Is

by Joan Aiken

  Since Grandfather Twite was neither painting at his easel, nor reading, nor in bed, Is guessed that he must still be working in the cellar. The stair door was shut, but a crack of light showed under it. Taking the candle, she went to the door and was about to open it when she heard somebody coming up from below. The step seemed queerly heavy; it was slow, powerful and uneven, like a large beast blundering its way through a thicket, ready to pounce.

  Is opened the stair door.

  ‘Grandpa?’ she said, ‘Is that you?’ peering past the candle into the dimness below. ‘Aunt Ishie said – ’

  No answer came, save a loud grunt. Startled, somewhat discomposed, she raised her candle higher.

  If the man coming up the stair had not been wearing Grandfather Twite’s clothes, Is would not have recognised him. Even as it was, she doubted her own eyes.

  He seemed to have increased hugely in height and bulk. His pale-brown skin was shiny and swelled, darkened to a crimson, almost black colour. His mouth was wide open. His eyes were so inflamed that they seemed twice their normal size, and they blazed at her with the expressionless luminosity of wild-cats’ eyes. Runnels of sweat ran down his forehead and cheeks; his scanty white hair was soaked, as if someone had poured a jug of water over his head. In one shaking hand he held a mug of liquor, in the other the long iron handle which was used for dragging down the printing press. He panted heavily.

  ‘Grandpa?’ said Is doubtfully. ‘Grandpa, are you – are you sick?’

  The brilliant eyes flared and fixed on her like those of a stalking tiger. He lifted up the iron handle and yelled, ‘Fiend! Devil! Begone, accursht shpirit!’

  To see her familiar grandfather so monstrously transformed was such a shock – so totally, bewilderingly unexpected – that, for a second, Is hesitated. If she had waited another second, she would have been done for. She leapt back, the iron bar came smashing down on the top step of the stair, and bent into a U with the force of the blow. A large chip of stone flew up.

  ‘Grandfather!’ yelled Is. ‘It’s me – Is! Don’t! Don’t!’

  For he was coming at her again with the bent handle.

  ‘Fiensh!’ he growled. ‘Shor – shor – shorshereshesh! Shplit their shkulls!’

  His mug of toddy had fallen and broken on the stair, but a tremendous fume of spirits came from him. Is, recalling her father, could now recognise that he was drunk – but she had never encountered drunkenness like this. It was hair-raising.

  She fled through the front door and hid behind a holly-bush.

  The fearsome figure came out of the house and blundered down the path.

  ‘Shlay ’em all!’ he was shouting. ‘Shlaughter ’em all – shplit and shtab and shtifle ’em!’

  He vanished, swaying and staggering, into the snowy lane.

  Is thought of Aunt Ishie, who might return at any time – of Dr Lemman, who might also appear. But she needed help; she could not tackle this transformed Grandfather on her own.

  She hurled herself back through the front door and up the stairs, up and up again, afraid that at any moment she might hear Mr Twite’s step behind her. A gleam of light showed under Father Lancelot’s door.

  She banged on the panel and shouted, ‘Help me, please! Grandfather’s on the rampage!’

  The door opened at once. ‘I was afraid of that,’ said Father Lancelot, and pulled her inside. ‘Montrose has been in my room these last two hours.’

  The cat was crouched nervously and angrily on Father Lancelot’s table. He greeted Is with a snarling mew and a hiss.

  ‘Gold Kingy called while you were out,’ said Father Lancelot. ‘The wretched man always seems to know, as if by telepathy, when your grandfather is on his own. He comes here and encourages him to drink . . .’

  ‘But what’ll happen when they come back – Aunt Ishie and the Doc? Grandfather nearly done for me just now, with the press-handle – what’ll he do to them?’

  ‘Oh, he won’t hurt them – he knows them too well. He never does, even when he’s like this. Very soon he will fall down and sleep. Stay there, child, while I investigate.’

  Is was glad to drop limply on to a stool. Her opinion of Father Lancelot shot up as, apparently quite unafraid, he ran briskly down the stair. She heard his voice:

  ‘Mr Twite? Mr Twite, are you there?’

  Feeling almost light-headed from shock, Is turned to the cat. ‘Why didn’t you warn me Grandfather could be like that?’ But he only growled in answer.

  If Grandfather can change so, suppose the others can too? thought Is in sudden terror. She tried to imagine Aunt Ishie with a meat-axe in her hand, Dr Lemman coming at her with one of his scalpels, Father Lancelot wielding the poker. But no, no; they were safe, they were sensible and reliable. And it was not Grandfather’s fault, poor old sausage. It was Gold Kingy she really had to thank for this.

  Father Lancelot was calling from below: ‘He has fallen in a fit – or swooned. Can you help me lift him?’

  Shakily, but scolding herself for a faintheart, Is crept down the stairs and went out to Father Lancelot who stood in the lane, where old Mr Twite lay snoring under a thornbush.

  ‘We daren’t leave him here, he would freeze. If you take his arms and I his legs – ’

  ‘Ain’t he a weight, though!’ panted Is, as they struggled. ‘I wish we had Aunt Ishie’s sledge.’

  ‘Solid muscle,’ grunted Father Lancelot. ‘All that ramming down of the press-handle.’

  Luckily, while they were still only halfway to the door, Dr Lemman arrived home.

  ‘Oh, devil take it!’ he said, at once grasping the situation. ‘Gold Kingy’s been here.’

  ‘No prizes,’ growled Father Lancelot.

  ‘Here – give us a leg. That bastard always gets him drunk; it’s his notion of a good joke.’

  The two men carried Grandpa Twite inside; Is ran ahead and cleared the books off the bed so they could lay him in it.

  ‘Now he’ll sleep for twenty-four hours,’ said Lemman. ‘We can do nothing more for him. Very likely when he wakes he’ll remember nothing. – Were you scared, dearie?’ to Is.

  ‘Scared? I was scarified! Look: he went for me with this.’ She found the buckled press-handle. ‘If he’d a’ hit me with that, I’d ’a bin in two halves. A body takes their life in their hands, staying in this house.’

  ‘Poor old boy. I suppose we should have warned you. It does not happen very often – only when Roy finds him alone. He always hopes, you see, while your grandfather is the worse for drink, to extract the secret of his longevity from him.’

  ‘What a rotten game! I reckon Grandpa’s one too many for Uncle Roy.’

  ‘Well – so far he has been. But his tongue does become loosened when he is half-seas-over. That is why – it’s best – not to tell him anything that – that you would not wish to reach the ears of your uncle.’

  Dr Lemman glanced about him and went on in a low tone: ‘As a matter of fact, dearie, I have something of that kind to tell you now. So it’s as well the old fellow is off his hinge.’

  ‘I’m away to bed,’ said Father Lancelot hastily. ‘I don’t want to hear anything of that kind.’

  ‘What’s up then?’ asked Is, when she and Lemman were alone.

  ‘The ship that went down was Captain Podmore’s Dark Diamond; but he and his crew were all rescued, luckily. I saw him and he gave me a message for you. Your letter was safely delivered. He had an answer for you, but it was lost in the wreck. But he told me to tell you that the matter is very urgent, for somebody referred to as Him with the hatband is getting queerer and queerer.’

  ‘With the hatband?’ Oh, lordy, thought Is, I reckon that must mean Dick, poor old King Dick. Getting sicker and sicker. Croopus, there ain’t any time to lose.

  Is went slowly up the stairs, rubbing her forehead. Dunno as I can go on staying at Wasteland Cottages, she thought. Lemman’s a good cove, I wisht I could go on learning from him. And I purely love Aunt Ishie. But . . .

  Journ
al of Is

  Seems every now & then Grandpa has a lush-out & then Hes a Holy Teror. Im sory now I let out to im about Prince Dave. But hope he wont remimber. Rekn I gotta leev here & go in the foundriz, rekn thats were those boys may be. Can’t keep a jurnel there, so Ill havta stop.

  Aunt Ishie was deeply distressed, next day, when she came home from her charitable errand to find Grandpa Twite flat out on his bed and reeking of spirits.

  ‘Oh, how I wish he would give up these terrible drinking bouts. Indeed, I quite thought he had; he has not indulged like this for many months.’

  She looked regretfully at the old man, who was snoring like a traction engine.

  ‘He will be so sorry when he wakes. He always is.’

  ‘Couldn’t you throw out all his liquor while he’s swiped off?’ suggested Is.

  ‘No, we tried that once. But he would only brew up some more. He cannot endure to think that there is none ready at hand, although he touches it so rarely.’

  ‘But when he does – croopus!’

  Is and Doctor Lemman had come back for the noon meal. While they were swallowing their soup, a black Maria, drawn by two black cobs, drew up in the Lane outside.

  A crease appeared in Ishie’s back-sloping brow. ‘Now what is Roy up to?’ she wondered.

  To the pair of officials who came to the door she said: ‘If you want my father, it is no use at all. You are wasting your time. He is asleep and will be for hours yet. Tell my nephew – tell the Moderator that.’

  ‘It ain’t the old cove we want,’ said one of the constables. ‘It’s the young lass.’

  ‘For pity’s sake – what for?’

  They shrugged. ‘None of our business. “Bring her,” he said.’

  ‘Me?’ said Is. ‘You mean me?’

  One of the men pulled out a requisition form. ‘See? Is Twite. His Nibs wishes to parley with you.’

  ‘Don’t let him fuss you, that’s all, dearie,’ advised Lemman. ‘You stand up for yourself.’ His tone was calm, but his eyes were anxious.

  Is rather wished, as the black cab approached Gold Kingy’s residence, that her clothes were in better condition. The fur jacket that Penny had made her (what a long time ago that seemed!) was now very worn and greasy. And the grandeur of Uncle Roy’s palace was daunting, with its row of pink granite pillars all along one side of Twite Square.

  However, she jumped out of the carriage displaying what she hoped was a bold and carefree countenance.

  Two more men, dressed as ushers in dark green with white gloves and stocks, were waiting to lead her inside and down a long hall.

  All these big strapping coves just idling around, thought Is; they could use ’em better in the foundries.

  ‘His Grace will receive her in the Audience Chamber,’ somebody said.

  The Audience Chamber was on the ground floor and was modelled (so Lemman told Is later) on the palace of a Mogul prince.

  Gold Kingy sat perched in a seat on top of a pillar in the centre of the chamber. The pillar (about the height of two men) was connected by four arched stone bridges with a gallery that ran round the sides of the room. And the throne on which Roy sat was made to revolve so that, when the hall down below was full of people, he could rotate himself and speak to anybody below, wherever he chose.

  At present the hall was empty, apart from Is and her escort. But another man came quietly in from a different door and stood listening not far away in the shadows. Is did not look at him. Her attention was all on Gold Kingy.

  Today he wore a white ruff round his neck, a prune-coloured velvet jacket and bulgy breeches with slashed satin insets. Is recognised the costume; it was like one that Penny had used for an old-fashioned King of England doll. But her uncle, she thought, looked right silly in the fancy dress.

  ‘Come here, girl!’ he ordered. ‘Down below, there, where I can see you.’

  The ushers nudged her forward.

  ‘Hey-day, Uncle Roy,’ she said coolly. ‘But ain’t it Doc Lemman you oughta be seeing? Is it your liver that’s a-fretting you? Doc told me to advise you to drink a lot o’ cold water – gills and gills of it – with a teaspoonful of bicarb to every gill. That’s if you drank as much as poor old Grandpa did last night – ’

  ‘Quiet, girl! If I wished to consult Lemman, I would have sent for him.’

  He scowled down at Is.

  ‘Yes, you do have a decided look of your father – that scheming devil,’ he muttered to himself. ‘That cheating swindling robbing lying underhanded mealy-mouthed false black-hearted brother of mine! Many a dirty trick he served me. – I suppose you were very fond of him?’ he suddenly demanded of Is.

  ‘Who, me? Of my dad? No. Not on your oliphant. Why should you reckon that? I couldn’t stand ’im,’ retorted Is. ‘He never did me any good turn that I can recollect – except dying before he gave King Dick the trouble of hanging ’im.’

  ‘Ah: that’s what I want to talk to you about. I had a law passed that anybody who comes into the principality of Humberland must report all important news that they bring with them from abroad.’

  ‘How the pize should I know about any such law?’ demanded Is.

  ‘Well – well, your grandfather should have told you. Or your aunt. They know very well that all important foreign intelligence must be brought to me directly.’

  ‘Such as what?’ inquired Is. ‘I was living in the woods on Blackheath Edge. What d’ye expect me to know? The price of hazel nuts?’

  ‘Do not chop words with me, girl! You know what I mean. You told your grandfather that the king’s son was lost – run away. Why did you not bring that information to me?’

  Oh, Crispin, thought Is. I knew I shouldn’t have let that out to Grandpa; the minute the words left my mouth I knew it was a bad mistake. Poor old Grandad; he can’t help hisself, but now what a peck o’trouble he’s let us in for.

  ‘It was a Banbury story,’ she said. ‘No one knows if it’s so or not. Very like he ain’t lost at all. No one in Lunnon spoke of it. Or not as I knows of.’

  ‘Oh? And how do you know what the people in London know – or don’t know – if you lived in a wood on Blackheath Edge?’

  ‘Tales that pedlars tell,’ said Is vaguely.

  ‘So you have never seen the king himself? You have never been to St James’s Palace?’

  ‘Why the blue blazes should King Richard want to see me? Or ask me to his palace?’

  ‘Then why have you been asking questions about a boy called David Stuart?’ suddenly thundered Uncle Roy. Taking advantage of her startled silence, he jumped from his throne, nipped across one of the bridges to the gallery, and ran down a flight of steps to ground level.

  He walked up to Is, stared her in the face (his eyes were very bloodshot, she noticed, and he smelt of rum and peppermint), then roared at her:

  ‘I think you know more than you say. What can you tell me about King Richard? What is his state of health?’

  ‘I can’t tell you a tuppenny thing, Uncle Roy,’ answered Is calmly.

  ‘Why are you searching for his son?’

  ‘I’m a-looking for my cousin Arn Twite, Uncle. Son of my Uncle Hose, you remember him? Uncle Hose lost his boy Arn and he was real cut up about it, missed him something crool (goodness knows why, for he said himself he never spoke to him when he was at home). Anyway, with his last dying breath he ast me td look out for Arn. Which I am a-doing, as best I can. Arn had a friend called Davie and – with luck – if I can find one, I kin find t’other.’

  Heaven help me, she added inwardly.

  ‘Davie Stuart is not the son of King Richard?’

  ‘How the dickens should I know that?’ asked Is. ‘Stuart’s a common enough name – specially up here in these parts.’

  Uncle Roy looked at her long and hard.

  ‘You had better not lie to me,’ he said. ‘For if you do, I can – I can send you to a place you won’t like at all.’

  Well, and if you send me to the foundries, thought Is, if that�
�s what you mean, you nasty bully, maybe that’d suit me down to the ground.

  She did not utter this thought aloud, but it almost seemed as if some inkling of it had penetrated into her uncle’s mind, for he went on, very menacingly,

  ‘You think yourself mighty clever, don’t you, riding about with Lemman on his visits, doling out drops and drams to his patients, asking questions about lost boys. Well – you take a look at this!’

  Out of his bulging breeches’ pocket he dragged, with some difficulty, a kind of small sledge-hammer. It had a short handle and a massively heavy head. ‘You see this hammer?’

  ‘Can’t hardly help it, can I, Uncle Roy?’

  ‘I could get one of my wardens to strap your hand to a bench, and another one to bring this hammer down on it – hard! Yes – ’ as she flinched, ‘you were asking questions of a boy without a hand the other day in the foundry; asking him about Davie Stuart. Weren’t you? So you know what it would be like to lose a hand. You’d not be so handy then at helping the doctor, would you?’ He laughed, most unpleasantly. ‘Now – ’ as her mouth opened to answer, ‘I don’t want to hear any more from you. Not at present. You go home and think over what I’ve said. Maybe there’s some more information you can give me about King Richard. Information that would be useful to me. Or about the boy. Go home and give my regards to your grandfather and your aunt. You’re fond of them – eh? You wouldn’t want any harm to come to them?’

  ‘Grandfather – and Aunt Ishie? You wouldn’t – ’

  ‘You don’t think I got to be Moderator of Humberland by fooling around being kind to my aunts and cousins, do you?’ he yelled at her.

  No, I certainly don’t think that, Uncle Roy, she silently responded. But still, you got a use for Grandfather – you don’t want to lose him. Or do you?

  As the thought struck her, she came out with it.

  ‘Did Grandpa tell you, then? When he was plastered – ginnified?’