Is

by Joan Aiken

  With a heavy heart, when the token finally came into her possession – from a girl named Dorcas – Is took it back to Corso Mill, borrowed pen and paper from the sisters, who, as ex-teachers, still had a stock of such things, and wrote a note to Wally.

  DERE WAL HERES TARBLE SAD NEWS. YOULL HAFTA TELL HIS NIBS THAT YOUNG DAVE AINT NEVER COMIN BAK NO MORE. HES DED, DYED TRIN TO SAVE ANUTHA FELLA. ALL THE FOLKS HERE SAY HE WERE A REEL GOOD COVE AN ALLUS TOLD EM BETTER TIMES WUZ CUMN. NO USE TRYIN TO KEEP THE NEWZ FROM HIS DAD HED HAFTA NO SUM TIME. THINGS UP HERE IZ RITE BAD THAT GOLD KINGY IS A DEVIL ON TOAST. TELL MY SIS PEN IM WELL AN SEND LUV. IM STILL LOKKN FER ARN TWITE. KIND REGARDS TO YOU AN YORE DA. IS.

  Then she sewed letter and token together into one of Aunt Ishie’s pockets, which she had brought with her. from Wasteland Cottages. Next morning she was lucky enough to encounter Aunt Ishie herself, off on a mission to deliver pockets and riddle-sheets to the workers in the potteries, pulling her box on wheels behind her. Aunt Ishie readily undertook to transmit the pocket to Captain Podmore.

  ‘I won’t ask what’s in it, for I think it better I do not know.’

  ‘No, and I’d better not tell. But it’s dreadful sad news,’ Is said, hugging her aunt. ‘And now I gotta think hard what to do next. Mustn’t stop. Auntie, or I’ll be late for the buzzer.’

  And she ran on towards the foundries.

  The main problem that puzzled her now was what to do with her own token. She had felt quite badly at removing Davie’s from circulation in the foundry because, finding its way from hand to hand, from shoe to mouth, it seemed to have done so much good. Is was not at all certain of her own right to deprive the workers of its beneficial effect.

  In the end the solution was simple. During her five-minute lunchbreak she nibbled through the stitches in the hem of her jacket, pulled out her own token, and passed it inconspicuously to Col.

  ‘Here – reckon it’s your turn for this.’

  ‘Josie!’ he said. His whole aspect brightened, he almost capered, then removed his clog, tucked the token between his toes, and slipped the clog back on again.

  Is felt the Touch, sparkling in the centre of her mind.

  ‘Are you near?’ cried the voices. ‘Are you coming to us soon?’

  ‘Why – why yes!’ she stammered in reply. ‘But aren’t I here already? Aren’t I with you now?’

  ‘No, not yet. No, not quite. But near – soon – very soon – ’

  A group of constables strode into the furnace yard, trim in their dark-green uniforms, amid derisive yells from the workers and shouts of ‘Yah! Boo! Black beetles!’

  ‘We’re looking for Is Twite!’ they told the overseer. He sourly pointed her out, and they came over and grabbed her.

  ‘What’s to do, what’s up?’ she demanded as they hustled her out of the yard and into their conveyance, deliberately dragging her through a pile of coal-dust on the way.

  ‘Y’uncle wants yer.’

  The carriage door slammed, the horses broke into a trot.

  ‘Hey, driver! You’re taking a right roundaboutaceous road to Gold Kingy’s palace!’ Is pointed out, after they had been driving for about ten minutes. Instead of turning through the tunnel entrance and into Holdernesse town, the carriage had threaded a way upwards through the ruined streets of Old Blastburn and was now climbing steeply. Soon, in fact, Is recognised where they were: on the way to Wasteland Cottages.

  The driver made no reply to her expostulation; merely whipped up his horses. And the two men on either side of her remained silent. But when they came round a corner, one of them said,

  ‘Y’uncle wanted ye to see this before he speaks to you.’

  This was the narrow cobbled lane where Wasteland Cottages had stood. Had stood – for they were there no longer. All that remained of the gaunt little row of derelict dwellings, their sheds and clothes-lines and patches of garden-plot, was a ridge of shattered brick, earth and slate, from which the dust still rose like smoke and fell again on to a sprinkling of new snow.

  ‘Lord a’ mercy!’ whispered Is, after a moment of stunned silence. She could hardly believe what she saw. She worked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and swallowed. ‘What’s come to the houses? What happened?’

  ‘His Excellency had them blown up.’

  ‘Wh-where’s Aunt Ishie? And Grandpa? And Father Lance?’

  ‘Ask your uncle,’ said the man drily.

  Is felt herself shaken by such a storm of rage that she had to clench her teeth to stop herself from flying at the men, sobbing and bashing them and screaming out furious insults. In the midst of this inner whirlwind she was startled when the Touch passed through her mind like a shaft of ice and cooled her wild reactions.

  ‘What is it, what troubles you so?’ the voices were asking.

  ‘That rat, that garbage has blown up my aunt and grandfather – ’

  ‘Wait, wait; keep calm, it may not be so – ’

  The black police cab was again steadily rolling on its way; Is twisted round for a last glance at the forlorn heap of rubble where Ishie, Grandpa Twite, Father Lance and Dr Lemman had lived their peaceful, harmless and, on the whole, useful lives.

  Grandpa’s printing press! And my little red book, behind a brick in the attic.

  Some way soon I’m agoing to make sure that Uncle Roy gets his deuces, she thought. I’m agoing to see he goes where the devil’s waiting for him.

  Then she began to consider. Gold Kingy would never blow up Grandpa; not unless he got the true gaff out of him about what helps the old boy keep going, and that I’m certain he never did. So he jist blew up the houses out of pure meanness and cuss-mindedness, like he flattened poor old Montrose. So, he musta shifted the old ’uns out somewhere else; and not to his palace, because firstways he’d be shamed to have ’em there, and secondways they wouldn’t go.

  These thoughts had begun to relieve her a little when she looked out to see where the carriage had got to. It was just rolling to a halt in James Street, which had once been old Blastburn’s grandest thoroughfare. Now grass and weeds were pushing up between the cobbles and blackberry brambles had grown over the lions outside the main public library. The library itself was still a fine building, though most of the windows were broken, the bronze doors dangled crazily slantways on their hinges, and great slabs of stone had fallen off the façade.

  ‘You fellows take the kid in,’ said the driver to the others. ‘I don’t fancy that place above half. Somebody told me that a set of old hags and witch-coves use it for a consort-house.’ He shivered.

  ‘They’ll not overturn me,’ said one of the other two. ‘I live too near the woods to be frit by an owl. Come on, you!’ He laid a forceful hand on her shoulder and shoved Is up the wide, shallow flight of steps that led to the main doors.

  The entrance hall of the library was a deep and lofty space with a marble paved floor and two flights of white marble stairs curving away from each other to meet again at the top. But the floor was now scattered with litter and broken stone, shoots of trees were pushing between the cracked paving stones, and earthy mildew covered the ground. The stairs, however, were still intact.

  ‘And this place is a library?’ marvelled Is. ‘Jist to read books in?’

  Her guides did not trouble to reply. She was led from the main lobby along a wide passageway, much obstructed with lumps of masonry and broken furniture, then down a flight of stone steps. The basement region which they now entered was dark, but a few lights gleamed ahead of them in the distance. Towards these they made their way.

  ‘Where the pix are you taking me? And why in the name of wonder should Uncle Roy want to come down here, when he’s got all of his pink palace to confabulate in?’ Is demanded, but she did not expect an answer to her questions and she did not receive any. She had spoken to encourage herself by the sound of her own voice in this drear, dark, and somewhat menacing region, which was full of unexpected echoes.

  The distant lights appeared to be in motion, an
d kept receding as they pursued. What a queer, huge place, thought Is; but I suppose libraries gotta have store-rooms or cellars, just like people’s houses.

  It took a while for her eyes to become accustomed to the dim light; then she realised that the walls between which they passed were not solid at all, but consisted of what seemed like an endless series of high racks or shelves, built from some heavy dark wood and containing thousands, perhaps millions, of mouldering volumes. What in the world could they all be about? The bygone history of Blastburn, and the older towns and villages which had stood in these hills and valleys before Blastburn was built? It’s too bad they should all rot and crumble away, thought Is, but it sure is plain no one wants to read ’em any more.

  Next she noticed that the wooden shelves or stacks which held the volumes were not fixed in their places, but were set on rails so that they could be moved sideways; behind them were more rows of stacks, and yet more behind them; in fact they appeared to recede for ever into the gloom. Croopus, thought Is in fright, almost in horror, what a lot o’ books that no one’s agoing to read; who in the name of milk can have written them all?

  Sometimes a gap between the shelves would show a narrow alley where they had been pushed aside to let some bygone librarian pass through and gain access to the volumes kept farther back. And the passage along which Is was being escorted was not the only one; there were intersections and other passages branching to right and left, signposted by lettered cards: Al, B3, H14. It’s like a maze, thought Is, a big, mouldy, freezing maze.

  At last the light ahead of them came to a stop, and they caught up with it. They had arrived at a kind of crossroads where six passages met in a space which was the size of a small room. Here several people were assembled around a little plain table, on which burned a lamp, and a chair, on which sat Gold Kingy. A group of guards clustered nearby and between them they held a person, a woman; she stood in the shadow at the edge of the opening, and her face could not be seen. Too tall for Aunt Ishie, thanks be! Is at once decided, with a kind of shamed relief. Whoever it was, she felt sorry for the poor devil, mighty sorry. Thinking this, she suddenly had a sharp flash of perception, of recognition. Although the woman’s face could not be seen, a wordless message was pouring from her: I remember you, I know who you are; if you can, help me, help me!

  And: I don’t know how I can help you, but I’ll try, I surely will try. Is launched back through the shadows. Yes I do know you, I remember you.

  The woman was Mrs Gower’s sister, the widowed Mrs Macclesfield, the aunt of little Coppy; her head was covered by a hood, but Is felt quite sure of her identity.

  Gold Kingy now began to speak in a very disagreeable voice: a mean, gloating voice.

  ‘Have you men brought my niece along? Good, that’s good.’ He laughed his loud meaningless laugh. ‘Now, my girl, I want you to take a careful look at this female prisoner.’

  ‘How can I – ’ Is began, but he went on. ‘Bring her forward. Take off her hood.’

  Mrs Macclesfield was thrust forward; the hood was dragged off. Is could see that her arms were bound tightly together behind her back. She stared at Gold Kingy with a look of profound loathing and scorn.

  ‘You stupid scheming woman!’ he shouted at her. ‘You have been found guilty of illegal, malicious contact with the workers in the mines. Not only that, but you bribed a guard with a gold watch. You paid him to let you into the mine, you planned to carry contraband luxuries to the pit-workers and ask them unlawful questions.’

  He paused, waiting, apparently, for Mrs Macclesfield to say something in her own defence or deny the charge, but she made no reply for a few moments. Then she asked in a dry, detached manner, ‘What happened to the guard?’

  ‘He, very properly, reported the matter to his overseer and was rewarded.’

  ‘I see.’ Mrs Macclesfield said no more.

  Gold Kingy suddenly bawled at her, ‘You must have had accomplices! Tell me their names, and I might be prepared to remit part of your punishment.’

  Oh lord-a-mercy, thought Is, now what do you bet she was Aunt Ishie’s helper, taking the pockets to the kids? But if Mrs Macclesfield had been Aunt Ishie’s unknown accomplice, she was not betraying the connection. She stared silently at Gold Kingy, her face full of contempt. After a while she said:

  ‘You took my husband, you took my daughter. There’s not a lot more you can do to me – choose how!’

  Gold Kingy suddenly lost his temper. ‘Isn’t there, by gar! You obstinate, spiteful hag! I can make an example of you – that’s what I can do. And it’s what I shall do! I can cage you up here alone in the library stacks to moulder away, along with all those useless old books – and that’s what I’ll do with you, or my name’s not Roy Twite. You won’t look or sound so pert when you’ve been here a week or a month and the rats have been at you. – Take her farther in!’ he ordered the guards. ‘Take her as far as you can go. Leave her in there, push the stacks to, and lock them around her. – As for you,’ he said to Is, ‘that may give you a taste of what I can do to folk when they work against me. You saw your grandpa’s house? Did you like that? You see what’s going to happen to this scheming fool of a woman – ?’

  Mrs Macclesfield twitched herself out of the hands of her guards and took a step towards Gold Kingy.

  ‘Listen!’ she said. ‘You listen to me, Roy Twite! You have come a long way, haven’t you, from the ragged boy who used to push a barrow of rusty iron through the streets of Blastburn. You’ve travelled a long road, but you are nearly at the end of that road. I can feel a wind, I can hear it beginning to blow, off there – ’ she waved an arm to the north-west, ‘and I can hear the sound of voices. At present they only whisper – but soon they will shout, soon they will roar – and that roar will sweep you away, Gold Kingy, like a leaf in a torrent.’

  ‘Take the crazy fool away!’ shrieked Gold Kingy, and Mrs Macclesfield was hustled off into the darkness between the stacks, farther and farther, until she was completely lost to view.

  Then, in the far distance, Is could hear the grinding sound of the stacks being trundled sideways along their runners and fastened, each to the next, with a loud clang. Clang! and a pause, and then the grinding, then another clang! and a pause. No sound came from Mrs Macclesfield. After fifteen or sixteen such clangs, the guards reappeared and saluted.

  ‘Right: she’s fixed in there till the moon turns to cheese,’ said Gold Kingy with a grin. ‘She won’t last long. Apart from the rats, those stacks are airtight. There’s only enough in there to last her a few hours. – And I won’t hesitate to serve you likewise, miss!’ he added, fixing Is with a bloodshot, angry eye. ’Unless I get a whole lot more co-operation from you. Understand? Now bring the girl along to the post office!’ he barked at the guards. ‘I’ll talk to her again. This place gives me the ague!’

  And he bustled off along the passage, his escort only just able to keep pace with him. Is and her guard followed, she trying to fix in her mind the way they took and the number of turnings and crossings so that she might come back at the first chance and try to rescue Mrs Macclesfield, whose piteous wordless message still came piercing through the dark: Save me if you can! I am helpless, tied up, imprisoned in this cave of books!

  And Is, hard as she was able, sent back the message: I will try to come back as soon as they let me go. I will come as soon as I can.

  She was bundled back into the cab and taken at a brisk trot along James Street. A five-minute drive brought them to the old post office, in a side street where the mail-coaches had once drawn up in glittering dark-blue rows; now the skeletons of several horses lay mouldering among rotten wheels and broken axles.

  The post office was in a worse condition than the library, with half its roof open to the sky and, in the sorting-office to which Is was taken, huge heaps of rotting crumbled letters piled high as sand dunes all over the floor. Through these they picked and shuffled their way, and found Gold Kingy at the far end of the large room, perched – grinnin
g like Mr Punch – on the rostrum from which the Postmaster must once have given orders to his staff.

  It was plain that Uncle Roy enjoyed nothing better than inspecting the desolation that he had made of old Blastburn – not just in contrast to Holdernesse and its brand-new glitter, but because devastation itself delighted him. ‘Look at all those letters nobody’s going to read!’ he called gloatingly to Is. ‘Ha, ha! How it makes me laugh to think of all that wasted trouble.’

  ‘Proper shame if you ask me!’ snapped Is. ‘Someone musta paid postage on ’em.’

  ‘They are all to the south, or from the south,’ he retorted coldly. ‘We have no dealings with the south – not until the day when there is a glorious re-union and my troops are pasturing their horses in Hyde Park.’

  And that won’t be till fish wear roller-skates, thought Is.

  He was the stupidest boy in the class, she remembered Mrs Crockett saying; the others used to laugh at him. Perhaps that’s why he hates books and letters so.

  Her guards pushed her close in front of Gold Kingy, who, in the meantime, had refreshed himself from a black-and-gold flask which must have held something very potent, for he suddenly yelled at Is in a loud, bullying voice:

  ‘Now, I want answers, girl! Don’t try to fob me off, for I’ve had you followed; I know all you’ve done and every soul you’ve spoken to. I know you’ve been hunting for the Stuart lad, and I want to know where he is. If I can only get that boy in my pocket, I can tip a settler on King Dick. I’ll call the shots; he’ll have to swallow my terms.’