Gaylen took the chain and hung it around his neck and the key lay warm against his chest.
“That’s right,” said the minstrel. “Goodbye then, boy.”
He whistled to the dog and the two strolled off, heading eastward where the sun was stepping high and golden above the mountains. As he went, the minstrel lifted the lute and sang into the clear morning air:
The way is long and high and hot.
Be gay and sing! You may as well
Be feeling light of heart as not.
The way is long and high and hot,
But mime the birds and praise your lot.
Sweet freedom is the tale to tell.
The way is long and high and hot.
Be gay and sing! You may as well.
Gaylen stood smiling after him, fingering the key on his chest. Then, with a sigh, he took up the saddlebag and went to fetch Marrow from the stream at the edge of the orchard. After frowning at his map for a moment, he turned the horse southwest toward the next town and started off again on the search for Delicious.
The second of the four towns lay a good many miles ahead, but it was not a straight ride through, for there were three farms along the way and the farmers and their families all had to be polled. Gaylen had not gone far before he came upon a group of cows chewing calmly in a sunny meadow beside the road. Just beyond, a row of poplars stood guard over a small farmhouse and its attendant barn, coops, and sty. There was a woman sitting on the porch of the house, and out behind, in a tidy field, a man and a large ox were plowing the rich soil. Gaylen rode up to the house and called, “Gather round! Gather round! I’m here on the King’s business!”
The woman on the porch peered out at the boy and the big horse in his royal draperies, and her eyes opened very wide. She put aside the bowl of potatoes she had been peeling and called in a loud voice, “Mildew! Mildew! Come here at once!” Then she came down the path. She was a big woman with a red face and red hands and she wore a dark jacket and a great many skirts and petticoats. The man who had been plowing loped puffing to her side and they both stood staring up at Gaylen with their mouths open.
Gaylen took out the proclamation and unrolled it, fumbling self-consciously. He read in a voice somewhat louder than necessary:
Let it be known that every single creature in my kingdom who is capable of speech shall register with my messenger the following information: name, age, home, and the food he or she honestly believes to be the most delicious of all foods.
Then he rolled up the proclamation again and took out the notebook.
The farmer and his wife looked at each other and then looked back at Gaylen. An expression of self-satisfaction spread over the woman’s red face and she reached up a hand to smooth the knot of hair at the back of her neck. “The most delicious food, is it?” she beamed. “Well, now, there’s no trouble with that. My name is Whimsey Mildew and I’m fifty-nine, and I make the best fruitcake in the kingdom. It’s by far the most delicious thing there is and I’m sure a great many people will agree with me.” She stopped and looked expectantly at her husband.
But the farmer scratched at his knee nervously and kept his eyes on Gaylen. “Did the King say we have to be honest?”
“Absolutely,” said Gaylen.
“Honest, eh?” said the farmer. He looked miserably up at the sky and swallowed. Then he looked at Gaylen again. His eyes narrowed. He shoved his hands into his pockets and drew a deep breath. “My name is Mildew,” he said slowly, “and I’m sixty-one, and I just hate fruitcake!” His wife’s jaw dropped and she stared at him, her face changing to a deeper shade of red. “I don’t care, Whimsey!” he cried. “I’m glad it’s out at last. For thirty years I’ve been eating that fruitcake of yours—ugh!—when all I really wanted was a simple plumcake. Plumcake! Do you hear?”
“Plumcake?” choked his wife, her face now quite purple. “You’d rather have a soggy plumcake than my fruitcake? I can’t believe it. I can’t stand it! Plumcake!”
“Now, Whimsey, don’t be cross,” pleaded the farmer, but it was too late. She turned on him and grabbed at his jacket. He dodged away and headed off across the yard and out into the field, the plowed earth flying up from his heels, and his wife churned after him, mighty in anger, with her skirts flapping out behind.
Gaylen sat in dismay and watched them disappear into an alder wood behind the farm. He sat until he could no longer hear them shouting. And then all of a sudden he felt very tired. “No wonder the woldweller says there will always be wars,” he said to Marrow. He wished he were back in the orchard again, listening to the minstrel’s songs. But the minstrel was far away. Gaylen wrote the votes in the notebook and slid it into his saddlebag. Then he touched his horse’s ribs with his heel and they moved slowly off down the road.
Gaylen came to the next farm when the sun stood high overhead. There were two little children playing under a tree in the yard, a wild pear tree just going pink with blossoms. When the children noticed Gaylen riding up, the little boy shouted, “Mother! Mother! Here’s a big horse come in a pretty dress!” Their mother appeared in the doorway of the farmhouse and looked out. When she saw the horse, she drew back a little, shyly, but when she noticed how young the rider was, she took heart and stepped forward.
“Good day, sir,” she said politely. “We’re just about to have our midday meal. Will you come and join us?”
They gathered around the table with the farmer himself at the head, dishing out steaming bowls of stew. But when Gaylen read the proclamation, a shadow crossed the farmer’s sunburned face.
“I was afraid you were the one,” he said. “I’ve heard there’s trouble in the kingdom. Why does the King want war?”
“But he doesn’t!” said Gaylen. “All he wants is opinions.” And he told them about the Prime Minister’s dictionary.
“Just the same,” said the farmer, setting his mouth, “first comes a stranger in the night, riding up and banging on the door. He pushes in and shouts that there’s trouble coming, that the kingdom is dividing against itself and that the King is trying to deceive us by sending around a messenger with just the kind of talk you’ve given us. He claims the King wants to set down laws about eating, laws that say we can have some things but not others. And now you come, just as he said you would.”
“Hush!” said his wife. “He’s only a boy!”
The farmer turned away from her angrily. “I don’t want a war,” he cried to Gaylen, “but, on the other hand, I grow vegetables on my farm. What if the King says no more vegetables? No one will buy my carrots and beans and my farm will be ruined, while my neighbor Mildew up the road grows fat from his wheat and barley.”
Hemlock had done his work well. Gaylen saw that it would be useless to protest. “I have to register you anyway,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
The farmer and his wife and daughter voted stoutly for vegetables. The little boy said sweets at first, but his father spoke to him so sharply that he changed his mind.
Gaylen thanked them for the meal and rode away. He rode until dusk and then stopped at the last farmhouse, weary and hungry and hoping that a friendly soul inside would take him in for the night. He had ridden all through a glorious afternoon, but with such a heavy heart that he had not noticed the yellow primroses starring the grass along the way or heard the sweet song of linnets in the trees.
Gaylen climbed down from Marrow’s back and tied him to a young sycamore in front of the little house. Then he took his saddlebag and went to the door. At first there was no response to his knocking, and then a voice called sharply, “Who is it then?”
“It’s the King’s messenger,” he replied. “I’ve come on the King’s business.”
“Oh,” said the voice. Then, “You don’t say so! Well, all right. I’m coming.” The door opened and a rosy, wrinkled face appeared, framed by the starched white ruffle of a mobcap. A smile spread over the face and the door opened wide. “Why, you’re only a child!” said the old woman to whom the rosy face belon
ged. “Come in, child, and rest. Supper’s on.”
Gaylen stepped into a small, warm room. A pot of something lovely hung over the coals in a large fireplace, and against the wall a table was neatly laid for one. Bowls of white and pinkish haw stood everywhere. Gaylen sank onto a stool by the fire and peered into the pot, where, he now discovered, a rich soup of potatoes and onions rolled and bubbled.
“Go and wash up, child,” said the old woman, “and we’ll have some supper.” She pointed to a corner of the room where a basin and pitcher stood on a low cupboard. Gaylen poured water from the pitcher into the basin and washed his dusty hands and face. He was feeling much better already. He dried himself with a bit of fluffy cloth that was folded beside the basin, and turned to the table, where the old woman was laying out another bowl and cup. She looked at him and said severely, “Let me see your hands.” He held them out. “Very nice,” she said at last, after turning them over to make sure both sides were clean. “Now, sit down.” He sat and she filled his bowl with hot soup and put a spoon into his hand. Then she lit a fat candle that stood on the table, filled her own bowl, and sat, settling her skirts on the stool and clucking a little to herself like a pleasant old hen. They ate for a while in silence and then she put down her spoon and looked at him.
“So you’re the King’s messenger!” she said.
“Yes. I am,” answered Gaylen.
“You don’t say so!” she said, peering at him closely in the candlelight. She picked up her spoon and then put it down again. “I expect your old grandmother is very proud of you—such a child and such an important job,” she said.
“I don’t have an old grandmother,” said Gaylen. “I don’t have a mother, either. I’m an orphan, you see.”
After a moment the old woman reached out a wrinkled hand and patted his arm. “You don’t say so,” she said gently.
They ate again, while Gaylen wondered to himself about mothers and grandmothers. He had never thought much about them, because the Prime Minister had given him as much love and attention as any child could want. But just the same it was curiously soothing, sitting here with this kind old woman. He felt a warmth in his bones that the soup alone could not account for.
“I’m sorry I didn’t let you in right away, child,” said the old woman when they had finished their supper. “But there was such a noise here last night. A very disagreeable stranger came to my door. I had to get Maunder to drive him away. And I thought you must be he coming back to try again.”
She shook her head and frowned at the memory.
Hemlock, thought Gaylen. Then he asked, “Who is Maunder?”
“Why, that’s Maunder over there,” said the old woman, pointing to the corner by the fireplace. And there on a perch sat a large black crow. The crow had been sitting so still that Gaylen had not noticed it at all. But now, when he turned to look at it, the crow blinked its eyes rapidly and shook its feathers.
“Hello, child!” it rasped. “Hello, hello, hello! Whistles and keys! Whistles and keys!”
“Go over and say how-de-do to her while I clear up the table,” suggested the old woman.
Gaylen went over to the corner and stood sleepily admiring the crow’s shiny black feathers. “Hello, Maunder,” he said, yawning. The crow cocked its head to one side and rocked for a moment on its perch. Then it looked him straight in the eye and said something so surprising that Gaylen was wide awake again instantly.
“Whistles and keys! Whistles and keys!” said the crow. “Poor Ardis lost her doll!”
Gaylen stood gaping at the bird, who had thrust its head under its wing and was pecking at itself fiercely. Ardis! Here was her name again, from a most unlikely source.
“Tell me about Ardis,” he said to the crow eagerly. “Tell me something more!”
The crow settled its feathers and stared off in another direction. Then it cocked its head again and said, “Too bad! Too bad! Poor Ardis. Whistles and keys!” Then it turned itself around, with its back to Gaylen, and refused to say another word.
Gaylen went and stood by the fire, thinking. The old woman had rinsed and dried the dishes and was putting them away on a shelf. He watched her for a moment and then he said, “Where did you get that crow?”
“Why, my old man gave her to me long ago. He brought her down out of the mountains and gave her to me. She’s very, very old.”
“Does she always talk about Ardis?” asked Gaylen.
“Dear me, no,” said the old woman, bringing a stool over to the fire and settling herself on it comfortably. “I’ve heard her mention the name a time or two. Not often. Once, I remember, a fishmonger came to the door and I bought a pretty trout for supper and Maunder kept me awake all night saying those same words she just said to you. But you don’t have a fish with you anywhere that I can see. Still, there must be something that started her remembering.”
“Poor Ardis!” croaked the bird to the corner. “Too bad. Too bad. Whistles and keys!”
“Why, that’s it!” exclaimed the old woman suddenly. “It’s that strange little key you’re wearing round your neck, child. That’s what must have reminded her!”
Gaylen lifted the key and looked at it. He had almost forgotten it was there. “This key doesn’t have anything to do with Ardis,” he said, turning it over in his hand. “Ardis is a mermaid. I heard about her in a song.”
“Well, perhaps Maunder heard the same song once.”
“But there’s nothing about keys in the song,” protested Gaylen. “At least, not in the part I heard.” And then he sat down on the floor before the fire and told the old woman the whole story from the very beginning. When he got to the part about the woldweller, she folded her lips and clucked doubtfully, but when he told of his fears about Hemlock and the possible war to come, she shook her head and sighed.
“It’s a heavy load you carry, child. A very heavy load,” she said. “I wish I could help you, but I’m just an old woman. You must be very wise, living with the King as you do and knowing how to read and write. No doubt you’ll find a way out of all your troubles. But come to bed now and sleep. For all your wisdom, you’re still a child and you need your rest.”
She tucked him away under an old quilt on a mattress which she spread out before the fire. And then she took the candle and went off to her own tiny bedroom behind the fireplace. But before she went she bent and smoothed his hair. “Good night, child,” she said softly. “Sleep and dream.”
And Gaylen slept as blissfully as he would surely have slept in the house of the grandmother he had never known.
In the morning he tried again to wheedle something more from the crow, but it wouldn’t talk to him at all. The old woman fixed him a lunch of bread and cheese and tucked it into his saddlebag, and he wrote her choice for Delicious in the notebook: potato soup. Her name, she said, was Mrs. Copse.
“Goodbye! Goodbye, Vaungaylen!” she called to him as he rode away. “Come back again, child, when you can.”
And from the window the crow relented with a final squawk: “Whistles and keys! Whistles and keys! Goodbye!”
Gaylen’s hand went to the key that hung on his chest. His thoughts as he jounced along turned to the minstrel and the song he had heard in the orchard:
Wet stars glimmer through the long dark years,
Call down the words that she never hears.
Call to her there where the waters heave,
Call to her, “Ardis! Why do you grieve?”
“Well, at least,” he said to Marrow, “I’ve discovered one thing. If the crow is right, Ardis grieves because she’s lost her doll. But I certainly wish I knew why it seems so important.”
When gaylen rode into the second town that afternoon, he knew immediately that Hemlock had been there first. The people on the streets glared at him as he rode by and he could hear them murmuring: “There he is now.” “I told you he’d come, you dolt.” “Be quiet now.” “Yes, there’s trouble enough already.” “Don’t look at him.” “Quick, get the children
off the street—there’ll be fighting again now that he’s come.”
Gaylen rode on to the center of the town and found a small, angry group of citizens waiting for him. When they saw him coming, they shoved one of their number forward and someone said, “Go ahead, Veto. You’re the Mayor.”
“Gather round, gather round,” said Gaylen uncertainly. “I’ve come on the King’s business.”
The man called Veto looked at his neighbors for encouragement and then turned to Gaylen. “We know why you’re here,” he said. “We were warned.” A large number of people were collecting to listen. Their faces were dark with anger and worry. “We’ll do our best to see that the King’s wishes are carried out,” said Veto. “But we want to say first that we’re very unhappy about it.” He came closer and his voice rose with passion. “The King is setting neighbor against neighbor with this proclamation! We’ve heard that the first town has split right down the middle and business has come to a standstill!”
“Yes, yes, that’s what we were told!” cried some of the people. Others muttered and watched one another suspiciously.
“There’s room in this kingdom for all kinds of good things to eat!” Veto went on, raising his hand for silence. “If the King tries to strike out certain foods, some of us will be ruined!”
“That’s true!” cried an anxious voice from the crowd.
“Yes, but which?” called another, deeper voice. “Which shall be ruined and which shall prosper?”
Gaylen sat listening in dismay. “But that’s nonsense!” he cried. “The King isn’t trying to ruin anybody. All he wants to do is find out what people like best to eat. It’s completely and entirely harmless!” But nobody would pay the least attention to what he was saying.
The Mayor turned to the crowd and raised his hand again. “We must list our choices with the King’s messenger,” he said to them. “It’s the King’s command. We must do it, and we’ll do it in an orderly way. Form a line and let’s get it over.”
The Search for Delicious Page 4
