Lanterns

by Patricia Veryan

  Morning brought low clouds scudding across leaden skies. The grounds were littered with leaves and broken branches; several tiles had fallen from the roof; and a distant booming spoke of whitecaps crashing against the cliffs. There were occasional lightning flashes and distant growls of thunder. To Marietta’s secret relief Eric did not put in an appearance. Nor did either Mrs. Gillespie or Friar Tuck.

  * * *

  It was a good thing Merlin’s hat could be tied on. He wouldn’t have risked wearing it in the wind except that a great wizard might have a better chance of finding a runaway cat. Sitting on the root of an oak tree, Arthur pulled the cloak tighter under his chin. Autumn was finishing up. It would be winter soon. Or was winter not till after Christmas? Anyway, his feet were tired. He’d searched the house and the barn and he’d even gone into the henhouse which had made them all beside themselves, and Sir Strut, the big goose who ruled the grounds, had shouted at him. Bridger had said he hadn’t seen any cats, but Bridger was cross ’cause water had come through the roof and made a sack of oats wet, and hay had blowed everywhere. Etta had been cross, too, ’cause Mrs. G’lespie hadn’t come and how they were to get the wash done, she didn’t know. And Aunty Dova had been worried ’bout her caravan and had gone off with Mr. Joss to see if it had been blowed over.

  If they hadn’t all been so busy, he’d prob’ly never have ’scaped. He was a bit hungry for his breakfast, but he wasn’t going back. Not till he found the Friar. And he’d best be getting along, ’cause if they was looking for him a’ready—

  A shadow fell across him. He glanced up guiltily and gave a startled gasp. It was the biggest and most unhandsome man he’d ever seen. It was the sort of man you’d pretend to be the wicked giant in a story. Which prob’ly meant it was a good man, ’cause the men you thinked were good turned out to be bad, so prob’ly men what looked bad were good men.

  He stood up and tried to be tall. “Are you a giant?” he enquired.

  A slit appeared in the strange face. Great arms were raised to the sides, hands clenched into great big fists and a great big voice rumbled, “I am Ti Chiu. A mighty warrior.”

  He had an odd way of talking, with ls for rs, but p’raps he couldn’t help it, so Arthur refrained from pointing out the error. Instead, he raised his small arms to the sides and said in a small growl, “I’m Merlin today. An’ I’m a b’ginning warrior.”

  The slit in Ti Chiu’s face became wider. “More like small cockroach than beginning warrior. Why does Merlin sit in rain?”

  “I’m not a cockroach! I’m looking for my cat. He’s a mighty cat. Have you seen him?”

  “Your cat—it has a tail?”

  “’Course. All cats have tails!”

  “No. In my country, few cats. No tails.”

  “I don’t b’lieve you!”

  The slit vanished. The Mighty Warrior stamped closer. “Many men do I kill. Little Cockroach be careful.”

  “Why? I’ve got my sword.” Glad that he had worn it under the cloak, Arthur drew it and flourished it about.

  Ti Chiu threw back his head and uttered a shattering sound that was, hopefully, a laugh.

  “If you’re not doin’ anything much,” said Arthur, “I’d ’preciate it if you’d help me find my cat.”

  “I am doing much. As my master wish. Why does Small Cockroach wear funny hat?”

  “It’s not funny!” said Arthur, indignantly. “It’s a wizard’s hat, and you shouldn’t be a rudesby!”

  The gash grin vanished. The fists stretched out, then clamped shut, and the Mighty Warrior stepped closer. “Do you know,” he growled, “what I do to people who make fun?”

  Arthur had to tilt his head up to look at him. He was afraid. Just a little bit. But he reminded himself that he was also Robin Hood. And Sir Lancer Lot. And Destes’ble Dag, the Scourge of the Seven Seas. “I’m not making fun,” he said stoutly. “An’ it’s not nice for grown-ups to tell raspers to little boys.”

  Those great hands shot out. Arthur gulped with fright as he was swept up and held high in the air. Like a snake hissing, Ti Chiu demanded, “What is—rasper? And you be careful, cockroach boy!”

  Arthur’s heart was beating rather fast. But a true-blue gen’leman did not show fear. Diccon wouldn’t. Whatever happened. He took a breath and explained, “It means a fib.”

  The big hands tightened, and the smile was a terrible thing to see. “If I drop you, stupid cockroach, you know what happen?”

  “I’d come down bang, and you’re jus’ trying to frighten me ’cause big men don’t hurt little children. ’Sides, it wouldn’t be fair ’cause you did say a fib! It’s no use making your eyes go ’way. You did! You said you’d got a master. You’re the biggest warrior I ever saw, so how could anyone be your master?”

  For a moment he hung there, suspended, looking down into that fearsome scowl. Then he was whirled around, another roaring laugh blasted his eardrums, and he was set down.

  “Whee!” he cried. “That was fine! Do it again, please!”

  Instead, one mighty paw seized him by the chin, forcing his head up, while the massive face was lowered to within inches of his own. The big man smelled funny, but Arthur decided it would be best not to mention that, either.

  “You are lucky like cricket,” the deep voice said. “Maybe you so lucky you will grow to be man. You go home, before big wind blow you far across seas.” He released his hold so suddenly that Arthur almost fell, then he turned and went stamping off.

  “If you were nice, you’d help me find my cat,” called Arthur.

  But the Mighty Warrior walked on without a backward glance, making a strange rumbling sound as if he was talking to himself.

  * * *

  “No, he’s not down here,” snorted Sir Lionel irritably, bending over his workbench. “’Pon my soul, I’ve a house full of people, but can any of ’em keep an eye on one small boy and allow me to work in peace? No!” A gust caused the door to slam shut, and he exclaimed, “If this wind gets much stronger there’ll be no roof over our heads! Speaking of which, that fellow Williard sent his groom round with a dashed impertinent note. Did you hear me send him packing?”

  ‘So that’s why he’s so testy,’ thought Marietta. “No, Papa. I collect that Mrs. Crosbie Williard is still displeased with us.”

  He grinned. “One good thing to come out of it all is that the old lady has decided your aunt is demented, and her fool of a son says I may forget any aspirations to his sister’s hand. Hah! Kind of him, I’m sure! He’s decided now to press me for payment of the debt—much good it may do him, for I can’t pay monies I don’t have. Lucky thing Fanny has attached the affections of young Vaughan. He’ll likely—”

  A shout, a crash, and a piercing shriek cut off those ignoble sentiments.

  They exchanged a startled glance, then Marietta was running to the stairs, her father at her heels.

  The entrance hall was empty, but a stranger stepped from the drawing room and smiled at them amiably, despite the pocket pistol he held in one very white hand.

  Sir Lionel roared, “Who the devil are you, sir?”

  Marietta felt icy cold. She did not need the mockingly polite introduction offered by this uninvited caller. With his pallid skin and jet hair and eyes he could only be the “pastry man” whom Aunty Dova had described to her; the deadly individual who was Diccon’s bitter enemy. She heard her father blustering a demand to be told what Monsieur Monteil was doing in his house.

  “By all means,” said the Swiss with a wave of the pistol, “join us.”

  Hurrying into the drawing room, Marietta paused, stunned. Jocelyn Vaughan was slumped against the wall with Fanny holding a handkerchief to his forehead. Blood streaked down his cheek, his eyes were closed, and he looked as if he could barely manage to stay on his feet.

  Fanny turned a frightened face and half-sobbed, “Papa! Oh, Papa! They hit Joss so cruelly! With—with no warning!”

  “Now you must be fair, Miss,” purred Monteil. “He would not let
us come inside. Most inhospitable. Besides, we have encountered the lieutenant before, and he warrants no kindness from us, eh, Ti Chiu?”

  A heart-stopping rumble of a laugh brought a gasped, “Good God!” from Sir Lionel.

  Following his goggling stare, Marietta thought, ‘My heavens! How did Diccon ever survive a fight with that enormous creature?’

  Sir Lionel wet his lips and his voice shook slightly when he asked, “Are you all right, Vaughan?”

  “Now there is a singularly stupid question,” observed Monteil.

  Marietta started towards her sister, but the Swiss threw up a detaining hand. “Stay where you are, pretty lady. I know; it is heartless. But you see, I have only Ti Chiu with me. He is,” he added with a chilling smile, “usually sufficient.”

  Sir Lionel demanded, “Sufficient for what, sir? What the deuce d’you mean by breaking into my house, attacking my guests, bringing—”

  “I require information,” said Monteil. “You may help the Lieutenant to a chair, Miss.”

  Fanny guided the sagging Vaughan to a chair, and knelt beside him.

  “What information?” asked Sir Lionel. “If you’re after that stupid treasure, I don’t believe in it!”

  “Nonsense,” said Monteil. “You have had our friend the Major as a guest. From all I hear he is quite devoted to”—he strolled closer to Marietta—“this lovely lady.”

  Sir Lionel pulled Marietta behind him. “Do not dare look at my daughter in that way, you insolent—”

  Grinning broadly, Ti Chiu stepped forward and gave Sir Lionel a shove.

  Fanny screamed as her father went flying across the room and crashed into the round table, taking it down with him.

  Vaughan struggled to rise, but was helpless.

  Infuriated, Marietta’s hand flashed out and she slapped Monteil hard. He rocked on his heels. The marks of her fingers began to glow on his pallid cheek. He swore in French, moved fast as a striking snake, and seized her hair, jerking her to him. “It will be my pleasure to gentle Diccon’s woman!”

  “Don’t! Don’t!” screamed Fanny.

  Astonishingly high-pitched, Ti Chiu’s voice rang out in rapid sing-song Chinese.

  Monteil paused, glancing at him sharply.

  With a look of stark horror on his face the big man was staring fixedly at the effigies on the sofa.

  Following his gaze, Monteil pushed Marietta away. “But how interesting,” he murmured, and went over to examine Mrs. Cordova’s “friends.”

  In the same high-pitched voice his henchman cried, “No, no! Master must not touch honourable dead!”

  “Stupid fool!” Monteil held up “Mrs. Hughes-Dering’s” arm and shook it. “They’re dummies. Stuffed dolls. Not stuffed people.”

  Ti Chiu turned his little eyes to Marietta. “These, they were alive?”

  Her knees were shaking, but sensing the superstitious nature of the big man, she answered, “Yes. They were once my aunt’s friends.”

  The Chinese drew back. “This evil house. These people they have call up honoured dead. The gods will be angry! We must go, Master.”

  “So we will, idiot. When they’ve told me what they know of The Sigh of Saladin.”

  A clap of thunder made them all jump.

  Marietta said, “We don’t know anything of the treasure, but you can search the house if you wish.”

  “You are too eager, I think.” Monteil’s black eyes narrowed. “Who else is here?”

  Sir Lionel, who had sunk into a chair, stood again and said, “Only my groom, who is in the barn and would not have heard—”

  “Go and call him,” snapped Monteil. “Or is there a bell?”

  Sir Lionel’s mouth opened.

  Marietta said quickly, “Yes. Over here. I’ll ring it.” She started for the bell pull.

  “No!” snapped Monteil. “I trust you not an inch, madam. Ti—you may summon another fool to join us.”

  Vaughan lifted his head painfully and stared at Marietta.

  Sir Lionel looked frightened. He said, “No—it doesn’t—”

  “We’ll see,” said Monteil, smiling his icy smile. “Move, Ti!”

  Ti Chiu seized the bell pull, his big paw encompassing the wire that Sir Lionel had so carefully concealed behind it. He tugged. In fact, he gave several tugs.

  Lightning flashed in a lurid blue glare as four of the effigies leapt into the air and jerked about in a crazy dance.

  Imre Monteil was a poised and intelligent man, but his jaw dropped at the sight. The effect on his henchman, however, was catastrophic. Ti Chiu gave a shrill scream of terror, released the bell pull, and fled, his charge staggering his master as he galloped madly for the kitchen door.

  Vaughan, who had been gathering his strength, threw himself at Monteil’s legs and brought the Swiss down. With lightning reaction, Monteil reached for his fallen pistol. Marietta snatched it up, ran back a few paces, and aimed it at him, her face set and determined.

  Vaughan had stood. He was very pale, but he held his own pistol and said, “Careful, Miss Warrington. I’ll handle this scum!”

  “He’s a perfect beast, and—” In her fury, Marietta’s grip tightened and the pistol went off deafeningly.

  Monteil, who had dodged aside, sprang forward and sent Fanny hurtling at Vaughan.

  Sir Lionel ran to help his daughter.

  His aim blocked, and his eyes losing focus, Vaughan dared not shoot.

  Moving very fast, Monteil was in the corridor, across the kitchen, and wrenching the back door open.

  Sir Lionel snatched Vaughan’s pistol and sprinted in pursuit, but, despite his terror, Ti Chiu had retained sufficient of his wits to have scrambled to the box of Monteil’s carriage.

  With a crack of the whip and a thunder of hooves, the carriage, Monteil, and his henchman were gone.

  * * *

  Merlin’s hat was all droopy now, and the cloak was awf’ly wet. The wind was nastier, and even great wizards got hungry. But worst of all was the thunder and lightning. Arthur didn’t like either. Eric said lightning was more dangerous, but thunder made such a horrid noise. It was lucky he’d found the big tree, ’cause he didn’t get quite so much rain on him, but he must’ve walked hundreds of miles, and although he’d called lots of times, Friar Tuck wouldn’t come.

  Shivering, he huddled against the tree and decided to go home. Not that he was ’fraid, o’course; not really ’fraid. But the Friar had prob’ly gone home by now, anyway, so he wouldn’t be a coward to go an’ see. He’d jus’ rest his feet a bit, first.…

  His neck was stiff when he awoke. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep and he got up quickly and started for home. The trouble was that he didn’t know this part of the woods. He’d come in here ’cause he’d seen the bushes moving about and something small had gone running off. He’d stopped when he realized it wasn’t Friar, but now he couldn’t seem to find his way out.

  He was beginning to feel quite lonely when at last he emerged from the woods, and he was dismayed to see that the sky was getting to look like lunch-time. The thunder rumbled now and then, but it was a long way off, and the lightning was more like a glow on the clouds, not that horrid zig-zagging dart down the sky. The clouds were awful dark, though, and looked heavy. He’d be glad if they didn’t let the rain out till he was home. Wherever home was. If there was someone about, he could ask. But there wasn’t. Just him.

  He trudged along a rutted lane, with hedges on one side and the woods on the other. Soon, the lane would leave the woods behind and go somewhere, and then he’d be able to see Lanterns and he’d know how to get home. After a while he began to sing his Detestable Dag song, so as not to feel so lonely, but stopped when he heard a horse coming.

  “Please, sir,” he said eagerly when the horseman drew level, “I’m jus’ a little bit lost, an’—” He stopped, and frowned. “Oh. It’s you. I don’t like you anymore.”

  “That’s not a very nice way to greet a rescue party, you know,” said the horseman with a smi
le. “Come on up, old fellow, and we’ll get home just in time for tea.”

  Never had “tea” sounded so magical.

  In another moment rescued and rescuer were riding back into the woods.

  CHAPTER XVII

  “Why must he do it?” demanded Sir Lionel irascibly as Marietta helped him into his greatcoat. “I tell you what it is, Etta, that child has the wandering itch! It will do him good to lose himself for a little while. He’ll find his way home, never fear. He always does, and everyone hereabouts knows him, after all, so there’s no danger of his getting really lost. Perhaps this time it will teach him a lesson!” He paused and took her by the shoulders, scanning her face. “Shall you be all right here, my love? You’ve had a dreadful shock. I’d not go off and leave you alone, but if I send for Constable Davis he’ll likely not stir his stumps until the storm passes, and this ugly business must be reported to the authorities at once. Besides, that fool Wantage must come and look at poor Vaughan.”

  “Yes, of course, Papa. And I shan’t be alone. Fanny and Aunty Dova are here, and Joss—Mr. Vaughan—will likely wake up feeling quite restored.”

  Sir Lionel, who thought that Vaughan had looked extremely ill when Fanny had insisted he go to bed, doubted that remark, but said only that it was very probable and repeated his injunction that Marietta was not to go out searching for Arthur.

  She walked to the front door with him. “But, it is half past one and he has been gone since breakfast-time. You know how a storm upsets him!”

  “What I know is that he’s worried about that confounded cat and won’t come back till he’s found the creature. If he’s not home by the time I get back, I’ll lead out a proper search party. I don’t want you going off and taking cold in the wet. You’re a gentle creature and will need a good rest after that ordeal! Promise you’ll do as I say.”

  Nothing would move him. Reluctantly, she gave her promise and waved from the terrace as the coach lurched and splattered its way through the mud. The downpour had eased a little, but the skies were very dark and threatening. Poor Arthur must be very cold and hungry. Unless—