alongside.

  "Hey-o, Solly and Tad! Can I come aboard?"

  "Why, 'tis the supercargo—little Miss Dido. What be you a-doing down on the dockside? Thought you was with the cap'n, dining on roast goose and gravy!"

  "He's a-calling on the mayor," Dido replied. "And I'm not supposed to be in the street by myself. Would one o' you coves be agreeable to walk me back to The White Hart?"

  "The bosun'd have us over a gun barrel, duck, if he come back and found us missing—he's in the town buying nails. You'd best come on board till he gets back."

  Dido was about to accept this invitation when a man who had been limping slowly toward them came up beside her and said, "The young lady wishes to be escorted to The White Hart hostelry? I shall be glad to accompany her. I am going that way."

  The sailors had been working by the light of the two lanterns that hung in the rigging. Their yellow glow illuminated the face of the newcomer. Swelp me, he's a rum gager, Dido thought. Dare I trust him?

  He was indeed a very strange-looking individual: tall, deathly pale, even in that gold light—as if he had been in prison fifty years—with great cavernous eye sockets, a long curved nose, a thin wide mouth, and a shock of snow-white hair. His clothes were black. A large white cockatoo sat on his shoulder, and he carried a triangular stringed instrument. He had a wooden leg.

  Dido was on the point of saying "No thanks, mister," in the firmest possible way, when he halted her with upraised hand.

  "You are about to refuse my offer. You are afraid of me."

  "No I ain't!" she retorted crossly (though she was, a little). "It's jist that one dassn't trust a soul in this rabshackle town."

  "Spoken like a wise child! But you may trust me."

  "How can I be sure, mister? I been gulled afore."

  He sighed.

  "You may trust me because it is not in my power to harm. I can prevent harm, sometimes; sometimes not even that."

  Dido studied him a while longer. That's what you say, she thought.

  He disconcerted her by reading her thought.

  "It is what I say. And it is the truth. I tell nothing but truth."

  "Humph!"

  Dido was still not at all sure that she trusted him. But there was something about him that pricked her curiosity greatly. He looked as if he knew such a lot! She had a notion that, if he chose, he would be able to answer any question she cared to put to him.

  At last she said, "How do I know as you ain't pals with that pair as nabbled me?"

  "Oh, how, how?" he exclaimed impatiently. "How do you know that two and two make four, or that your name is Dido and your sister's Penelope? I know because I know, but I could explain for years, and you would still be in the dark."

  Dido was so amazed at this answer that, after a moment, quite meekly, she said, "Reckon I'll go with you, then, mister, and thank you kindly."

  Tad and Solly, reassured, returned to their work on the rudder, nodding in a friendly way to Dido as she walked off with the stranger.

  She said "How did you know about my name and my sister's, mister?"

  "You may call me Bran," he answered. "And I told you—I can't give you any explanation that you would understand. You must simply accept that I do know."

  Dido digested this in silence for a minute or two. At first she felt rather mortified. He must think her a ninny! And yet he seemed friendly enough. Then something came into her mind, and she exclaimed, "Your name's Bran?"

  "That is what I am called by some."

  "Was that you, then, singing, a while ago? When I was shut in that place? About your heart being pink?"

  He smiled and stroked the great white cockatoo, which all this time had been sitting as quiet as a stuffed bird on his shoulder.

  "Sometimes my heart is white! Eh, Chanticleer?" The bird croaked gently and puffed up its feathers.

  "He sure is a big 'un," said Dido respectfully. Then she repeated, "Was that you singing?"

  "I was singing, yes. I am a jongleur."

  "What's that?"

  "A minstrel. I sing songs for a living. And tell stories."

  Dido was interested. "That's a rare way to make a living."

  She thought again, and went on, "If that's all you do, though, why was that pair of old witches so frit of you? And if you know sich a blessed lot—if you knew I was shut in there—why the blazes didn't you help me?"

  "What need?" Bran said. "I knew that you would get out by yourself."

  "Mighty fine talk!"

  "True talk."

  "Why was they scared?" she persisted.

  "They have good reason to fear me," Bran said. "And you too, now."

  "Why me?"

  "For various reasons. But one reason why they fear both of us is that we have escaped from them, and are now on our guard."

  Dido reflected that this was true. "Did you escape from them too, mister?"

  He smiled. "I was their prisoner for more years than there are hairs on your head."

  "Go on! You can't gammon me like that!"

>   But, still smiling, he stroked the great bird, which suddenly spread out his wings in a wide stretch, then folded them again.

  "I have been in the dark," said Bran, "listening to the drops that fell from the roof, till those drops had bored a hole deeper than thrice the height of Mount Catelonde. It was during that time that I made up my songs and my stories."

  "Could you tell me a story now, mister?" said Dido hopefully, as they started up the steep hill that led to The White Hart. She was walking rather slowly. Her bones ached, her bruises throbbed, she felt queasy from the effects of the poisonous pincushion, and hollow from hunger. But she added fairly, "I can't pay you for it, though—I guess you knows that! On account you seem to know everything else about me."

  "I will tell you a story for love, then," Bran said, smiling. "It is about a stick. A young boy was the youngest of twelve brothers, and so his father thought little of him."

  Dido was interested at once, being the youngest in her own family.

  "When the older sons were grown," Bran went on, "their father gave them each a horse, sword, and suit of armor, and sent them out into the world. But to the youngest he gave nothing, saying, 'You are too undersized and puny. It would be a waste to give you armor.'"

  "What a blame shame!" said Dido indignantly.

  "The youngest son, however, went into the wood, and cut himself a stick, from which he made a hobbyhorse. And when he rode on it, saying, 'Fly quick, my stick!' the stick flew up into the air, and carried him wherever he wanted to go."

  "Coo!" said Dido.

  "Riding on his magic stick, he was able to rescue his elder brothers, who were in great danger just then, and he also killed a dragon and saved a princess, and performed other feats. And was rewarded with fame and riches.

  "But the day came when he started riding on the stick merely to astonish people and get their applause; he did it in the marketplace for money, like a circus rider."

  "Dunno as I blame him," said Dido.

  "No? But after he had done this for some time, the stick lost its power. And by degrees he lost all his wealth. Finally he was reduced to stealing and other bad ways, was imprisoned, and in the end sentenced to death."

  Dido heaved a sigh, but said nothing.

  "His brothers would not help him. His eldest brother was now king of the country; and at the last, since the condemned man was, after all, his brother, he sent a message that, on the night before his execution, the prisoner might have anything that he wished."

  "I'd have wished to be let out!"

  "Anything but that."

  "So what did he wish?"

  "He asked that someone should go to the wood and cut him a stick."

  "Did they?"

  "A stick was brought to his cell. And the prisoner—who now, through wild living and vice and despair, looked like an old, old bent man—mounted, trembling, on the stick and said, 'Fly quick, my stick, carry me away.'"

  "And did it?" said Dido eagerly.

  "Here we are at The White Hart," said Bran. "Good night, Dido Twite."

  "But—mister! Hey! The end of the story! Did it carry him?"

  She heard a laugh in his voice as he said, "We shall meet again." Then he disappeared into the darkness.

  Dido went gingerly into The White Hart. For all she knew, the two dressmakers would be somewhere about, waiting to waylay her again. But luckily the first person she saw was Captain Hughes, pacing about the hall with an expression of wrath and perturbation on his brow. When he saw Dido he pounced on her and almost shook her.

  "Miss Twite! Where the deuce have you been? We have had the whole place turned upside down searching for you. How dare you go out when I forbade you to?"

  "Here, hold hard, Cap!" said Dido aggrievedly, rubbing her bruised arms where he had gripped them. "Don't you go a-banging me, now! It were that dicey pair as called 'emselves dressmakers—they took and abducted me."

  "Balderdash! Do not seek to pull the wool over my eyes, miss! Fabricate me no Banbury stories!"

  "Wool? It were a blasted pincushion—not any fabricoction," Dido was beginning indignantly, when Mr. Holystone came down the stairs. His face broke into a beaming smile of relief at the sight of Dido, and he exclaimed, "There you are! We have been so concerned about you."

  "I was nabbled," Dido repeated, and, encouraged by Mr. Holystone's sympathy and evident belief, she poured out the story of what Mrs. Morgan and Mrs. Vavasour had done to her. Taking the two men up to her room, she pointed to the chest which contained the secret entrance.

  "It does not open," said the captain, trying it. "It is nailed shut. This must be pure invention!"

  Mr. Holystone, however, pulled out his clasp knife and prized open the lid. The stair inside was revealed. On it lay a tuft of Dido's brown hair, a scatter of pins, and the buckle from her left brogan.

  "Good God!" Captain Hughes was aghast. "Then the child's tale is true! This is atrocious! An outrage! Where was this warehouse, child? On the dockside? I shall have the constables summoned—those two women apprehended! Where is the innkeeper?"

  He strode toward the door, turning round to bark, "Do you keep watch over the child, Holystone! Don't let her out of your sight for a single instant!"

  "I say, Mr. Holy," said Dido, as the captain clattered off down the stairs, shouting for the landlord, officers of the watch, Bow Street runners, and justices of the peace, "I say, I ain't half hungry."

  "You poor child, you must indeed be famished. Come down to the inn parlor and I will bespeak a meal."

  In the parlor, a pleasant, shadowy, paneled room, they found a fire burning, for the temperature of New Cumbria, hot during the day, dropped abruptly once the sun had set. Mr. Holystone summoned a waiter and ordered food for Dido. While it was being prepared, she told him her story in greater detail. He shook his head.

  "I doubt if those two women will be caught. They have probably discovered by now that you managed to escape, and will have made themselves scarce. They may be miles off."

  Dido was inclined to agree.

  A bowl of oyster stew arrived, with some thin cassava biscuits. While she was hungrily eating this, Mr. Holystone told her of the captain's meeting with Mr. Pryce, the mayor, or jefe, of the town.

  "What the mayor told him was one reason for his being so distressed over your absence. It seems that the rocs, or aurocs, the great birds that live in the mountains, fly down over the town at early dusk, and carry off many children, especially girls. There is great danger for young persons who go out alone."

  "That's why old Brandyblossom is leaving town, then," observed Dido, carefully wiping her stew bowl with a piece of cassava. "So the little angel won't be swiped by an auroc. But how does those two old hags come into the business, I wonder? If I'd been found missing, Cap'n Hughes would've thought an auroc got me. But them two ain't aurocs—unless they're in the catering way, a-selling tasty tidbits to the aurocs."

  A sizzling shark steak was brought in, garnished with peppers and slices of lime.

  About to commence eating, Dido paused at the sound of a heartrending, famished mew, which seemed to come from under the oak settle on which she was sitting. She looked down. A thin, golden cat had emerged from under the seat and was stretched up beseechingly, with both slender paws on her knee.

  "Why—it's Dora! How in tarnation did she get here? Reckon she followed you, Mr. Holy?"

  Dido put down a good-sized morsel of shark; the ravenous cat caught it with both paws before it reached the ground, and set upon it avidly.

  "No, that is not Dora," said Mr. Holystone, carefully inspecting the animal. He rubbed with a gentle thumb between the copper ears and tufted eyebrows. "My cat has a little silky curl, just here, in the middle of her forehead—and this one has none."

  "This one's thinner than Dora, too," agreed Dido, feeling the bony ribs and dropping another piece of shark. "But ain't that rum—to find one so simular! Are we close to your land, then, Mr. Holy? Or is cats like that common all over Roman America?"
/>   "We are not so far from Hy Brasil," he said, sighing. "But cats such as this are not so frequently met with—they generally belong to rich people—the nobility. How now, what have we here?"

  Around the cat's neck his stroking fingers had discovered a thin, plaited collar, with a leather disc and a tiny packet attached to it. The disc said Titten Tatten. Mr. Holystone, feeling the collar, uttered a soft exclamation.

  "This collar is made from human hair," he said.

  "Holy snails! Someone ain't half got long hair. Must take a deal o' combing out," Dido said, running her fingers through her own short locks. "Does the packet give the owner's name?"

  She set down her plate, with the rest of the shark steak. The cat was too interested in this bounty to object to the removal of its collar, and Mr. Holystone unfolded the little packet with careful fingers, while Dido went on to a final course of pineapple and pawpaw.

  "My, ain't that tasty! What's the paper say, Mr. Holy?"

  He was frowning over the little square. It was a tiny printed page:

  Bee. The animal that makes honey, remarkable for its industry and art.

  Beldam. An old woman, generally a term of contempt, marking the last degree of old age with all its faults and miseries.

  Cat. A domestick animal that catches mice, commonly reckoned by naturalists the lowest order of the leonine species.

  "That's rummy," said Dido, looking over his shoulder. "What'd a person stick that in a collar for? Bee? Beldam? Cat? What d'you make of it, Mr. Holy? It looks like a page from a dictionary."

  "It is a dictionary. If I mistake not, it is Dr. Samuel Johnson's Dictionary of the English Language."

  "Why would someone stick it in a cat's collar?"

  Dido took the paper from him and stared closely at the printed lines.

  "Looky here," she said after a while. "Somebody made marks here and there—see—like it might be with a thumbnail, under some o' the letters. Think that means summat? Look, here, in animal—there, in remarkable—a, r, r—"

  "—a, b, e—I believe you have hit on something!" Mr. Holystone wrote down the letters on the tablet he kept for noting good recipes.