The Sword of Straw

by Amanda Hemingway

  “Was I right,” Nathan asked, “not to say it? The L-word, I mean.”

  “Yes,” Annie said. “I think you were right.”

  Later she drove him to Thornyhill, with the sword on the backseat of the Beetle, bundled in an old blanket.

  “I thought we could hide it here,” Nathan told his uncle. “With the Grail.”

  “I see,” Bartlemy said. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, but there are no obvious alternatives, soYou’d better put it in the secret cupboard yourself; I hope it’s big enough. I would prefer not to touch it, even sealed in the scabbard and wrapped in a blanket. I can feel the aura of its inhabitant even now.”

  “I still don’t understand why it let me touch it,” Nathan said.

  “Fate,” Bartlemy suggested, flicking a glance at Annie that she pretended not to notice. “You are part of a pattern, the whole of which we cannot yet see. No doubt clarification will come, in due course.”

  He took Nathan to the chimney piece in the living room, and showed him how to operate the hidden catch to open the door. There was a small package already inside, anonymous in brown paper. Nathan wedged the sword in beside itthere was only just enough space. He felt the moment should somehow be more dramatic, more ceremonial, a ritual concealment of a weapon of great significancebut it wasn’t.

  “Supposing I got kidnapped again?” he said. “Now I know where it is, I might tell someone.”

  Bartlemy smiled. “I’m not worried.”

  “Could I stay here one night?” Nathan went on, changing the subject. “In the week. I need to do somethingdream somethingand it would be easier here.”

  “Of course.”

  It took Nathan two days to find Woodyor rather, to let Woody find him, sitting on a log with a packet of Smarties for a lure. He’d forgotten about the wose’s penchant for Smarties, but Hazel reminded him. Woody perched on the log at his side, picking out the green ones, while Nathan told him about Wilderslee, and the Deepwoods. That night the wose came to Thornyhill Manor, avoiding Hooverhe was nervous of dogsby climbing through the bedroom window. He settled down to sleep beside Nathan, evidently ill at ease in the strange surroundings (Nathan knew he would never have come to the bookshop), his twiglet body scrunched up on top of the quilt, his knotty fingers twined with Nathan’s.

  Nathan didn’t say: I’ve never done this before. He wasn’t even sure he could, but he hoped, if Woody believed in him, something in his spirit wouldn’t allow him to let the woodwose down.

  When Woody appeared to be sleeping, he fumbled for the portal, trying to focus on his destination without losing contact with his companion. It was horribly complicatedafterward, he thought it was like trying to do exams in three different subjects at once. He was concentrating so hard that as the channel opened it felt as if the world turned inside out, or he turned inside out, and there was a rush of nausea even though he had lost touch with his stomach, and the reeling vertigo of an endless fall. But somehow, though his hand was somewhere else, or nowhere at all, it was still entwined with Woody’s. He landed in his own body, on the ground, with an impact so hard he was winded. But there were treesautumn trees, orange and gold and crimson and pinkand sun sparkling through the leaves, making leopard patterns on the woodland floor. And Woody was beside him.

  They walked for a while, when Nathan got his breath back, through the many-colored forest, with the leaves falling slowly around them, and winged seedpods whirring by like tiny shuttlecocks, and spiders spinning their shimmery webs, and the whisk of squirrel tails vanishing in a flurry of foliage. After a while they halted in a clearing with a moss-grown tree-stump surrounded by toadstoolssmall brown ones like miniature umbrellas, and big red ones with white spots, and green ones with purple frills, and three tiers of yellow bracket fungus sprouting from the bole. Beyond in a net of interlocking branches a dark strange eye was watching, wary and curious.

  Nathan said: “You’d better go.”

  Woody didn’t hug him, because woses don’t hug. He said: “Goodbye,” and “Say goodbye to Hazel,” and “I’ll miss the Smarties.”

  Then he was gone.

  Nathan went on walking by himself. It had been early spring when he was there with Nell, and he wondered how much time had passed since. One summer, or two, or a hundred years. Nell could be dead and gone now, another princess sleeping in the carved bed. The thought made his heart shiver. Then he heard voiceslaughing, chatting, callingsomewhere not far away. He went toward them, cautiously, halting at the crest of a rise, dropping to his stomach to see but not be seen. The ground fell steeply in front of him, and in the dell below a group of people were having a picnic. It was a very sumptuous picnic, with two big hampers and a low table littered with plates and bottles and glasses, bowls of nuts and berries, platters of cured meat and sandwiches cut into assorted shapes. There were perhaps half a dozen picnickers with a couple of servants to look after them, but Nathan only noticed one person. Nell.

  She looked, he thought, a littlea very littleolder, maybe sixteen. Her hair was woven into braids and twisted up in a complicated mass on the crown of her head. She wore earrings that dangled and glittered, and a dress of some silky material with no darns or patches, kilted up to show another dress underneath. The Nell I knew, he thought, only wore one dress at a timebut layers were evidently still in fashion in Wilderslee. She wasn’t as chatty or as noisy as some of her companions, but from the way they turned to her every so often it was clear she was the important one, the center of attention. No longer the ragged princess of a forgotten city but a princess with a court and courtiers, with jewels and clothes and admirersa princess who might sleep (badly) on a pea but would certainly never shell one. She talked a great deal to the young man beside her, a young man with hair the color of copper beech leaves and cinnamon freckles on his arms, though Nathan couldn’t see his face. Nell was smiling often, the lovely smile he remembered so well. He was glad she wasn’t old, or dead, but somehow it stabbed him. She looks happyreally happy

  He watched for a few minutes then slithered back down the slope, trying to make as little noise as possible. He went on through the woods until the picnic was out of earshot, wondering why it should hurt so much, that Nell was happy, and wore two dresses at once, and would never shell peas again.

  The dream ended without his noticing it, fading into darkness in the way of dreams, and when he woke a bit of the darkness was still there, like a bruise on his spirit.

  Downstairs the kitchen was full of breakfast smells, but he wasn’t hungry.

  “A broken heart,” said Bartlemy. “I see. There is no food for that, not even chocolate, though many would disagree. First lovefirst painisn’t the worst, but the trouble is, you don’t know it at the time.”

  “I didn’t say I was in love,” Nathan responded. Certain confidences had gone no farther than his mother.

  “In that case,” Bartlemy said, unperturbed, “what would you like for breakfast?”

  Nathan stiffened his sinews, or possibly his upper lip.

  “Scrambled eggs, please.”

  HAZEL WAS there, a few days later, when Bartlemy had the unexpected visitor. A tall manor such was the impression he gavewith silver hair receding from the double arch of his brow and very piercing eyes. He wore a black flapping raincoat and a high collar that proclaimed his calling. “You’d better go,” Bartlemy said to Hazel. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  She went, conscious of that sharp glance, like a laser boring into her back.

  Bartlemy turned to his uninvited guest. “Zakharion.”

  “Bartoliman.”

  “Do come in.”

  As they entered the living room Hoover rose, hackles bristling, his normally buoyant tail very still. “Sit,” Bartlemy said quietly, presumably to the dog.

  The men sat, too, in a careful fashion, their attitude neither tense nor relaxed, but somewhere in between.

  “No doubt you were expecting me,” said the visitor, whom Hazel had thought unexpected.

&nbs
p; Bartlemy made a noncommittal response. He was stroking Hoover’s head, pulling one floppy ear between his fingers. The dog, taking his cue from his master, looked calm but alert.

  “I thought it was time we met,” the stranger continued.

  “We have met many times.”

  “My dear Bartoliman, let’s not be pedantic. You and I have beenshall we say, in competition?for a long, long while. However, we have not had arapprochement sincewas it Damascus, or Samarkand?”

  “I wouldn’t have called that a rapprochement,” Bartlemy said. “But my French is a little rusty.”

  The visitor chose to ignore that. “I had no idea you had buried yourself down here. A beautiful part of the countryvery quiet after all your travels. The kind of place where nothing ever happens. I imagine that was what attracted you. Quite a coincidence that I, too, should have found myself in the area.”

  “Coincidence?” Bartlemy queried.

  “Perhaps. Of course, I have a position of importanceI am a man of some stature on a national level. Whereas you”

  “You were always interested in importance and stature,” Bartlemy said.

  “What is it you’re calling yourself these days? Goodman, isn’t it? A modest title.”

  “Aspirational.”

  “Hmm. Let’s not waste time fencing with each other. I infer the same thing drew us both to these parts. I don’t suppose you would considerjoining forces? Together, we might be able to put the objector objectsin question to good use. Our combined skills”

  “I wouldn’t presume,” Bartlemy said, picking his words, “to combine my skills with yours.”

  There was a silencea significant sort of silence, the kind that says more than speech.

  “I expect you’ll be moving on now,” Bartlemy said.

  “Moving on?”

  “Leaving the school. You must have done all you can there. A man of your talents will always be in quest of pastures new, I’m sure.”

  “Indeed.” The visitor arranged his hands very deliberately on the arms of the chair. He had beautiful hands; Velzquez might have wanted to paint them. According to some sources, he had. “However, I have no immediate plans for departure.”

  “It would be wise. Consider your reputation. There is Giles Hackforth, a man in need of a crusade. If he were to make inquiries”

  “My dear fellow, there is nothing into which he could inquire. Still, you may have a point. If theerbattle is lost, a prudent man will leave the field while he is still in one piece. Is that what you are trying to tell me?”

  “The battle is neither lost nor won,” said Bartlemy. “In fact, it has barely gotten started. But there are too many forces in the field, none of them on the same side. It’s already untidy. Were you tobow out of the lists, it would thin the crowd a little.”

  “I will bear that in mind. It is true that my present situation has begun to pall. A school is a very limited bailiwick for a man of ambition. Nonethelesswhat of the boy?”

  “Which boy? Your school is full of them.”

  “The boy who dreams,” the visitor said. “Nathan Ward.”

  “I’ll look after himas far as possible.”

  “Your ideals, Bartoliman! Always getting in the way. Such an unusual boy. He fell asleep in my study once and disappeared completely. I could have done something with a boy like that. Once in control of his mindWell, we’ll let it go. You’ve never been enthusiastic about mind control, I know that. Cookerysuch a waste of your talents. Yet you don’t even offer me a cookiean unexpected discourtesy.”

  “Not really,” Bartlemy said.

  “Ah. We don’t break bread together. How traditional you are. Since no refreshment is forthcoming, I had better leave. One small thing.”

  “No.”

  “Bartoliman, don’t jump down my throat! The boy Damon had a bracelethe stole it from me, I’m afraid. Distressing to find such lax morals in the child of caring parents from a privileged environment. I wondered if he left it here?”

  “Yes,” said Bartlemy, “and no, you can’t have it. A strabythmic amulet, I believe. You didn’t seriously imagine I would return it to you?”

  “You never know.” The visitor rose to depart. “People can grow careless in old age, and you’re considerably older than me, if you will forgive me for mentioning it. The amulet is valuablelook after it. Whatever you do with the boy.”

  When he had gone Bartlemy turned to Hoover. “That, Rukush,” he said, “is why I don’t use my Gift, any more than is absolutely essential. But I fearI very much fearthings are going to get more essential from now on.”

  IT WAS perhaps a fortnight later when Chief Inspector Pobjoy dropped in. Although he did so with a casual air, Bartlemy was not deceived. No visitor to Thornyhill was ever casualthe house was too far off the beaten track for thatand nothing Pobjoy did was completely unplanned.

  “Stay to lunch,” Bartlemy said, taking acceptance for granted. The inspector might well have timed his visit with lunch in mind: it was just before noon.

  They had omelets flavored with herbs and melted cheese, and a salad of watercress and other leaves that Pobjoy didn’t recognize. But then, he had had few encounters with salad in any form.

  “I would offer you a glass of wine,” Bartlemy said, “but I assume you’re driving.”

  Pobjoy had thought he would find it difficult to describe his experience with the woman in the motor launchthis was the first time he had mentioned it to anyonebut somehow, under the influence of the omelet, it was easy to open up.

  “She seemed to know me,” he said, “but I’d never met her before. She didn’t resemble the computer image we made up for the Sardou woman, but I thought”

  “What did she look like?”

  “IFair. Dark. I don’t know. It’s ridiculous, butOf course, that was the day of the fog. It made everything a littlesurreal. In the pub, I’d picked up a rumor that our suspect was a river gypsy, but I’ve never heard of any around here. And then”

  “And then?”

  Pobjoy hesitated, lingering over his omelet. “I’d had a strange conversation with AnnieMrs. Wardearlier that day. She’s very fanciful, isn’t she?”

  “No,” said Bartlemy.

  “I meanquirky, jokeyShe said some thingsfunny thingsas if they were serious.”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t recall specifics.” He wasn’t going to mention giant man-eating worms. “Butshe talked about what happened last year as ifit might have a supernatural explanation.”

  “It might well,” Bartlemy said. “When you have eliminated the impossible, as Holmes would say.”

  “It wouldn’t stand up in court,” Pobjoy said. “Mind you, I read him when I was a boygreat stories, but nothing to do with real police work. I don’t believe in the supernatural. No evidence.” He felt comforted, hearing himself say that. Evidence was something solid to hold on to.

  “Conan Doyle did,” Bartlemy said mildly.

  “He was a writer. They’ll believe anything.” Pobjoy was dismissive.

  “Indeed. You might say, it’s their job.”

  “I suppose so.” Pobjoy clearly had a problem thinking of writing as a job. “Soare you going to tell me that woman last summer didn’t escape, she dematerializedand the river’s hauntedand those people were drowned by a ghost?” He made his voice as scornful as he could to conceal his own doubts.

  “Not at all,” said Bartlemy. “Have some blackcurrant champagne sorbet.”

  “I don’t thinkall right. Thank you.”

  There was an interlude in which omelet plates disappeared and were replaced by green glass bowls with scoops of purple-black ice.

  “Well,” Pobjoy said when they’d finished, “won’t you tell me something? Tell me it’s realtell me it’s nonsensetell me I’m being fanciful.”

  “I would never dream of telling you what to think,” Bartlemy said. “That’s up to you.”

  “No advice?”

  “Not really. Advice is the one gift you can give p
eople that they never actually want. Should I give any, I always keep the receipt, so they can send it back when it doesn’t fit.”

  But Pobjoy wasn’t in a mood to cultivate his sense of humor. “Did you ever find out if there was someone behind your latest burglary attempt?” he went on. “The Hackforth connection, for instance? That kid Damona nasty piece of work. He was mixed up in it somehow, wasn’t he? A yob is a yob no matter what his family background.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ll be having any trouble with him in the future,” Bartlemy said with his usual tranquillity. “If there was any connection withlet us saya criminal element, it has been dissolved.”

  “I thought Damon was the criminal element,” Pobjoy said bluntly. “That type doesn’t changetrust me. His dad was protecting himhis dad and the school. The abbot didn’t want a stain on his spotless Christian reputation, I daresay. I hear he’s moving on.”

  “Really? Where did you hear that?”

  “The ACC had it from someonehe didn’t say who. Probably one of his political chums. I infer promotion is in the airan archbishopric, if that’s what they call it, or a bigger abbey, or maybe they’re moving him up to senior seraphim. Whatever the next step is for an abbot.”

  “I wish him luck,” Bartlemy murmured thoughtfully. “Of one sort or another.”

  As the inspector rose to leave, there was a sound from the kitchen. Hoover pricked his ears; Bartlemy opened the adjoining door. For an instant Pobjoy glimpsed the intrudera very short figure, swarthy, whiskery, raggedly dressed. He had met a dwarf once beforea good citizen, working in the film industrybut this dwarf was different. This was a dwarf who looked as if he belonged in a story, the kind of story with giant man-eating worms, and witches, and loralillies.

  Bartlemy said to him, “Help yourself,” though he didn’t specify to what.

  Pobjoy left with a sense of well-being in his stomach and a growing unease in his head.

  THAT EVENING Bartlemy walked in the garden, watching the shadows grow longer and the light of the setting sun tangle with the leaves. The woodwose had gone, but the dwarf stayed. Nathan and Hazel, in their different ways, had each loved and lost, fought battles major and minor, grown a little farther up. A policeman was beginning to see that there was a world beyond the scientific evidence, a world the laws of man could not touch. It was progress, of a kind. Bartlemy saw life as endlessly varying, expanding, diversifying, going somewhere, though he didn’t know where, constantly moving, never arriving, driven by a Purpose that he had to hope was good, because all the centuries had taught him was that only the hopeful heart survives. But maybe we must make our own Good, he thought, if we can. The light ebbed, and darkness flowed toward him, and he went inside to the mingled scents of his kitchen, letting tomorrow take care of itself, leaving the Great Unanswered Questions in the garden where they belonged.