The Secret Throne

by Peter F. Hamilton

  ‘Thank you,’ Jemima said meekly. It had taken six hours to find the neighbour’s Labrador puppy that day.

  ‘What do you want, Jem?’

  ‘I saw something,’ Jemima said in a whisper. ‘Something in the garden. I couldn’t sleep, I’m not tired, so I was looking out of the window. The news said there’s supposed to be meteors tonight.’

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s quite dark out there. Whatever it was, it was slinking round the fuchsia hedge.’

  Taggie suddenly felt cold. She glanced nervously at her bedroom window. ‘A burglar?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was all black. Like a shadow that wasn’t attached to anything.’

  ‘All right, hang on.’ Taggie switched off her lantern. Jemima flicked hers off, too. Slowly Taggie pulled the curtains back, fearful that any sharp movement would pull the rickety old curtain pole off the wall. The sisters leaned on the windowsill and peered out into the garden.

  Hundreds of stars twinkled in a cloudless sky; their thin, silky light illuminated a dark lawn surrounded by black bushes. Taggie watched for several minutes. ‘There’s nothing out there, Jem,’ she said. Once again she was playing the big sister role, being all positive and reassuring.

  ‘Taggie, please,’ Jemima pleaded. ‘I saw something. And . . .’ She took a big breath, screwing up her courage. ‘Don’t laugh, but there was something really odd about that squirrel this afternoon.’

  ‘What sort of odd?’

  ‘It was white.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I swear. And, it was wearing glasses, and—’

  ‘Glasses?’ Taggie interrupted with a sceptical stare.

  ‘I knew you’d laugh,’ whined Jemima.

  ‘I’m not laughing.’

  ‘You saw how Dad behaved at the well this afternoon. He was more scared than he was angry. There’s something odd going on, Taggie.’

  Taggie pulled the curtains closed again and switched her lantern back on. She remembered very clearly Dad asking: What sort of squirrel? ‘All right, let’s go and tell him something’s out there.’

  ‘No!’ Jemima implored. She pulled at Taggie’s arm.

  ‘He’s our dad, Jem. He won’t want us upset over something that might or might not be lurking outside.’

  ‘Well . . . you say you saw it, then.’

  Taggie sighed. Sometimes being the big sister could be such an effort. ‘All right. Come on.’

  They heard people talking as they reached the bottom of the stairs, where there were some electric lights. At first Taggie thought Dad must have the TV on loud. Then she remembered he didn’t have a TV. Dad liked books: two rooms downstairs had floor-to-ceiling shelving completely filled with books, and there were piles and piles on every piece of furniture too.

  The radio, then, Taggie told herself as they approached the lounge door. But one of the voices was Dad’s.

  ‘I will not return,’ he was saying insistently.

  ‘But, sire, the situation is most grave.’

  Taggie frowned, the person Dad was talking to had a strange gurgly sort of voice, as if there was liquid bubbling through his throat as he spoke.

  ‘I have other responsibilities now,’ Dad said.

  ‘What could possibly be more important?’

  ‘I do not wish to discuss this . . .’

  Taggie stepped on a loose floorboard, which creaked loudly. She recovered fast; holding Jemima’s hand, she walked forward as if nothing was wrong.

  The lounge door was flung open. ‘What are you two doing down here?’ Dad demanded. He wasn’t angry; more like anxious.

  ‘I thought I saw something,’ Taggie said. ‘I couldn’t get to sleep, so I was looking out of the window for shooting stars. Then something moved in the garden.’

  ‘I saw it too,’ Jemima piped up. She was squeezing Taggie’s hand hard.

  ‘What?’ Dad asked. ‘What was outside?’

  ‘Don’t know – it was big and dark,’ Jemima blurted. ‘Is it a burglar, Daddy?’

  Dad put his arms round her. ‘Oh my darling . . . No of course not. We don’t get burglars out here. Besides, there’s nothing worth stealing in this old place.’

  Taggie was staring into the lounge. A couple of dim wall lights acted more like candles than electric bulbs, casting deep shadows across the room. Even in the gloom there was a strange shadow that she was drawn to; it was almost like a mist flowing around Dad’s antique wingback chair. Her eyes couldn’t quite focus properly, and it wasn’t black like an ordinary shadow, but the darkest red instead. She blinked and squinted hard, concentrating on the weird mirage. The shadow abruptly came into focus as an elderly man in long flowing robes. Taggie thought her eyes were still acting oddly: his skin looked as red as an earthenware pot.

  ‘Sorry for interrupting,’ she said to him. ‘We didn’t know Dad had a visitor.’

  The man’s whole body jumped as if she’d poked him with a stick rather than just said a polite greeting. He gave her a shocked stare.

  ‘What?’ her dad blurted, he looked from Taggie to the man. ‘You can see . . . ?’

  ‘Who are you talking to?’ Jemima asked.

  As if a whole new set of lights had been switched on, the man in the chair abruptly came into sharp focus.

  ‘Oh!’ a startled Jemima blurted. ‘Sorry, I didn’t see you there.’

  ‘Ah . . . Right . . .’ Dad stammered. ‘Girls, this is Mr Anatole, he’s the . . . er, new village vicar. He’s here to discuss the church fete.’

  ‘Delighted to meet you.’ Mr Anatole rose from the seat. He was at least a head taller than Dad, and his robes were like nothing Taggie had ever seen before. The cloth was a rich heavy mix of scarlet, indigo and emerald, with elaborate patterns in gold thread. It was something a bishop might wear, not a rural vicar. And he would have to be a very important bishop, Taggie decided.

  ‘What’s happened to your skin?’ Jemima asked.

  ‘Jem!’ Taggie hissed, furious with her sister for being so rude.

  ‘Jemima!’ Dad snapped crossly.

  Jemima hung her head, hair curtaining down across her eyes. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘That’s quite all right,’ Mr Anatole said. ‘Dear girl, I’ve had this skin since I was born.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ an abashed Jemima muttered.

  ‘Now look,’ Dad said in a kindly voice. ‘It’s very late. You two are supposed to be asleep. I understand you’re worried, so . . . This is the deal, you go back to bed, and I’ll take a look round the garden when Mr Anatole leaves – which is going to be very soon, OK? Now go on upstairs.’ He kissed both of them. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Night, Dad,’ they chorused.

  ‘Goodnight, Mr Anatole,’ Taggie added.

  The lounge door shut. Taggie was halfway back up the stairs when she heard Mr Anatole saying: ‘Sire, you have daughters!’

  ‘Be silent,’ Dad snapped coldly.

  Taggie couldn’t remember him being so sharp with anyone before, let alone a vicar. She and Jemima ran all the way back to their bedrooms. With the door closed and the lantern off, Taggie burrowed under her duvet, as if that would shield her from all the strange events of the day. Sleep came surprisingly quickly, but though she was really hoping the Queen would be there to comfort her, it was not to be.

  STRAWBERRIES AND KIDNAPPING

  After they woke up, Taggie and Jemima were sent out to collect eggs from the hen-coop, which took up a quarter of the kitchen garden. Then Dad cooked them breakfast on the big iron range, spending half his time poking at the glowing coals through the grate. ‘It gets the air flowing,’ he explained sheepishly as a small avalanche of ash slipped out on to the red tile floor.

  They had poached eggs with thick rashers of bacon, and big fried tomatoes which Dad had grown at the end of a polytunnel. It was accompanied by slices of freshly baked bread and honey. Taggie didn’t think she’d be able to move afterwards, she’d eaten so much.

  ‘Time to start
picking,’ Dad announced.

  Groaning, Taggie and Jemima followed him to the fields where the polytunnels were set up. For someone who seemed to enjoy living life from about two centuries ago, Dad had certainly adapted to modern fruit growing. Each polytunnel had five long troughs of strawberry plants running the entire length. Stems with huge bunches of ripe, scarlet strawberries hung over the edges, at a perfect height for picking.

  Several pickers lived in caravans that were parked at the bottom of the field; they were traditional Romanies who visited each year. Some of the families claimed their ancestors had been coming since Orchard Cottage was first built. As they walked to work they were joined by more pickers from the village and nearby town who rode up on bicycles and scooters.

  Dad’s old tractor puttered about, delivering pallets of empty boxes to the end of each row, and the pickers started to collect the fruit. The strawberries had all been contracted to a specialist supplier who dealt in organic fruit. Dad might have adopted polytunnels and irrigation pipes, but he hated the idea of using chemicals of any kind. ‘Nature knows best,’ he always told the girls.

  Taggie believed him. She started off eating plenty of strawberries as she picked them. They tasted utterly delicious, so much better than anything from the supermarkets.

  ‘What did you think of that man last night?’ Jem asked when they were by themselves, halfway along the polytunnel.

  ‘I’ve never seen clothes like that,’ Taggie admitted.

  ‘He’s not from here,’ Jemima said.

  ‘Dad said he’s the vicar.’

  ‘He’s not.’

  ‘Are you calling Dad a liar?’ snapped Taggie.

  Jemima pursed her lips. ‘He’s from a long way away, and that’s that.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Taggie. ‘You don’t know anything about him.’

  ‘I do! I know he’s not from here.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I always know things like that.’

  ‘Now you’re just being stupid.’

  ‘You’re just jealous cos I’m smarter than you.’

  ‘You are not,’ Taggie growled.

  ‘Am too.’ Jemima picked up her tray and stomped off down the polytunnel.

  Taggie nearly shouted after her, but reminded herself that she was the older sister, and such things didn’t bother her at all. So there. She went back to picking.

  A lot of the strawberries were still pale green, so Taggie had to check to make sure she only picked the ripe ones. It was monotonous work, and the air trapped in the polytunnel was stifling. She was certainly earning her money.

  Halfway through the morning she realized people were singing in the next polytunnel. When she looked up she saw her polytunnel was nearly deserted. Taggie wandered out, intrigued by the laughter coming from the other polytunnel where Jem had gone.

  When she looked round the edge, she saw nearly every picker was moving along the raised troughs. And no wonder they were all happy and smiling. The strawberries were all a rich scarlet. Every one of them had ripened. She saw Jemima halfway down the polytunnel, her face smeared red from berry juice, and grinning from ear to ear as she threw berries into her tray.

  ‘It’s because I sent the clouds away,’ Taggie told herself. ‘The sun must have ripened them all at once.’

  In only one polytunnel? a small voice in her head asked. Taggie sighed and went back to her own picking.

  That afternoon, both Taggie and Jemima ducked out of work. Dad was in the old barn, sawing up lengths of planks to use as fencing around the well. They helped him carry the heavy wood across the lawn and through the kissing gate in the fuchsia hedge. Taggie looked round the orchard in amazement. The wildflowers under the trees, which yesterday had been faded and dying back, had returned in full bloom. The whole orchard was ablaze with colour. Bees were flitting excitedly between the flowers, emitting a low droning sound.

  ‘That’s better,’ Jemima said contentedly.

  Dad started pulling down what was left of the old fence. Taggie took the rotten wood back into the garden and dumped it all in the bonfire pit.

  ‘No good for the log stove in the cottage,’ Dad said. ‘It’s too damp, but it’ll do fine for a bonfire in autumn.’

  After that it got a bit boring. Dad was using a fencing spade to dig new holes for the corner posts, which was hard work. The sisters tried using it, but the ground was tough and full of small stones, which had to be prised out individually.

  Taggie made some tea, which she and Jemima had on the patio while Dad carried on digging. Just as they were finishing, they heard a commotion coming from the orchard; some loud thuds, then the sound of metal striking metal.

  ‘What on earth is Dad doing now?’ Taggie wondered. They headed towards the kissing gate. Just before they reached it they heard Dad cry out – a wordless shout of rage followed by another almighty clang.

  Taggie and Jemima looked at each other, then dashed for the gate.

  They sprinted into the orchard, scattering lazy bees out of the way. Dad was at the top of the well holding a spade like a cricket bat, swinging at some creatures around him. There were three of them, no higher than his waist, dressed in shiny armour the lurid colour of blood. At first Taggie thought they were dwarfs, but then she saw they had four legs apiece. What could be seen through the helmet visors was a vague impression of hairy faces and noses like pigs’ snouts. The strange creatures lunged and stabbed at Dad with short swords. He fended them off with equally skilful jabs and swipes with his sturdy fencing spade. As the girls ran closer he unleashed a flurry of blows, dinting the knights’ already battered shields. One of them fell to the ground as Dad caught it a good blow on the side of its head.

  Then two more popped up out of the well. They flung a silvery net, which twisted round Dad’s arm before wrapping itself around his legs.

  ‘No!’ Taggie screamed, and dashed forward.

  Dad turned in shock. ‘Stay away,’ he bellowed.

  Taggie stopped, even though she was desperate to run over to him. To help somehow.

  ‘Go to your mother,’ Dad yelled. ‘Tell her what’s happened.’

  Taggie saw one of the four-legged knight-things hit Dad with a thick wooden baton across the back of his legs, forcing him down on to his knees. Another net was thrown, covering him completely this time. But he still had the spade, which he jabbed at the little armoured figures.

  ‘Do not follow me,’ he roared at his daughters. ‘Run! Run away now. Get to your mother! You’ll be safe with—’ Another wooden baton smacked into him.

  ‘Daddeeeee!’ Taggie shrieked in horror. Beside her, Jemima was screaming in panic.

  Taggie’s voice abruptly died in her throat. Something was sliding up smoothly from the centre of the well: a figure dressed in a long black cloak that swirled as if it was made from thick smoke. His face was just visible deep inside the baggy hood, like a skull with a thin layer of skin the colour of a white slug. He wore wide wraparound sunglasses perched on a flat, thin nose with a single nostril. And when the narrow lips opened to sneer at her unsuspecting father’s back, she saw silver teeth ending in sharp points.

  Taggie cried out in horror. The man-creature reached out with fingers twice as long as a human’s and covered in a gaudy collection of silver and crystal rings. Those gruesome hands closed over her father’s shoulders, and pulled him backwards.

  ‘Go! Get away!’ Dad shouted desperately. Then he was gone, pulled down into the darkness with the man-creature. The horrid little knight-things jumped down after them.

  Taggie ran forward, despite everything her father had yelled at her. Determination burned like fire beneath her skin. Her dad had been kidnapped – it didn’t matter by what. One of the red-armoured knights was still on the rim of the well, wobbling about as it adjusted its helmet. She was going to grab a fence post – oh yes she was – and give it a beating that would reduce it to a sobbing mess; then she’d . . .

  Something white and fluffy,
the size of a beach ball but not nearly as soft, slammed into her side and sent her sprawling painfully across the grass.

  ‘Huh?’ she wheezed.

  ‘You heard your father,’ a voice said in her ear. ‘Do not challenge the Rannalal knights and their Karrak master. Not here, not now.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘You!’ Jemima yelled as she ran over to her sister.

  Taggie struggled to sit up. A very big white squirrel was standing in front of her, a paw pushing purple-lensed glasses back up its nose. Although the sight was astounding, she tried to peer round it. Over by the well, the remaining Rannalal knight lifted its visor to stare at her with eyes that were black balls with tiny sparks of violet in the centre. Taggie hesitated as it sneered at her, exposing long dirty fangs.

  ‘You wish to come with us too?’ it snarled in a deep voice. ‘You wish to challenge me?’ The short sword was raised. It took a step forward.

  Taggie and Jemima yelped in fright.

  ‘Degot thok,’ the squirrel said loudly; he waved his front paws about. ‘Metrow metrow.’

  Every bee in the orchard took off in an explosion of harsh buzzing, and zoomed towards the Rannalal knight, forming a fast, noisy, airborne river. The four-legged creature gave a startled gasp and slammed its visor down. The first wave of bees bashed into the blood-red armour, sounding like hailstones hitting a greenhouse roof. Frantic shouts echoed over the orchard as the knight slashed its sword around madly, attempting to beat the bees off while trying desperately to keep its balance. Still more bees arrived, clotting the air around the mad dancing figure. All of a sudden, it turned and jumped into the well.

  The thick cloud of bees spread out, and started buzzing back to the wildflowers.

  ‘Gorek maw,’ the squirrel said, nodding formally at the dispersing cloud of bees.

  ‘What?’ Jemima asked.

  ‘It means thank you,’ Taggie said, then frowned in puzzlement at how she understood the strange language.

  ‘In hivetalk, yes,’ the squirrel confirmed.

  ‘Who on Earth are you?’ Taggie blurted, still too shocked by everything to think straight.