The Secret Kingdom (12 page)

The camel bellowed furiously. ‘I am thirsty. Why will you not let me drink?’

‘Look at the water, Gabar! Look!’

The reflected light from Timoken’s lamp made the water sparkle. To Gabar, it looked delicious.

‘What’s wrong?’ Edern peered around Timoken to get a better look. ‘Why won’t you let the camel drink?’

‘Because someone has poisoned the water.’ Even as he spoke, Timoken realised that Edern could not see the thin green mist rising from the trough; a mist filled with swimming shapes, diminutive forms with grotesque features. They were grinning at him, their twisted faces full of malice.

‘How do you know?’ Edern asked in a puzzled voice. ‘How can you tell that the water is poisoned?’

‘I can see them,’ Timoken said simply.

‘Them?’

‘Demons.’

Gabar felt something now. He could not see the tiny forms, but he could sense them, and he began to back away.

Edern could see nothing, yet he knew that Timoken must be believed. ‘What shall we do?’

‘Perhaps the whole village has been poisoned,’ Timoken said thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps they are all dead, but some might have lived.’

Edern looked at the houses, shadowed and silent in the gathering darkness. ‘Should we go and look?’ he said, a little fearfully.

‘We must.’

Gabar knelt and the two boys climbed down. The first house they entered was quite empty. So was the next. In both houses there was food on the table, a water pitcher, and several tankards. The pitcher was empty. So were the tankards. When they found no one at home in the third house, they began to think that perhaps the villagers had been frightened away, and not poisoned after all.

Timoken returned to the trough. He steeled himself to look at the water again. The tiny demons were still there, floating in their pea-green vapour. Cautiously, he poked his ringed finger into the mist. The demons he touched shrieked with pain and shot upwards; pinpricks of lemon-green light, hurtling through the dark sky.

‘I saw them,’ cried Edern, enthralled by the shooting lights. ‘What did you do?’

‘I am not sure,’ answered Timoken. ‘But they are not smiling at me now.’ On the other side of the trough he could just make out a large building, set back from the others. It was a meeting house, perhaps, or the home of
an important village elder. Were all the villagers in there? Had they gone to seek his advice, for an illness brought on by the infected water? Timoken was about to investigate the large house when Edern suddenly clutched his arm.

‘Listen,’ Edern whispered.

A boy’s voice came drifting through the air. It was very clear and sweet, and it was singing in Edern’s language.

‘Gereint!’ cried Edern. ‘I know his voice so well. He is our prince’s favourite singer.’ He ran towards the house where the singing could be heard. Timoken followed him.

The door was open and the two boys ran in. Candles flickered on a rough table where nine children sat, their faces white and terrified. But when Edern and Timoken walked into the light, the children jumped up, smiling with relief.

Running to Edern, Peredur cried, ‘We thought you were lost, or caught again by those false monks.’

‘You are not all here,’ said Timoken solemnly. ‘Where are the others?’

Peredur’s face fell. ‘We think they are dying.’ He stood back and pointed to a dark corner, where two children
lay on a mattress, a boy and a girl. The others had covered them with their jerkins, but the sick children looked very close to death. Their eyes were closed, and they did not appear to be breathing.

Another boy approached Timoken. He was smaller than Peredur, and his hair was very blond. ‘I was singing to them,’ he said, almost apologetically. ‘I thought it would ease their journey into heaven.’

‘They are not dead.’ Timoken walked over to the mattress and knelt beside the children. ‘He is warm,’ he said, taking the boy’s hand. ‘What happened?’

‘They rode ahead of us,’ said Peredur. ‘Henri was always urging his horse to go faster, and poor Isabelle, sitting behind him in her long dress, was always scared of falling off. When we reached the village we found their horse tied to a post, and then we saw Henri and Isabelle; they were both lying beside the pump. Their lips were green and slimy, their faces pale as death.’

‘We thought it must be the water,’ said Gereint, the singer. ‘So we decided not to touch it.’

‘You were wise,’ muttered Timoken. He whirled through the door and ran to Gabar, standing patiently outside.

‘Water?’ Gabar inquired, as Timoken pulled the moon cloak from a bag.

‘Later, Gabar,’ said Timoken. ‘The water in the trough is poisoned, be grateful that I stopped you from drinking it.’

‘Always grateful, Family,’ the camel grunted as Timoken ran back into the house.

He threw the moon cloak over the sick children and sat beside them. Edern brought a candle and held it up so that the light fell on the sick children’s faces. The others gathered behind him, whispering anxiously. The moon cloak glimmered in the soft light, its threads like a pattern of stars.

‘What is that thing?’

Timoken recognised the caged girl’s voice. She sounded suspicious. He was not sure how to explain the moon cloak.

‘Magician, tell me what you are doing.’ Her voice was gentler now. ‘I trust you, but I want to know.’

Timoken took a breath and, lifting a corner of the web, said, ‘I call this the moon cloak. It is made from the web of the last moon spider. It keeps me safe and, sometimes, it can heal.’ He translated his words for the others.

The children behind him murmured in awe. The sound grew to a buzz of excitement as Henri turned his face and groaned.

‘He’s coming round,’ said Peredur.

They waited expectantly, watching Henri’s face. Suddenly, he sat up and groaned, ‘I’m going to be sick!’ Although the Britons didn’t understand him, they had a very good idea what was about to happen and leapt back like the others, as Henri bent over and retched. A green liquid pooled on the earthen floor. Only Timoken saw the demons writhing in the puddle and slowly dying. In a few seconds, the green liquid had seeped into the earth, leaving only a small damp patch.

‘It’s you!’ said Henri, looking up into Timoken’s face. ‘Did you save me yet again?’

Timoken grinned. ‘No. The moon cloak did that.’

Henri frowned at the glimmering web. ‘Aww!’ He swung his legs on to the floor and stood up, letting the moon cloak float down beside the girl. ‘Oh, Isabelle!’ Henri’s hand flew to his mouth. ‘She’s still sick. And it’s my fault. I made her drink the water. It was poisoned, wasn’t it?’

‘You idiot!’ said one of the French boys. He was tall
and thin, with a mop of blond curls. ‘Why are you always racing ahead?’

‘I’m sorry, Gerard. I can’t help myself. I did not mean … Oh …’ Henri covered his face with his hands. ‘Will she die?’

‘No,’ Timoken said firmly.

‘She’s opened her eyes!’ cried Edern.

All at once, Isabelle sat bolt upright. Long strands of damp hair clung to her face, and she looked wildly about her, not understanding where she was or how she got there. ‘Oooooh!’ she moaned, leaning across the mattress.

The others backed even further away as Isabelle retched, and a familiar green liquid spilled on to the floor.

‘What has happened to me?’ cried the poor girl.

Ignoring the small demons dying at his feet, Timoken crouched beside her and laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘You were poisoned,’ he said gently. ‘But now you are better. You are with your friends.’

Isabelle looked up. A broad smile lit her face and she said, ‘You are the boy who rescued us. We thought you were lost.’

‘No. Not lost,’ said Timoken. ‘I am never lost.’ He
stood up and the other children crowded around Isabelle, exclaiming with joy and relief. She got to her feet and lifted the web, gazing at the glittering patterns.

‘It’s magic,’ Henri told her. ‘It saved us. I’m sorry, Isabelle. It was all my fault.’

While the French children chattered eagerly to one another, the Britons were searching for food. They had already eaten a loaf of bread they had found on the table.

‘I am going to the big house,’ Timoken told them. ‘The villagers may have gone there.’

‘No!’ One of the boys swung around. He was older than the others, taller and broader. His hair was not even blond; it was a rich brown. Perhaps he had been stolen for the colour of his eyes, which were a very pale blue.

‘Why should we not go there, Mabon?’ asked Edern.

‘It is … it is full of dead people,’ Mabon said gravely. ‘We went there first, thinking that only a village elder would live in such a grand house.’

‘All dead?’ murmured Timoken.

‘All,’ said Mabon.

‘They probably went there for help when the sickness came upon them,’ said Peredur.

Timoken lowered his head. It suddenly felt very
heavy. ‘I was too late,’ he mumbled.

The children had found some dried beans and a few vegetables. There would be enough food for everyone, but there was nothing to drink, and they dared not fill the cooking pot with water from the pump.

‘It is going to rain,’ said Timoken. ‘Bring every jug, every bowl and tankard outside. We will soon have water.’

The children stared at Timoken suspiciously, but before any questions could be asked, Edern said, ‘Come on, everyone. You heard what Timoken said. It is going to rain.’

There was a moment of silence, and then everyone was grabbing a container of some sort. They followed Timoken outside and, holding up their jugs and pots and tankards, watched, astonished, as the African whirled the moon cloak above his head, and rain tumbled out of the dark sky in never-ending bucketfuls. While it was still raining, Timoken ran into some of the other houses and brought out more bowls and jugs. Eventually, he found what he was looking for – a huge cauldron. He dragged it to the entrance of a stable and called to Gabar.

‘I thought you had forgotten me,’ the camel grumbled
as he came pounding over to the stable.

‘Quickly, get inside,’ Timoken ordered. ‘Next, you’ll be blaming me for soaking you. When the cauldron is full of water, you only have to poke out your head to take a drink.’

‘It is all very well,’ Gabar muttered, easing himself under the low roof. ‘But thank you, Family.’

When Timoken returned to the house, he found that the children had filled the cooking pot hanging in the fireplace. As he approached them it came to him that these children knew almost everything about him now and he remembered his sister’s warning. Yet how could he have kept his secrets?
What would you have done, Zobayda?
he wondered. A sharp pain travelled through his ringed finger, up his arm and into his very heart. Only one of the children noticed that he was shaking.

‘What is it, Timoken?’ asked the girl from the cage. ‘Are you in pain?’

In a second the pain had gone, and Timoken was able to answer truthfully, ‘It is nothing.’

‘Are you sure?’ She touched his arm. In the candlelit room her eyes looked a deep violet blue. She was still a child, but Timoken saw that she was already beautiful.
The ribbons in her hair were made of fine silk, he noticed, and her dress was edged with gold lace.
She must, indeed, be very special
, he thought. He was about to ask her name when she said, ‘I am called Beri.’

When the thick soup was cooked, the children ladled it into bowls and then squeezed together on the benches at either side of the table. Some were beginning to gobble it up even before they had sat down.

‘What was that?’ Gereint looked at the door.

Timoken had heard it, too. A soft, shuffling sound. It was followed by a kind of scratching. Slowly, the latch was lifted and the door creaked open.

An ancient face appeared, so wrinkled and bony it was difficult to know if it was a man or a woman, but as the figure moved into the room, they saw that it must be a woman. Beneath her grey shawl her back was bent, and her garments hung loosely on her scrawny frame. The hem of her dress was torn and ragged from being dragged through the mud and stepped upon.

‘Children!’ she croaked. ‘Dead or ghosts?’

‘We are not dead.’ Timoken stood up.

The old woman stared at him in horror. ‘It’s you!’ she cried. ‘You are the one he was looking for!’

Timoken shuddered under the accusing gaze of the old woman. ‘Who is looking for me?’ he asked in a small voice.

The dry, wrinkled lips worked furiously, trying to utter a word. At last she managed it. ‘The sorcerer!’ The word came out in a wheezy gasp as she crumpled to the ground.

Mabon and Peredur carried the old woman over to the mattress and laid her down. Her eyelids fluttered and she drew a deep, rasping breath.

Timoken knelt beside her. ‘Madame, who is this sorcerer?’

She gave a bitter laugh. ‘Who knows?’ Her next breath brought on a coughing fit, and when she had recovered, she said, ‘I saw it all, but then I went to sleep, and so it was too late to warn them.’

When she began to cough again, Marie brought her a tankard of water. The girl was smaller than the others, only six or seven years old. The old woman cried, ‘Poison!’ and struck Marie’s hand, sending the tankard crashing to the floor.

‘It is pure rainwater,’ said Timoken.

‘Oh?’ The woman’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

‘We have been drinking it, and, as you can see –’ Timoken spread out his hands and looked at the others – ‘we are all still alive.’

The old woman uttered a wary ‘Hm!’ And then she said, ‘They all died, you know. The others. When I woke up I could hear moanings and groanings from the other houses. I saw men and women and little children staggering, retching, up to Monsieur Clement’s house. He is a physician, and his potions have cured many ailments. Not this time. Monsieur Clement was dead already.’ She began to cough again, and this time she accepted the water that Marie offered her.

Timoken watched her drain the tankard. He wanted to know more about the sorcerer but did not like to press her. The water seemed to revive her and she sat up, wiping her whiskery chin. Edern brought her a bowl of soup, and she slurped it down greedily, smacking her lips between every sip.