The Whispering Mountain Page 2

  “I’m glad you still have Hawc,” Owen said, as the falcon, excited and roused from his foray, continued to hiss and heckle, raising and lowering his wings.

  “Yes, indeed!” Arabis slipped a hood over Hawc’s head to quiet him, and placed him on a perch ingeniously contrived from an old broom. “If we hadn’t, hard it would be indeed to keep the stockpot filled; Dada is writing a long poem about King Arthur now, just, and there is absentminded it makes him! he only speaks on Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays at present, so lucky you are that today is Wednesday.”

  She laughed, nodding towards a great heap of books and sheets of paper scrawled across and across with handwriting, which covered one of the beds. Owen, screwing his head round, read a title on the sheet nearest him: “The King at Caerleon: An Epic Poem in CCC Cantos by Tom Dando. Canto CCLXXXVIII.”

  “I still think it must be odd to have a father who speaks only every other day,” he remarked involuntarily.

  “Oh well—” Arabis was philosophical. “Not so bad, he is, old Tom. Better it is than having no father at all.” Then she blushed and exclaimed anxiously, “There’s sorry I am, Owen dear! Where were the wits in me? Have you any news of your father yet?”

  He shook his head. “No. But that means little. Grandfather thinks he may still be alive; a prisoner, perhaps, in the Chinese wars, or cut off somewhere so that he cannot send a letter. And letters take so long to come.”

  “Tell me about your granda, then, is it? Found him all right, did you, after we parted that day at Gloucester?”

  “Yes,” Owen said, remembering the sad day last summer when he had been obliged to say goodbye to the kind friends who had carried him so far. “Yes, I had a lift in a carrier’s cart along to Monmouth, and from there I walked; it took a week but I was lucky with the weather.”

  “And your granda? Was he pleased to see you? Fond of him, are you?”

  Owen had to look away from Arabis. There was too much of a contrast between the warmth of her voice, the kindness in her dark eyes, between the whole friendly comfort of the little home on wheels and the other home he was so soon to re-enter. He stared hard at the falcon, biting his lip. After a moment he was able to say,

  “It took a little time for Grandfather to—to believe that I was his grandson.”

  “But you had the papers—the certificate of your birth, and your father’s letter?”

  “He said anybody might have stolen them—that my having them proved nothing.”

  “There’s silly! Who’d do such a thing, pray? And so?”

  “Well, so in the end he took me in. He still says, though, that—that I must take after my mother’s family, that I’m not like a Hughes. But he’s a just man. He—he said he was prepared to give me a home and pay for my education.”

  “So I should think indeed!” cried Arabis. “His only son’s son! And your poor mama dead of typhus fever on the voyage home from China, and the captain’s letter—There, there, never mind me, bach, I didn’t mean to grieve you by reminding you. Here, have a mug of soup, is it?”

  Owen smiled, remembering how Arabis always administered hot soup to anyone in trouble.

  “Good soup it is too,” she said, “Hawc caught a hare as we came over Midnight Hill. And I put in a drop of the mead a sailor gave Dada in Cardiff. So drink up.”

  Owen kept his eyes on Arabis over the rim of the mug. He had never for a moment forgotten her during the time spent at his grandfather’s, but the picture of her had set firm in his mind and become less alive. Now it was almost a shock to see her again—her real self—talking and laughing. He found that he had grown so that he was very slightly the taller of the two.

  “You haven’t changed a bit, Arabis,” he said.

  She had long, soft hair, black as coaldust, which she wore in the knot on top for Hawc’s benefit. Her eyes looked almost black too, because the pupils were so big, but they were really a very dark grey. Although she spent most of her days out of doors, scouring the hills and woods for medicinal plants while her father, with Galahad and the cart, plodded along the road, her skin never tanned, but remained pale and clear. When she smiled a three-cornered dimple appeared under her left cheekbone.

  Owen and she were not unalike, both being thin and dark, but his eyes, behind the glasses, were brown, not grey. On the journey from Southampton to Gloucester people had sometimes taken them for brother and sister. Owen knew that Arabis had once had a younger brother but he and her mother had both died of an inflammation in the hard winter ten years before.

  “So you go to school now?” Arabis said. “Lucky boy! You can learn history and astronomy and all the languages that they speak in foreign lands. It makes me sad to think that if I met my mother now she might be speaking and maybe I’d not understand her.”

  “You’d pick it up fast enough,” Owen said, remembering Arabis had told him her mother came from the island of Melita. “You are such a clever girl, Arabis! I believe you know all there is to know about herbs and wild creatures—and younger than me, too!”

  “There’s wonderful!” she laughed at him. “How would I help it? But to learn in school! I’d go, if it didn’t mean leaving Tom. Don’t you love learning?”

  “Yes,” Owen said truly. He did not speak again of his difficulties with Mog and the others who hated him because he was a stranger. Why whine about his troubles to Arabis? Nothing seemed to perturb her; he had seen her quiet and unafraid before a bullying magistrate, accused of witchcraft; and equally calm, facing the charge of an angry bull, maddened by the pain of a broken horn. She would probably think he was making a fuss over a trifle.

  But, he suddenly thought, he could tell her about his other worry. Arabis was the only person he could think of who might have sensible advice to offer.

  “Arabis,” he said on this impulse, “have you ever heard of the Harp of Teirtu?”

  “Telyn Teirtu? Indeed yes. Tom would be telling us stories about it when we were little: that it was made of gold, and had three rows of strings, one for men, and one for kings, and a row that would burst out playing all on its own if a strange hand tried to steal the harp; and a lot more beside.”

  “Yes, that is it,” he said. “My father told me the story too. Kilhwch, son of Prince Kelyddon, got his cousin King Arthur to help him steal it for a bride-gift for the Princess Olwen. It was taken from Castell Teirtud to the king’s castle at Caerleon, and then to the castle of Yspaddaden Penkawr. But then it was lost, some say St. Dunstan had it and gave it to St. Ennodawg, some that it found its own way home to Castell Teirtud.”

  “There was a prophecy about it made by one of the old bards,” Arabis said.

  “When the Whispering Mountain shall scream aloud

  And the castle of Malyn ride on a cloud,

  Then Malyn’s lord shall have and hold

  The lost that is found, the harp of gold.

  Then Fig-hat Ben shall wear a shroud,

  Then shall the despoiler, that was so proud,

  Plunge headlong down from the Devil’s Leap;

  Then shall the Children from darkness creep,

  And the men of the glen avoid disaster,

  And the Harp of Teirtu find her master.”

  “But it is a very confusing prophecy, indeed, for how could the castle of Malyn ride on a cloud? And who is the despoiler? Anyway, what about the harp, boy?”

  “Well, that’s it,” Owen said. “My grandfather thinks he has found it.”

  “No!” said Arabis, and her eyes went wide. “Well, there is a piece of news, indeed! But you look as glum as if you had lost a guinea and found a groat. Where did he pick up the old harp?”

  “He was taking stones from the ruined monastery on the island in the river Gaff, to build another room on to the museum. He pulled down a bit of wall and found a little closet hollowed out in it. In the closet was an old chest lined with copper, and in the chest was the harp.”

  “No nonsense?” said Arabis, much interested. “Will it play?” She glanced up
at the crwth hanging on the wall. “Dearly would I like to get my fingers on it!

  “No, it won’t play. It is old and black and all the strings but one have gone. But the frame is made of gold, Grandfather thinks, and there is ancient writing on it.”

  “Valuable, then, it will be?”

  “Yes,” said Owen gloomily, “and that is one of the reasons why there is trouble in the town.”

  “Why, in the name of ffiloreg?”

  “Nobody can agree about what should be done with the harp. Some say, sell it, and let the money go to build a new school. There’s a foreign Ottoman gentleman in the town, and it’s believed he wants to buy it. But some say the harp should stay here because it was found on town land and belongs to the people of Pennygaff. And everybody seems to be angry with Grandfather.”

  “What does your granda say?”

  Owen looked troubled. “He says it isn’t clear yet who has a right to the harp. He says the island where it was found isn’t town land.”

  “Whose is it, then?”

  “Grandfather thinks it probably belongs to the Marquess of Malyn. He owns most of the land round here.”

  “Ach y fi! That bad man!”

  “Is he so bad?”

  “When my mam was ill,” Arabis said, “we’d halted the wagon in a patch of bushes up by the lodge of Castle Malyn. The lodgekeeper’s wife, who was a decent sort of woman, had Mama in her cottage, with my little brother, and was nursing them. His lordship got word of it and said he’d have no gypsies and vagabonds squatting in his cottage, or tinker’ wagons standing by his park gates. My dada asked to see him and told him she was ill, and it was only for a little time, till she took a turn for the better. But the lord said if she was ill she had better go to the workhouse, rather than infect his people. So he sent three of his men to carry her out of the lodge. Out in the snow they carried her, and put her in the cart. So we went on, over the hills, but that night was the worst storm of the winter, and the horse died in the shafts, halfway over, and Mama and my little brother died too.”

  There was silence for a minute. Then Arabis went on,

  “I’ve heard other tales of him too. They say the rents he charges his tenants are the highest in the country, and if they can’t pay, out they go that same day. And that he treats his servants like slaves—hundreds of them are at work, day and night, polishing the hoofs of his horses, blowing between the leaves of his books, cleaning his collection of gold things. He keeps a footman who must run before his carriage wherever he drives. Imagine having to run faster than a carriage all day long!”

  With a start, Owen remembered the man who had rushed panting down the hill. So many things had happened since then that, until this moment, the strange event had vanished from his mind.

  Arabis went on, “If the Harp of Teirtu really belongs to him, it could hardly have a worse owner.”

  “Nobody knows for sure yet,” Owen said. “But Grandfather is determined to act fairly in the matter.”

  Looking out (while they talked the horse Galahad had been slowly but stoutly breasting the steep hill from the river Gaff) he added, “We are almost at my home now. I should so much like Grandfather to meet you—won’t you please come in and—and take some refreshment? I think—I’m sure he’d like you.”

  As he said the words he felt a faint qualm. But surely old Mr. Hughes would like Arabis and her father? Who could fail to do so?

  “My word!” Arabis exclaimed, looking out. “Do you live in a museum, then, boy?”

  “Why yes,” he said, “my grandfather is the curator, you see, ever since he retired from being a sea-captain like my father.”

  The little town now lay below them, slate roofs shining with rain in the gloom, and only a dim street lamp here and there to throw a few dismal patches of light. In front of them a pair of gates, not unlike the school ones, led to a cobbled yard. A notice on the gates bore the words

  “YR AMGUEDDFA.”

  “O Dewi Sant!” breathed Arabis enviously. “To live in a museum! There’s lucky! Whenever we stop in a town, if Tom is busy with the hair-cutting, I always look for the museum. Full of wonders, they are. And your granda is the ceidwad? He must be a wise man, Owen, and greatly respected in the town!”

  “Well,” Owen said, “yes.” A troubled frown creased his brow. “But this trouble of the harp, and the sleepers’ tickets—’

  “Sleepers’ tickets?”

  “Here we are, though,” he said. “I’ll tell you about that later. You can stay the night here? The wagon will go in the courtyard.”

  “Hey, Da!” Arabis jumped out and ran round to take the reins from Tom Dando, who was in his usual dream and would have driven on over the mountain westwards towards the coast. She turned the horse and led him in through the gateway. “Wake up, Dada! Owen lives here in the museum, lucky boy! And he’s invited us in to meet his grandfather. Where shall I tie Galahad, Owen? To this stone pineapple on the gatepost?”

  She kicked a loose rock under the rear wheel of the wagon so that it should not run away backwards downhill into the river Gaff.

  The museum was housed in a brick hall that had once belonged to the Detached Baptists, until they had merged with the Separated Rogationists, who owned a larger chapel, built of granite, with an organ. The courtyard in front of the hall was a pool of dark, split by feeble rays from a small lamp over the door. Here another notice, fresh-painted, announced that the museum was open from 10 am to 5 pm every day except for the Sabbath, St. David’s Day, St. Ennodawg’s Day, Christmas, Easter, and various other public holidays. It was signed O. Hughes, Custodian. The light above was just bright enough also to reveal some words chalked on the wall under the sign. They said:

  GIVE US BACK OUR SABBATH OPENING! DOWN WITH SLEEPERS’ TICKETS!

  Looking desperately worried, Owen began wiping this message off the wall with his handkerchief, while Arabis exhorted her father,

  “Come you now, Tom! Don’t you want to meet Owen’s Granda?”

  “Oh, well, now, I don’t know,” Mr. Dando said doubtfully, struggling out of his dream. “Meet his grandfather? What for? Do we really want to do that? Eh? More to the purpose, does he want to meet us?”

  “Of course!” Arabis gave him an impatient shake and pulled him down, straightening his cloak and putting him to rights. Dislodged from his box he was revealed as an unusually tall, thin man, with wild dark locks beginning to turn grey, and deep-set eyes in a long, vague, preoccupied face.

  Owen by this time had opened the heavy outer doors of the museum and stepped into a large porch. Here he found another damp sheet of paper lying on the floor which, when he held it towards the light, proved to bear the message:

  LEAVE THIS TOWN, OWEN HUGHES, WE DON’T WANT YOU

  Without a word he folded it small and thrust it into his jacket pocket. Arabis and her father, who came up at this moment, had noticed nothing. Owen pulled on a bell-rope, which hung by the locked inner door, and they all waited, shivering in the damp darkness.

  Owen’s qualm was growing inside him faster than a thundercloud. How would his grandfather receive the visitors?

  He was to discover soon enough.

  The inner door flew open as if it had been jerked by a wire. His grandfather stood just inside, peering angrily out into the gloom.

  “Is that you, boy?” he said sharply. “You are over an hour late from school. What kept you, pray? You knew that I particularly required you to be on time today. I will not have such unpunctuality—I have told you before!”

  “I—I am sorry,” Owen stammered, “but, you see—’

  “Call me sir, or Grandfather! Well! What explanation have you to offer? I suppose you have been idling and playing and wasting time with your classmates.”

  Captain Owen Hughes—or Mr. Hughes, as he preferred to be called, saying there was no sense in using bygone titles—was a smallish, spare, dried-up old gentleman with pepper-and-salt grey hair, worn in a short peruke and tied with a black velvet bow. He had
on a jacket and pantaloons of grey alpaca, exceedingly neat, but shabby. His linen, however, was white as frost, and the buckles on his old-fashioned shoes and his eyes behind his rimless pincenez were needle-bright.

  “Sir, I m-met the kind friends who carried me all the way to Gloucester last summer. I have brought them to see you—” Owen began again.

  “Friends!” exclaimed his grandfather harshly. “I thought you said they were a travelling tinker, or bonesetter, and his gypsy daughter? How can such lower-deck sort of folk be friends?”

  “Grandfather—please!” Owen was in agony. “You must not speak of them so! Here they are, Mr. Dando and Arabis—’

  “Tush, boy, I have no time for them now, or ever. I have an important appointment at the inn and must delay no longer. But I can tell you this: when I return you shall be punished for your tardiness—soundly punished.” He shook himself impatiently into a frieze greatcoat and picked up a shovel-hat and cane, muttering, “Arabis, forsooth! What kind of an unchristian name is that?”

  “But sir, they are here now, in the porch!”

  “Then they will just have to take themselves off again—I’ve no intention of receiving them.” Mr. Hughes cast an angry glance at the cloaked figures of Mr. Dando and Arabis standing quietly in the shadows. “Bustle along now—make haste, pray!” he snapped at them. “I must go out, and I’ve no wish to leave the museum while there are strangers loitering outside it. Let me see you take your cart out of the yard, if you please!”

  “Certainly, sir,” Tom Dando replied with dignity. “We have not the least wish to remain where our presence causes inconvenience.”

  Owen, half choked with grief and indignation, could say nothing. He stood speechless while Arabis turned the horse and led him out of the gate. Her father climbed back to his perch on the box. Then, realizing that unless he moved they would depart without another word, Owen flew after them and caught Arabis by the hand.