Cart and Cwidder (7 page)

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 forward 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 onto 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 grayish 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 gray 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 realized 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.

His ears were so full of the sound that he did not hear much else of what Clennen said. Clennen's voice became weaker, anyway, after that first remark, and he spoke to Lenina in what was only a murmur. Then he spoke to Brid for a while, reaching out to hold her hand, which made Brid cry. After that, it was Dagner's turn. Clennen was very weak by then. Dagner had to put his head right down near his father's face in order to hear him. Moril played on, as softly as he could, watching Dagner listening and nodding, and wondered vaguely at the amount Clennen seemed to have to say. Then Dagner looked up and beckoned to Moril.

“He wants to talk to you. Quickly.”

Moril did not dare take off the cwidder for fear of wasting time. He hurried over to Clennen with it bumping at his thighs and knees, and hoisted it away sideways as he knelt down. Clennen's face was paler than Moril had ever seen a face before. His eyes did not seem to reflect the sky, or Moril bending over him, though it was clear he could see Moril.

“Got the big cwidder, have you?” Clennen said. Moril nodded. He could not manage to speak. “Keep it carefully,” said Clennen. “It's yours now. Always meant to give it to you, Moril, because I think you've got the ability. Or will have. But you have to come to terms with it, and with yourself. Understand?” Moril nodded again, though he did not understand in the least. “You're in two halves at present,” Clennen went on. “Often thought so. Come together, Moril, and there's no knowing what you might do. There's power in that cwidder, if you can use it. Used to be Osfameron's. He could use it. Handed down to me. I couldn't use it. Only found the power once, when I—” Clennen paused for breath. Moril waited for him to go on, but nothing happened. Clennen stayed as he was, with his eyes open looking at Moril, and his lips parted. After a while, Moril realized that this was all there would be. He got up and carefully, very carefully, put the cwidder back in its place inside the cart.

Brid was crying loudly. Lenina was standing very upright beside the lake, as calm as ever. Dagner seemed to have frozen into the same sort of calmness, facing her. And Kialan was coming slowly toward them round the lake with a bundle of dead rabbits.

When he reached them, Kialan stopped. He looked at Clennen and, for once, seemed not to know what to say. “I'm—terribly sorry,” he said at length.

“It was going to happen sometime,” said Lenina. “Will you help us dig a grave, please?”

“Of course,” said Kialan. “Here?”

“Why not?” said Lenina. “Clennen never had a home after he left Hannart, and we can't take him there.”

“Very well,” said Kialan, and he laid the rabbits down and unhooked the spade from its clips beneath the cart. Dagner went and fetched the pickax, and the two set to work. Lenina watched and seemed ready to take Kialan's advice, as if, in some odd way, Kialan were in charge just then. “I think we should mark the spot,” Kialan said as he dug.

“How?” said Lenina.

“Is there a spare board in the cart?” Kialan asked.

“Find him one, Moril,” said Lenina.

Moril managed to work free one of the spare boards Clennen always carried under the floor of the cart, and on Kialan's instructions, he sawed off a piece about three feet long. Then he relieved Kialan at the digging for a while. Kialan took out his sheath knife and carved away at the board, quickly and competently, as if this were another thing he was good at. When he had finished, the board had letters deeply and neatly cut into it.
CLENNEN THE SINGER
.

“That do?” said Kialan.

“Very well,” said Lenina.

When the grave was ready, Kialan, Dagner, and Brid put Clennen into it. Moril did not like to see his father topple into the hole. Nor did he like to see the earth going in on top of Clennen's face and clothes. Rather than watch, he fetched his own cwidder and stood back a little, playing another lament, a newer one that had been made for an earl of Dropwater killed in battle. He went on playing while Brid put the turf back in place and Kialan trenched his board in until it was standing upright at the head of the grave, as it should. And now that there was nothing but a grave to be seen, Moril began to feel that something was missing. They should all be feeling and doing something else. They should be angry. Clennen had been murdered. They should be trying to bring the murderers to justice. But none of them thought of it. It was out of the question, here in the South. The six men had been far too well dressed.

“There,” said Kialan, wiping his hands on his coat.

“Thank you,” said Lenina. “Now I must change. This dress has blood on it. And you, too, Brid. Kialan, I think it would be a good idea if you changed your coat for Dagner's old one.”

Kialan agreed to this, although Moril did not think Kialan's good coat was more than a little earthy. When everyone was changed and cleaned, Lenina told Dagner to catch Olob and harness him to the cart. Kialan picked up his bundle of rabbits.

“Leave those,” said Lenina. “We don't need them.”

“Well, I don't fancy them at the moment, either,” said Kialan. “But—”

“Leave them,” said Lenina. Kialan did as he was bid. Now Lenina seemed to be definitely in charge. It was she who took the reins when Olob was ready and drove out of the valley.

Brid and Moril looked back. It was a very beautiful valley. Probably, Moril thought, it was a good place to be buried, if one had to be. Brid cried. Dagner did not look back. He had sunk into a silence as profound as any of Lenina's. He did not look at anything, and no one liked to speak to him.

Lenina drove northward for a mile or so, until she came to a road that turned off to the left. Then, to Moril's surprise, she swung the cart into it.

“Hey! Where are we going?” said Moril.

“Markind,” said Lenina.

“What? Not to Ganner!” demanded Brid, halting in the middle of a sob.

“Yes. To Ganner,” said Lenina. “He said he would have me and mine if ever I was free, and I know he meant it.”

“Oh, but no! You can't!” said Moril. “Not just like that!”

“Why not?” Lenina asked. “How do you think we shall live, without a singer to earn us money?”

“We can manage,” said Moril. “I can sing. Dagner can—Dagner…” His voice tailed away as he thought of Dagner and himself trying to perform as Clennen did. He just could not see Dagner doing it. He did not know what to say, so he stopped, fearing he might be hurting Dagner's feelings. But it looked as if Dagner was not listening. “Father wouldn't like us to go to Markind,” Moril asserted. He was sure of that, at least.

“I can't see that your father has much say in the matter now,” Lenina answered dryly. “Get this clear, Moril. I know well enough that your father was a good man, and the best singer in Dalemark, and I've done my duty by him for seventeen years. That's half my lifetime, Moril. I've gone barefoot and learned to cook and make music. I've lived in a cart in all weathers, and never complained. I've mended and cleaned and looked after you all. There were things your father did that I didn't agree with at all, but I never argued with him or crossed him. I did my duty exactly in every way, and I've nothing to reproach myself with. But Clennen's dead now, so I'm free to do as I choose. What I'm choosing is my birthright and yours, too. Do you understand?”

“I suppose so,” Moril mumbled. He had never heard Lenina say anything like this before. He was frightened and rather shocked to see that she must have been
not
saying it for longer than he had lived. He thought it was wrong of her, but he could not have said why. He thought she was altogether wrong, but he could not find any words to set against her. All he could do was to exchange a scared, helpless look with Brid. Brid said nothing either.

It was Kialan who spoke. He sounded rather embarrassed. “It's not my place to object,” he said. “But I do have to get to Hannart, Lenina.”

“I know,” said Lenina. “I've thought of that. You can pose as my son for the moment, and I'll find someone to take you North as soon as I can, I promise. Hestefan's in the South, I know, and Fredlan may be, too.”

Kialan looked exasperated as well as embarrassed. “But Ganner must know how many children you've got!”

“I shouldn't think so,” Lenina said calmly. “People who haven't got children themselves never bother to count other people's. If he wonders, I'll say you've been ill and we'd left you at Fledden.”

Kialan sighed. “Oh well. Thanks, anyway.”

“Remember that,” Lenina said to Moril, Brid, and Dagner, and Moril felt very queer, because “Remember that” was such a favorite saying of Clennen's. “Kialan's your brother. If anyone asks, he's been ill in Fledden.”