Cart and Cwidder

“Seventeen,” Lenina said briskly. “Moril, come out of that dream and count this money.”

Moril unwillingly scrambled out from under the cart. As he did so, Clennen turned his head, and his voice boomed across the barn. “No, I didn’t care for him at all, last time I was in Neathdale.” With his voice came a look that caused the murmuring gentleman to wither away into the crowd. Moril watched him wither, a little puzzled. He seemed to be the twin of the murmuring gentleman in Derent.

The takings were not bad, which pleased Lenina. And Clennen was in good humour because an old friend of his had made him a present of a beefsteak. It was beautifully red and tender and wrapped in leaves to keep it fresh. Clennen stowed it carefully in a locker. He talked jovially of supper as they drove through Crady in the slackening drizzle. Kialan, to Brid’s contempt, was waiting for them under a tree just beyond the town.

“Huh!” said Brid. “Not interested in our shows, isn’t Mr High-and-Mighty! Did you see him, Moril? Drinking in every word!”

“Yes,” said Moril.

While the red steak fizzled over the fire, Brid said mock-innocently to Kialan: “Father told one of the Adon stories at the show. Do you know them at all?”

“Yes. And a dead bore they are too,” said Kialan. “All that magic!”

“You would say that!” said Moril. “I saw—”

“Silence!” said Clennen. “You’re interrupting the steak. Not another word until it’s ready to eat.”

The steak was certainly worthy of respect. Even Kialan had nothing to say against it. They went on again after supper. In his carefree way, Clennen seemed to be quite as anxious as Moril to see the North again. He refused to let Olob choose them a meadow until the sun was nearly down and the sky ahead and to the left was a mass of lilac clouds barred with red.

“Imagine that over the peaks of the North Dales,” he said. “But even in the South, Mark Wood is fine at this time of year. There’s nothing to beat a tall beech in spring. And do you know the Marsh at all, Kialan?”

“A little,” said Kialan.

“If we’d time, I’d take you through it just for the flowers,” said Clennen. “But it’s too far east, more’s the pity. The ducks there make your mouth water.”

“There are rabbits in the South Dales,” Dagner suggested.

“So there are,” said Clennen. “Look the snares out tomorrow.”

By the end of the following day the landscape had begun to change. The rolling grey-green slopes gave way to higher, greener hills, and there were more trees. It was like a foretaste of the North. Moril began to feel pleasantly excited, although he knew that they were only entering the South Dales. Tholian, Earl of the South Dales, was reputed to be a tyrant fiercer even than Henda. It was still a long way to the North. Beyond these green hills lay the Uplands and Mark Wood, before they came to Flennpass and the North at last.

Nevertheless, budding apple trees made a pleasant change from rows of vines. The nights were slightly cooler, and rabbits were plentiful. Every night Dagner went off to set snares round about the camp, and to Moril’s surprise, Kialan made his first helpful gesture and went with Dagner.

“It’s only because he likes killing things,” Brid said. “He’s that type.”

Whatever the reason, Kialan was surprisingly good at catching and skinning rabbits, and Lenina was good at rabbit stew. Since they had wine as well, they fed very well for the next few days. Moril was almost grateful to Kialan. But Brid was not in the least grateful because every time they stopped in a town or village to give a show, Kialan would put on his act of not being interested and announce that he would meet them outside the town. And every time, unfailingly, they would see him among the audience, as interested as anyone there.

“Two-faced hypocrite!” Brid said indignantly. “He’s just trying to make us feel small.”

“That wouldn’t do you any harm,” Lenina said, in her dry way. Brid was more indignant than ever. It was becoming clear that Lenina rather approved of Kialan. Not that she said anything. It was more that she did not say any of the things she might have done. And when Kialan tore his good coat in the wood, Lenina mended it for him with careful neat stitches.

Kialan seemed far more surprised than grateful when Lenina handed him the mended coat. “Oh – thanks,” he said. “You shouldn’t have bothered.” His face was red, and he seemed actually a little scornful of Lenina for doing it.

“Nothing to what I am!” said Brid. “He can go in rags for all I care.”

The day after this they entered the part of the South Dales which was the lordship of Markind. They never gave shows in Markind. Brid’s dislike of Kialan came to a head while Olob was patiently dragging the cart up and down the steep little hills of this lordship. The reason was that Clennen, who never disdained an audience, began to explain to Kialan exactly why he always hurried through Markind without giving a performance.

“I took Lenina from here, you see,” he said. “From the very middle of Markind, out of the Lord’s own hall. Didn’t I, Lenina?”

“You did,” said Lenina. She always looked very noncommittal whenever Clennen told this story.

“She was betrothed to the Lord’s son. What was his name? Pennan – that was it. And a wet young idiot he was too,” Clennen said reminiscently. “I was asked in to sing at the betrothal – I had quite a name, even in those days, and I was a good deal in demand for occasions like that, let me tell you. Well, no sooner did I come into the hall and set eyes on Lenina than I knew she was the woman for me. Wasted on that idiot Fenner. That was his name, wasn’t it, Lenina?”

“He was called Ganner,” said Lenina.

“Oh, yes,” said Clennen. “I remember he reminded me of a goose somehow. It must have been the name. I’d thought it was his scraggy neck or those button eyes of his. Anyway, I thought I’d rely on my looks being better than his and deal with Master Gosler later. For the first thing, I concentrated on Lenina. I sang – I’ve never sung better, before or since – and Lenina here couldn’t take her eyes off me. Well, I don’t blame her, because I don’t mind admitting that I was a fine-looking man in those days, and gifted, too – which Flapper wasn’t. So I asked Lenina in a song whether she’d marry me instead of this Honker fellow, and when I came up to get my reward for my singing, she said Yes. So then I dealt with him. I turned to him. ‘Lording,’ I said, most respectful, ‘Lording, what gift will you give me?’ And he said ‘Anything you want. You’re a great singer’ – which was the only sensible thing he said that evening. So I said, ‘I’ll take what you have in your right hand.’ He was holding Lenina’s hand, you see. I still laugh when I think of the look on his face.”

While the story went on – and it made a long one, for Clennen went over it several times, embroidering the details – Brid and Moril walked by the roadside out of earshot, watching the fed-up look settle on Kialan’s face. They had both heard the story more times than they could remember.

“I suppose the thing about being a singer is that you like telling the same story a hundred times,” Brid said rather acidly. “But you’d think Father would remember Ganner’s name by this time.”

“That’s all part of it,” said Moril. “I always wonder,” he added dreamily, “what would happen if we met Ganner while we were going through Markind. Would he arrest Father?”

“Of course he wouldn’t,” said Brid. “I don’t suppose it’s true, anyway. And even if it did happen, Ganner must have grown into a big fat lord by now and forgotten Mother ever existed.”

Since this was Brid’s true opinion of the matter, it was a little unreasonable of her to be so angry when she found Kialan shared it. But one is seldom reasonable when one dislikes someone. They stopped for lunch, and Clennen, thoroughly in his stride, went on embroidering the story.

“Lenina’s a real lady,” he said, leaning comfortably against the pink and scarlet wheel of the cart. “She’s Tholian’s niece, you know. But he cast her off for running away with me. And it was all my fault for playing that trick on Gander. ‘Lording,’ I said to him, ‘give me what you have in your right hand.’ Oh, I shall never forget his face! Never!” And he burst out laughing.

Kialan had heard this at least three times by then. Moril had rarely seen him look so fed up. While Clennen was laughing, Kialan got up quickly to avoid hearing any more, and stumped off without looking where he was going. He nearly fell over Moril and Brid and became more fed up than ever.

“Blinking bore your father is!” he said. “I’d be quite sorry for Ganner if I thought there was a word of truth in it!”

“How dare you!” said Brid. “How dare you say that! I’ve a good mind to punch your nose in!”

“I don’t fight with girls,” Kialan said loftily. “All I meant was I’m sick of hearing about Ganner. If your father remembers it that well, why on earth can’t he get the poor fellow’s name right?”

“It’s part of the story!” screamed Brid, and threw herself at Kialan.

Kialan, for a second or so, tried to keep up his claim not to fight girls, with the result that Brid punched his nose twice and then boxed his ears in perfect freedom. “You spiteful cat!” said Kialan, and grabbed both her wrists. It was in self-defence. On the other hand, he squeezed her wrists so painfully that he hurt Brid rather more than if he had hit her. She lashed out at his legs with her bare feet, but finding that made no impression on Kialan, she sank her teeth into the hand round her wrists. At this, Kialan lost his temper completely and punched Brid with his free hand.

Dagner never let people hit Brid. He surged up from his seat in the hedgerow and fell on Kialan. Moril, since Dagner seemed to be doing his best to strangle Kialan, thought he had better get Brid out from between them and entered the fray too. They made a grunting furious bundle. Brid would not unfasten her teeth and Kialan would not let go of Brid. Clennen heaved himself up, strolled over, and wrenched Dagner away from Kialan and Kialan away from Brid. Everyone, including Moril, fell with heavy thumps, this way and that. Clennen might have been fat, but he was also strong.

“Now stop!” said Clennen. “And if you’ve anything more to say about my story, Kialan, say it to me.” He looked cheerfully down at Kialan, angrily sprawled on the roadside sucking his bleeding knuckles. “Well?”

“All right!” said Kialan. “All right!” Moril could see he was nearly crying. Brid was crying. “You can keep on saying you’ll never forget Ganner – or whatever he’s called – all you like,” said Kialan. “I don’t believe you’ve even met him! You wouldn’t know him if he came walking down the road this minute! So there!”

The cheerfulness died out of Clennen’s face. It was replaced by a very odd look. Kialan noticeably tensed at it. “Do you know Ganner then?” Clennen said.

“No, of course I don’t!” said Kialan. “How could I? I don’t suppose he exists.”

“Oh, he exists all right,” said Clennen. “And I’m sure you don’t know him. Yet you’re right. I’ve seen Ganner three times this month and not known him till this minute.” He laughed again, and Kialan relaxed considerably. “Not a face that stands out in a crowd,” he said. “Eh, Lenina?”

“I suppose not,” agreed Lenina, and continued calmly slicing cold sausage.

“You knew him though, didn’t you?” Clennen said. “In Derent, and on the road, and again in Crady?”

“Not till he said who he was,” Lenina said, quite unperturbed.

There seemed suddenly to be a situation ten times worse. All through lunch Clennen looked at Lenina in a tense, troubled way. He seemed to be expecting her to say something and, at the same time, carefully not saying all sorts of things himself. And Lenina said nothing. She said nothing so positively and obviously that the air seemed sticky with her silence. It was hateful. The rest of them picked awkwardly at their food, and no one spoke much. Kialan did not say anything. It was obvious, even to Brid, that he was kicking himself for causing the situation – as well he might, Moril thought.

When the food was finished and the cart packed again, they went on, still in the same heavy silence. At last Clennen could bear it no longer.

“Lenina,” he said, “you’re not regretting all that, are you? If you want that kind of life – if you’d rather have Ganner – just say the word and I’ll turn Olob towards Markind this moment.”

Moril gasped. Brid’s mouth came open in her tear-stained face. They looked at Clennen and found he seemed quite serious. Then they looked at Lenina, expecting her to laugh. It was so silly. Lenina was as much part of their life as Olob or the cart. But Lenina did not laugh, nor did she say anything. Not only Brid and Moril, but Dagner, Kialan and Clennen too, stared at her in increasing anxiety.

They came to a fork in the road. One branch led west, and the milestone said MARKIND 10. “Do I turn here?” asked Clennen.

Lenina gave herself an impatient shake. “Oh no,” she said. “Clennen Mendakersson, you must be a very big fool indeed to think such a thing of me.”

Clennen burst into a roll of relieved laughter. He shook the reins, and Olob trotted past the turning. “I must say,” he said, laughing still, “I can’t see how you could prefer Ganner to me. He couldn’t have made the songs I’ve made to you, not if his life depended on it.”

“Then why did you think I did?” Lenina asked coldly. The trouble was not over yet.

“Well,” Clennen said awkwardly. “Money and all that. And it’s what you were bred to, after all.”

“I see,” said Lenina. There was silence again for quite half an hour, except for the plopping of Olob’s hooves and the light rumble of the cart. Kialan was unable to bear it. He got out and walked ahead, whistling the Second March rather defiantly. The others sat with their heads hanging, wishing Lenina would make peace. At last she said, “Oh, Clennen, do stop sitting there watching me like a dog! I’m not going to take wings and fly, am I? It’s lucky Olob has more sense than you, or we’d be in the ditch by now!”

Then the trouble seemed to be over. Clennen was shortly laughing and talking again. And Lenina, if she was silent, was silent in her usual way, which everyone was used to. Brid and Moril got out of the cart too, though they did not go near Kialan. Brid was still too angry with him.

THAT NIGHT THEY camped in one of the many little valleys Markind abounded in. There were woods up its steep sides and a meadow in the bottom, containing a small peaceful lake full of newly hatched tadpoles. Dagner and Kialan went off to set their snares. Lenina put herbs on the fire against the midges, and the fragrant smoke streamed sideways and settled across the lake in bands. Brid and Moril, quite unworried by insects, waded into the shallows of the lake and tried enthusiastically to collect tadpoles in an old pickle jar. Moril had just lost most of them by accident when he looked up to find his father watching them.

“You want a bigger jar,” Clennen said. “And both of you want to remember what I said to Kialan about give-and-take.”

“He doesn’t remember it,” Brid said sulkily.

“He’s never had to learn it before,” said Clennen. “That’s his trouble. But it’s not yours, Brid. A fight takes two.”

“Did you hear what he said?” Moril demanded.

“I’m not deaf,” said Clennen. “He’s entitled to his opinion, like everyone else. And it wouldn’t hurt you to find some opinions of your own instead of borrowing Brid’s, Moril. Now get that slime off your fingers before you touch my cwidder.”

While Moril was having his lesson, Kialan came out of the woods and into the lake, where he tried to teach Dagner to swim. The sight of them splashing about was a great distraction to Moril. It grew worse when Kialan tried to persuade Brid to learn to swim too. Brid claimed to be afraid of leeches. Nothing would induce her to go above her knees in water, but she agreed to learn the arm movements. Moril could hear her laughing. It looked as if Kialan were trying to make friends.

Moril became more distracted than ever. Perhaps, after all, Kialan was not bad at heart – only tactless. Moril tried to decide what he thought. It really rankled with him that Clennen believed he borrowed Brid’s opinions. Moril considered that he thought long and deeply – if rather vaguely – about most things. But he knew he had agreed with Brid, quite unquestioningly, both about Kialan and about the Ganner story. And it looked as if Brid had been wrong about both. Moril did not know what he thought.

“I suppose I ought to be used to you being up in the clouds by now,” said Clennen. “Do you want to swim too?”

“No,” said Moril. “Yes. I mean, is that story about Ganner true, then?”

“Word of honour,” said Clennen. “Except it’s the fellow’s face I seem to have forgotten, not his name. I may embroider a detail here and there, but I never tell a story that isn’t true, Moril. Remember that. Now go and swim if you want to.”

Clennen was clearly very relieved that Lenina was not leaving for Markind. He drank a great deal of the wine that night to celebrate. The level in the huge bottle was almost down to the straw basket when he finally rolled into the larger tent and fell asleep. He was still asleep next morning when Dagner and Kialan went off to look at their snares. When Brid and Moril got up, they could hear him snoring, though Lenina was up and combing out her soft fair hair by the lake. Brid attended to the fire, and Moril tried to attend to Olob. Olob, for some reason, was tetchy. He kept flinging up his head and shying at shadows.

“What’s the matter with him?” Moril asked his mother.

Lenina’s comb had hit a tangle. She was lugging at it fiercely and not really attending. “No idea,” she said. “Leave him be.”

So Moril left off trying to groom Olob and turned to put the currycomb back in the cart. He found himself looking at a number of men, who were pushing their way through the last of the wood into the clear space by the lake. They were out almost as soon as Moril saw them, six of them. They stood in a group, looking at Moril, Brid kneeling by the fire, Lenina by the lake, the cart and the tents.

“Clennen the Singer,” one of them said. “Where is he?”

Olob tossed his head and trotted away round the lake.

“He’s not here,” said Brid.

Moril thought he would have said the same. The men alarmed him. It was odd to see six well-dressed men outside a wood in the middle of nowhere. They were very well dressed. They wore cloth as good as Kialan’s coat, and all of them had that sleek look that comes from always living in style. Each of them wore a sword in a well-kept leather scabbard, belted over the good cloth of their coats, and Moril did not like the way the hilts of those swords looked smooth with frequent use. But the truly alarming thing about them was that they had an air of purpose, all of them, which hit Moril like a gust of cold wind and frightened him.

“My father won’t be back for ages,” he said, hoping they would go away.

“Then we’ll wait for him,” said the man who had asked. Moril liked him least of all. He was fair and light-eyed, and there was an odd look in those eyes which Moril did not trust.

Lenina evidently felt the same. “Suppose you give me your message for Clennen,” she said, coming forwards with her hair still loose.

“You wouldn’t like it, lady,” said the man. “We’ll wait.”

“Moril,” said Lenina. “Go round the lake and fetch your father.”

Moril thought that was clever of her. It would deceive the men, and Dagner and Kialan might be some help. He tossed the currycomb into the cart and set off at a trot. But Clennen chose that moment to crawl out of the tent like a badger. He stood up, with his eyes red and blinking inside a tousled frill of hair and beard.

“Somebody call me?” he said sleepily.

Moril stopped, helpless. Everything went so quickly that he could hardly believe it was happening. The six men pushed forwards in a body, overwhelming Lenina for a moment, and then leaving her in the open, clutching Brid. Their swords caught the pink early sun. The group round Clennen trampled a bit. Clennen, sleepy as he was, must have put up something of a fight. A man stumbled sideways into the lake. Another fell in with a splash. Then the six men, swords sheathed again, went running away from the lake in a group. One glanced into Clennen’s tent and then the smaller one. Another took a quick look into the cart as they passed.

“Nothing here,” he called.

“Look in the woods, then,” said the fair one. And they were gone.

Clennen lay where he had fallen, half in the lake, with blood running out of him into the water.

Before Moril could move, there was a thumping of racing feet. Dagner shot past him round the lake and surged on to his knees in the water beside Clennen. “Have they killed him?”

“Not quite,” said Lenina. “Help me move him.”

Moril stood where he was, some distance away, and watched them heave his father out of the calm sunny water. Brid’s face was greyish white, and her teeth were chattering. Dagner’s mouth kept twisting about. Moril could see his hands shaking. But Lenina was quite calm and no paler than usual. As they turned Clennen over, Moril saw a cut in his chest. Bright red blood was gushing from it as fast as the river ran in Dropwater, steaming a little in the cold air over the surface of the lake.

At the sight, the bright trees, the lake and the sunny sky dipped and swung in front of Moril. Everything turned sour and grey and distant. He could not move from the spot. Up in the woods behind him, he could dimly hear the six men crashing about and calling to one another, but they could have been on the moon for all the fear and interest Moril felt. His eyes stared, so widely that they hurt, at the group by the water.

Lenina, without abating her calm, tore a big strip from her petticoat, and another, to stop the bleeding. “Give me yours,” she said to Brid, and while Brid, shaking and shivering, was getting out of her petticoat, Lenina said in the same calm way to Dagner, “Get the small flask from the cart.”

Moril stared at his mother working and telling Brid what to do. The only sign of emotion Lenina showed was when her hair trailed in the way of the bandages. “Bother the stuff!” she said. “Brid, tie it back for me.”

Brid was still trying to get a ribbon round Lenina’s hair when Dagner scudded back with the flask. “Do you think you can save him?” he asked, as if he were pleading with Lenina.

She looked up at him calmly. “No, Dagner. The most I can do is keep him with you for a while. He’ll want to have his say. He always did.” She took the flask from Dagner and uncorked it.

Moril desolately watched her trying to get some of the liquid from the flask into Clennen’s mouth. It was not fair. He felt it was not fair on his father at all, to die like this, first thing in the morning, miles from anywhere. He ought to have had warning. Dying was a thing someone like Clennen ought to do properly, in front of a crowd, with music playing if possible.

Music was possible, of course. Moril found himself beside the cart, without quite knowing how he had got there. He scrambled up and seized the nearest cwidder. It happened to be the big one. In the ordinary way, Moril would not have chosen it. But being inside the cart made him feel sick and queer, so he simply took what came first to hand and backed hastily down with it.

While he was getting its strap over his back, he realised that Clennen’s eyes were open. And it was clear that Clennen shared Moril’s opinion. Moril heard him say, rather thickly, but quite strongly, “This came out of the blue, didn’t it? I’d have preferred to have notice.”

Moril put his hands to the strings and began to play, very softly, the weird broken little tune of Manaliabrid’s Lament. The cwidder responded sweetly. The old song seemed more melodious than usual, and because of the water, it carried out across the lake until the valley seemed full of it. Moril heard its echo from the woods opposite.