The Serial Garden: The Complete Armitage Family Stories

by Joan Aiken

  "Unicorn! Never heard such namby-pamby balderdash in me life! Here,” Great-uncle Gavin said, “what's your weekly allowance when your pater's at home?"

  With the disturbed family ghost and the prospect of Uncle Gavin's indefinite stay to depress them, Mr. and Mrs. Armitage had rather meanly decided that they were in need of three weeks in Madeira, and had left the day before.

  "Half a crown a week,” said Mark. “I've had three weeks in advance."

  "How much does a bike cost nowadays?"

  "Oh, I daresay you could pick one up for thirty-five pounds."

  "What?” Great-uncle Gavin nearly fell out of his chair, but then, rallying, he pulled seven five-pound notes out of his ample wallet. “Here, then, boy; this is an advance on your allowance for the next two hundred and eighty weeks. I'll collect it from your governor when he comes home. Cut along, now, and buy a bicycle, an’ go for a topping spin and don't let me see your face gain till suppertime."

  "But I don't want a bicycle,” said Mark.

  "Be off, boy, make yourself scarce, don't argue!—On second thought, ‘spose I'd better come with you, to make sure you don't spend the money on some appallin’ book about nature."

  So Great-uncle Gavin stood over Mark while the latter unwillingly and furiously purchased a super-excellent, low-slung bicycle with independent suspension, disk brakes, three-inch tires, five speeds, and an outboard motor. None of which assets did Mark want in the least, as who would, when they had a perfectly good unicorn to ride?

  "Now, be off with you and see how quickly you can get to Brighton and back."

  Day after day thereafter, no sooner had he eaten breakfast than Mark was hounded from the house by his relentless great-uncle and urged to try and better his yesterday's time to Brighton.

  "Gosh, he must have led those Mbutam-Mbutas a life,” Mark muttered darkly in the privacy of Harriet's room.

  "I suppose he's old and we ought to be patient with him,” Harriet said. She was pounding herbs in a mortar for her domestic science homework.

  The trouble was, concluded Mark, gloomily pedaling along one afternoon through a heavy downpour, that during his forty years among the simple savages Great-uncle Gavin had acquired the habit of command; it was almost impossible not to obey his orders.

  Almost impossible, but not quite. Presently the rain increased to a cloudburst.

  "Drat Great-uncle Gavin! I'm not going all the way to Brighton in this,” Mark decided. “Anyway, why should I go to Brighton?"

  And he climbed a stile and dashed up a short grassy path to a small church nearby which had a convenient, dry-looking porch. He left his bike on the other side of the stile, for that is another disadvantage of bikes: you can never take them all the way to where you want to go.

  The church proved to be chilly and not very interesting, so Mark, who always carried a paperback in his pocket, settled on the porch bench to read until the rain abated. After a while, hearing footsteps, he looked up and saw that a smallish, darkish, foreign-looking man had joined him.

  "Nasty afternoon,” Mark said civilly.

  "Eh? Yes! Yes, indeed!” The man seemed nervous; he kept glancing over his shoulder down the path.

  "Is your bicycle, boy, by wall yonder?” he asked by and by.

  "Yes, it is."

  "Is a fine one,” the man said. “Very fine one. Would go lickety-spit fast, I daresay?"

  "An average of twenty miles per hour,” Mark said gloomily.

  "Will it? Will it so?"

  The little man fell silent, glancing out uneasily once more at the rainy dusk, while Mark strained his eyes to see the print of his book. He noticed that his companion seemed to be shuffling about, taking a pack off his back and rummaging among the content; presently Mark realized that something was being held out to him. He looked up from the page and saw a golden apple—quite a large one, about the size of a Bramley. On one side the gold had a reddish bloom, as if the sun had ripened it. The other side was paler. Somebody had taken two bites out of the red side; Mark wondered what it had done to their teeth. Near the stalk was a dark-brown stain, like a patch of rust.

  "Nice, eh?” the little man said, giving the apple to Mark, who nearly dropped it on the floor. It must have weighed at least four pounds.

  "Is it real gold all through?” he asked. “Must be quite valuable."

  "Valuable?” the man said impressively. “Such apple is beyond price. You, of course, well-educated, familiar with Old Testament tale of Adam and Eve?"

  "W-why, yes,” Mark said, stammering a little. “But you—you don't mean to say that apple—?"

  "Self same one,” the little man said, nodding his head. “Original bite marks of Adam and Eve before apple carried out of Eden. Then—see stain? Blood of Abel. Cain killed him for apple. Stain will never wash off."

  "Goodness,” Mark said.

  "Not all, however—not all at all! Apple of Discord—golden apple same which began Trojan War—have heard of such?"

  "Why yes. But—but you're not telling me—"

  "Identical apple,” the little man said proudly. “Apples of Asgard, too? Heard of? Scandinavian golden apples of perpetual youth, guarded by the goddess Idunn?"

  "Yes, but you don't—"

  "Such was one of those. Not to mention Apples of Hesperides, stolen by Hercules."

  "Hold on—surely it couldn't have been both?"

  "Could,” the little man said. “Was. William Tell's apple—familiar story?—same apple. Newton—apple fell on head letting in dangerous principle of gravity. This. Atalanta—apple thrown by Venus to stop her winning race. Also, Prince Ahmed's apple—"

  "Stop, stop!” said Mark. “I don't understand how it could possibly be all those.” But somehow, as he held the heavy, shining thing in his hand, he did believe the little man's story. There was a peculiar, rather nasty fascination about the apple. It scared him, and yet he wanted it.

  "So, see,” the little man said, nodding more than ever, “worth millions pounds. No lie—millions. And yet I give to you—"

  "Now wait a minute—"

  "Give in exchange for bicycle, yes? Okay?"

  "Well, but—but why? Why don't you want the apple?"

  "Want bicycle more.” He glanced down the road again, and now Mark guessed.

  "Someone's after you—the police? You stole the apple?"

  "Not stole, no, no, no! Did swap, like with bicycle, you agree, yes?"

  He was already halfway down the path. Hypnotized, Mark watched him climb the stile and mount the bike, wobbling. Suddenly, Mark found his voice and called,

  "What did you swap for it?"

  "Drink of water—in desert, see?"

  "Who's chasing you, then?"

  By now the little man was chugging down the road and his last word, indistinct, floated back through the rain, something ending in “—ese"; it might have been Greek for all Mark could make of it.

  He put the apple in his pocket, which sagged under the weight, and, since the shower was slackening, walked to the road to flag a lift home in the next truck.

  * * * *

  Great-uncle Gavin nearly burst a blood vessel when he learned that Mark had exchanged his new bicycle for an apple, albeit a golden one.

  "Did what—merciful providence—an apple?—Hesperides? Eden? Asgard? Never heard such a pack of moonshine in all me born—let's see it, then. Where is it?"

  Mark produced the apple and a curious gleam lit up Uncle Gavin's eye.

  "Mind,” he said, “don't believe a word of the feller's tale, but plain that's val'ble; far too val'ble an article to be in your hands, boy. Better give it here at once. I'll get Christie's to value it. And of course we must advertise in The Times for the wallah who palmed it off on you—highly illegal transaction, I daresay."

  Mark felt curiously relived to be rid of the apple, as if a load had been lifted from his mind as well as his pocket.

  He ran upstairs, whistling. Harriet, as usual, was in her room mixing things in retorts and cruci
bles. When Uncle Gavin, as in duty bound, asked each evening what she had been learning that day in her domestic science course, she always replied briefly, “Spelling.” “Spellin', gel? Rum notion of housekeepin’ the johnny seems to have. Still, daresay it keeps you out of mischief.” In fact, as Harriet had confided to Mark, Professor Grimalkin was a retired alchemist who, having failed to find the Philosopher's Stone, was obliged to take in pupils to make ends meet. He was not a very good teacher; his heart wasn't in it. Mark watched Harriet toss a pinch of green powder into a boiling beaker. Half a peach tree shot up, wavered, sagged, and then collapsed. Impatiently Harriet tipped the frothing liquid out of the window and put some more water on to boil.

  Then she returned to the window and peered out into the dark.

  "Funny,” she said, “there seem to be some people waiting outside the front door. Can't think why they didn't ring the bell. Could you let them in, Mark? My hands are covered in prussic acid. I expect they're friends of Uncle Gavin's."

  Mark went down and opened the door. Outside, dimly illuminated by light from the porch, he saw three ladies. They seemed to be dressed in old-fashioned clothes, drainpipe skirts down to their ankles, and cloaks and bonnets rather like those of Salvation Army lasses; the bonnets were perched on thick, lank masses of hair. Mark didn't somehow care for their faces, which resembled those of dogs—but not tame domestic dogs so much as starved, wild, slightly mad dogs; they stared at Mark hungrily.

  "Er—I'm so sorry? Did you ring? Have you been waiting long?” he said.

  "A long, long time. Since the world-tree was but a seed in darkness. We are the Daughters of the Night,” one of them hollowly replied. She moved forward with a leathery rustle.

  "Oh.” Mark noticed that she had bats’ wings. He stepped back a little. “Do you want to see Great-uncle—Sir Gavin Armitage? Won't you come in?"

  "Nay. We are the watchers by the threshold. Our place is here."

  "Oh, all right. What name shall I say?"

  To this question they replied in a sort of gloomy chant, taking turns to speak.

  "We are the avengers of blood."

  "Sisters of the nymph with the apple-bough, Nemesis."

  "We punish the sin of child against parent—"

  "Youth against age—"

  "Brother against brother—"

  "We are the Erinyes, the Kindly Ones—” (But their expressions were far from kindly, Mark thought.)

  "Tisiphone—"

  "Alecto—"

  "And Megaera."

  "And what did you wish to see Sir Gavin about?” Mark knew his great-uncle hated to be disturbed once he was settled in the evening with a glass of port and The Times.

  "We attend him who holds the apple."

  "There is blood on it—a brother's blood, shed by a brother."

  "It cries for vengeance."

  "Oh, I see!" said Mark, beginning to take in the situation. Now he understood why the little man had been so anxious for a bicycle. “But, look here, dash it all, Uncle Gavin hasn't shed any blood! That was Cain, and it was a long time ago. I don't see why Uncle should be responsible."

  "He holds the apple."

  "He must bear the guilt."

  "The sins of the father are visited on the children."

  "Blood calls for blood."

  Then the three wolfish ladies disconcertingly burst into a sort of hymn, shaking tambourines and beating on them with brass-studded rods which they pulled out from among their draperies:

  "We are the daughters

  Of darkness and time

  We follow the guilty

  We punish the crime

  Nothing but bloodshed

  Will settle old scores

  So blood has to flow and

  That blood must be yours!"

  When they had finished, they fixed their ravenous eyes on Mark again and the one called Alecto said, “Where is he?"

  Mark felt greatly relieved that Uncle Gavin had taken the apple away from him and was, therefore, apparently responsible for its load of guilt, but as this was a mean thought he tried to stifle it. Turning (not that he liked having the ladies behind his back), he went into the sitting room, where Uncle Gavin was snug by the fire, and said,

  "There are some callers asking for you, Great-uncle."

  "God bless my soul, at this time of the evenin'? Who the deuce—"

  Great-uncle Gavin crossly stumped out to the porch, saying over his shoulder, “Why didn't you ask ‘em in, boy? Not very polite to leave ‘em standing—"

  Then he saw the ladies, and his attitude changed. He said sharply,

  "Didn't you see the notice on the gate, my good women? It says ‘No Hawkers or Circulars.’ I give handsome checks to charity each year at Christmas and make it a rule never to contribute to door-to-door collections. So be off, if you please!"

  "We do not seek money,” Tisiphone hungrily replied.

  "Milk-bottle tops, jumble, old gold, it's all the same. Pack of meddlesome old maids—I've no time for you!” snapped Sir Gavin. “Good night!” And he shut the door smartly in their faces.

  "Have to be firm with that sort of customer,” he told Mark. “Become a thorough nuisance otherwise—tiresome old harpies. Got wind of that golden apple, I daresay—shows what happens when you mix with such people. Shockin’ mistake. Take the apple to Christie's tomorrow. Now, please see I'm not disturbed again.” And he returned to the sitting room.

  Mark looked uneasily at the front door, but it remained shut; evidently the three Kindly Ones were content to wait outside. But there they stayed; when Mark returned to Harriet's room he looked out of the windows and saw them, somber and immovable, in the shadows outside the porch, evidently prepared to sit out the night.

  "Not very nice if they're going to picket our front door from now on,” he remarked gloomily to Harriet. “Goodness knows what the postman will think. And I don't fancy ‘em above half. Wonder how we can get rid of them."

  "I've an idea,” Harriet said. “Professor Grimalkin was talking about them the other day. They are the Furies. But it's awfully hard to shake them off once they're after you. Maybe the postman won't see them. They aren't after him."

  "There must be some way of getting rid of them,” Mark said glumly.

  "There are various things you can do, biting off your finger—"

  "Some hope of Uncle Gavin doing that!"

  "Or shaving your head."

  "Wouldn't be much use since he's bald as a bean already."

  "You can bathe seven times in running water or take the blood of pigs—"

  "He already does take a lot of cold baths and we had pork for supper, so plainly that's no go."

  "Well, you can go into exile for a year,” Harriet said.

  "I only wish he would."

  "Or build them a grotto, nice and dark, preferably under an ilex tree, and make suitable offerings."

  "Such as what?"

  "Anything black, or they rather go for iris flowers. Milk and honey, too. And they can be shot with a bow of horn, but that doesn't seem to be very successful as a rule."

  "Oh, well, let's try the milk-and-honey and something black for now,” Mark said. “And I'll make a bow of horn tomorrow—I've got Candleberry's last year's horn in my room somewhere.” Candleberry was the unicorn.

  Harriet, therefore, collected a black velvet pincushion and a bowl of milk and honey. These she put on the front step, politely wishing the Daughters of Night good evening, to which their only response was a baleful silence.

  Next morning the milk and honey were still there. So were the Furies. Evidently they did not intend to be placated so easily. By daylight they were even less attractive, having black claws, bloodshot eyes, and snakes for hair. However, slipping down early to remove the saucer in case the postman tripped over it, Harriet did notice that all the pins had been removed from the pincushion. And eaten? This was encouraging. So was the fact that when the postman arrived with a card from their parents in Madeira—Having wonderful
time, hope you are behaving yourselves—he walked clean through the Furies without noticing them at all.

  "Perhaps they're only visible to relatives of their victims,” Harriet suggested to Mark, who was working on the unicorn horn with emery paper.

  "I hope they've taken the pins to stick in Uncle Gavin,” he growled. In default of bicycle exercise Uncle Gavin had made Mark do five hundred push-ups before breakfast and had personally supervised the operation. Mark felt it would be far, far better to shoot Uncle Gavin than the Furies, who, after all, were only doing their duty.

  The most annoying thing of all was that, after his initial interview with them, Uncle Gavin seemed not to notice the avenging spirits at all ("He only sees what he chooses to,” Harriet guessed) and walked past them quite as unconcernedly as the postman had. He packed up the golden apple in a cigar box, rang for a taxi, and departed for London. The Furies followed him in a black, muttering group, and were seen no more for several hours; Mark and Harriet heaved sighs of relief. Prematurely, though; at teatime the Furies reappeared, even blacker, muttering still more, and took up their post once more by the front door.

  "Lost the old boy somewhere in London,” Mark diagnosed. “Or perhaps they were chucked out of Christie's."

  The unwanted guests were certainly in a bad mood. This time they were accompanied by a smallish thickset winged serpent or dragon who seemed to be called Ladon. Harriet heard them saying, “Down, Ladon! Behave yourself, and soon you shall sup on blood.” Ladon, too, seemed to have a snappish disposition, and nearly took off Harriet's hand when she stooped to pat him on returning home from her Domestic Science lesson.

  "What a beautiful green his wings are. Is he yours?” she said to the Furies politely.

  "He is the guardian of the apple; he but waits for his own,” Tisiphone replied dourly.

  Ladon did not share the Furies’ scruples about coming indoors; evidently he was used to a warmer climate and found the doorstep too draughty. He followed Harriet into the kitchen and flopped his bulky length in front of the stove, hissing cantankerously at anyone who came near, and greatly discomposing Walrus the cat.

  Walrus was not the only one.

  "Miss Harriet! Get that nasty beast out of here at once!” exclaimed Mrs. Epis, the cook, when she came back from shopping. “And what those black ladies are doing out on the front doorstep I'm sure I don't know; I've two or three times give ‘em a hint to be off, but they won't take it."