The Perilous Gard (22 page)

"Good," said Gwenhyfara. "That will be enough. You may rest."

Her voice, if not exactly warm, was perceptibly less cold than usual, and as she sat back, she made — for the first time in Kate's experience of her — an unnecessary remark. "A little longer, and I will tell you to bow to the Lady with the others, when she passes out of the hall. It would be good to see you do it, before I go."

"Before you go?" said Kate, startled. Gwenhyfara had always seemed to her as much a part of the Hill as the passageways and the caverns and the rock. "Go where?"

"South on a journey to gather herbs which do not grow in these woods, but not as you see me now." Gwenhyfara smiled faintly. "If you met me on the roads of your world, you would take me for a tinker or a gypsy woman, and you would not know me again."

"I thought your kind never went out of the Elvenwood."

"No," said Gwenhyfara. "Only the Lady and the Guardian of the Well may stay forever in the holy place. The rest must come and go. And yet we are more fortunate than most of our kind, for they are a wandering folk, with no holy place to return to; and when they meet, it is only for a dancing night. Not even our kind can form a true circle of power or pay the teind to the gods in a holy place that has once been defeated or broken, and they were all driven out of their holy places long ago. But here in the Elvenwood it is otherwise. For of old this Hill was the highest and the most holy of all the holy places: it alone remains as it was, and here alone the true way of the land has never been lost or forgotten. So much the Lady said that I was to tell you."

"T-t-tell me?" Kate stammered. "But why? Why should she want to tell me?"

"I did not ask her that," said Gwenhyfara. "Our kind do not question the Lady, nor dispute with her. It is for her to command the people, and to keep them. We have come upon a very evil time, and the weather of the world is blowing against us; but when she has paid the teind to the gods, she will obtain the power to master it, and then you will be as you have been again."

"I?"

"No — the others of your kind," said Gwenhyfara. "The warden and his servants who keep the valley safe for us, and the rich pilgrims who come up through the forest to bring offerings to the Well. One of our passageways opens far down the shaft, over the water; and there the Guardian sits, to catch their offerings in his net and listen to their foolish cries, so that he can judge and choose those who need easing the most, who will come again and again once they have tasted the stuff that we put in their cups, and will pay any price and keep any secret to have more of it. You must not think that we choose all who come. We take only a few, those who can be of the greatest use to us; and even to those few we do not reveal ourselves. We are not like the priests of your faith, to make holy things common, and tell our mysteries about the streets, and waste our lore on any poor man who will ask us. Why should we trouble ourselves with your kind? Or give them more than we must? When have I ever given you more than I was bidden to? Even though — " she added, "if I could choose, I — I — "

Kate waited for the rest of the sentence, but it did not come. Gwenhyfara was looking at her and frowning. She appeared to be turning over some problem in her mind. "The Lady did not speak of that," she said, almost reluctantly. "But I might ask her."

"Ask her what?"

Gwenhyfara picked up a strand of her long dark hair and sat twisting it between her fingers. It was the first time Kate had ever seen her make a restless or an unnecessary movement.

"You would not have a bad voice," she said, "if somebody taught you how to use it."

"Do you know, Christopher," said Kate, "I think I must be rising in the world?"

"Are you?" inquired Christopher. It was one of his "good" nights, and until that moment the talk had been running easily. "How's that?"

"Gwenhyfara," said Kate. "She wants to ask the Lady to make me speak properly. Would you believe it? She used to treat me like a workhorse on the farm. Now it's more like a dog that she thinks she can train for the house."

She heard Christopher come to his feet on the other side of the mesh.

"Oh, is it?" he asked between his teeth; and then, in a voice that was fire-hot with fury: "I don't see that's anything to laugh at."

"B-b-but I was only trying — " Kate stuttered. She had thought that he was going to enjoy Gwenhyfara's nonsense as much as she had. "Why shouldn't I laugh? You laugh at yourself all the time. You laugh at me, too."

"That's different," said Christopher shortly. "And what's more, I won't have any of this making you speak properly, either. Good Lord, do you want to start lilting and fluting as if you were one of the Fairy Folk? There's nothing wrong with your voice. Leave your voice alone. I like it as it is."

"You might remember," said Kate, "that it's my voice."

"Did you hear me?"

"It's my voice."

"Did you hear me?"

"Yes," said Kate coldly. "And they can probably hear you all the way up at the castle."

"Then what were we talking of before you began on this foolishness?"

Kate let the question of her voice go by. There were times to argue with Christopher, and other times when she had learned that it was very much better not to.

"You were talking of clearing the wasteland at the manor, down by the village," she said, "and whether it would hurt the village if you did. But would it hurt them so much? They're only using it to feed a few hens or sheep, and pick up a stick or two of wood for the fire."

Christopher laughed suddenly, and then dropped down into his usual place, with his shoulder against the mesh beside hers.

"When you're as poor as they are," he said, "a hen or a stick or two of firewood can seem like a great matter. That is, if you're starving poor, like me."

"Like you?" Kate demanded. "What do you mean?"

"Only that I'm as bad as they are. Why should I care what becomes of you as long as I have my bit of fire and my hen to comfort me?"

"I'm not a hen," said Kate indignantly. "I thought you wouldn't have Gwenhyfara even treat me like a dog or a horse."

"Perhaps we'd better not pursue the question," said Christopher. "Now about that wasteland on the manor — "

Chapter XI

The Cold Iron

From the question of clearing wasteland they had gone on to the whole problem of the village people's rights and privileges, and Christopher was giving Kate a long description of the ordinary proceedings at a manorial court of justice when he broke off in the middle of a sentence, and said: "Listen!"

"What is it?" asked Kate. "Has the bell rung? I didn't hear anything."

"No," said Christopher. "But I thought — listen! There it is again."

This time Kate heard it too — floating from somewhere away down the outer passage, very faint and clear, the sound of a high sweet voice singing.

"O where is the Queen, and where is her throne?" it sang, just as it had sung that first evening long ago on the forest road.

"Randal!" thought Kate incredulously. "It's Randal!" but even as the name shot through her head, she knew she was wrong: not Randal himself had a voice so high or so sweet as that. And then there was an outbreak of laughing cries, and a chorus of other voices answered the first, singing together, dancingly light: "Down in the stone O, but not in the stone."

Kate sprang to her feet, the manorial court, the wasteland, the orchard, the house, and the water meadows all vanishing as if a light had been blown out behind a painted glass window. The dark fear that was never very far from the surface of her mind rose and poured over it.

"Are they coming for you?" she cried, before she could stop herself. "Are they coming for you?"

"Is that your idea of a teind hymn?" inquired Christopher dryly. "No, they're not coming for me: when they do, it isn't going to sound like all join hands and dance singing to the maypole! But get back where you belong, and be quick about it! They mustn't find you out of your bed if they're wandering around at this hour of the night."

Kate went as quickly as she could, but it was not quickly enough. She had only just reached the two closed doors halfway down the outer passage when there was a rush of feet and torchlight behind her, and a whole troop of the Fairy Folk came running through the archway from the great cavern. The leader was on her before she could even look about for a hole to hide in.

It was the grave youth with the pipe who usually played at the gatherings in the hall, but the pipe was gone now: his head was thrown back and he was laughing as he ran, the flame from his torch streaming on the air behind him. He checked in his stride for an instant as he saw Kate cowering against the door.

"What are you doing there?" he shouted hilariously. "Come out! come out! don't stand in the way! We'll be late!" and taking her by the shoulder, he swung her back into the crowd, thrust the door open, and was gone. Somebody caught her hand, a child, one of the little boys. "Come out!" he cried, tugging at the hand impatiently. "Come out!"

"Where?" Kate gasped, completely bewildered, straining against his hold.

There was another burst of laughter. "Out!" and "Out!" and "Out!" called a dozen voices at once. "Out! It's a dancing night! The Lady has given us a dancing night!" and then they were all singing again:

O where is the Queen, and where is she now?
  Go out by the oak leaf, with never a though!
 

 — singing and racing through the open door after the leader, sweeping Kate along with them.

They ran on and on, down passageways and around turns and through arches of stone, so fast that Kate could not tell which way they were going: it was all she could do to keep up with them. She was still dazed with the shock of relief from the terror of the last few minutes, and the insistent rhythm of the music was driving everything else out of her mind. "O where is the Queen, and where is she now?" the voices sang around her, the leader's torch dancing and tossing in the darkness ahead, the words dancing and beating through her ears: go out by the oak leaf, with never a bough — go out by the oak leaf, with never a bough — "O where is the Queen, and where is she now?" — go out by the oak leaf — and then the light was flashing on something thin and silvery like glass — not glass, water, a sheet of water falling over an opening in the rock, and then they were running through it, and plashing among the pebbles of a shallow pool and up the bank, and then they were all standing still and the night air was blowing against their faces, alive with wind and the scent of grass and the rustle of falling leaves.

They had come out into a wide level space like a glade in the forest, walled around by dark masses of trees, and with one enormous oak alone in the center of the clearing. The sky was gleaming with stars, and a great globe of a moon, almost full, was just beginning to swing free from the branches that entangled it. But at that first instant all that Kate could feel was the air, the shock of the air after the stillness and the stifling confinement of the Hill. She lifted her face and looked up into it, up and up and up into the sudden incredible heights and vastnesses over her head.

The little boy at her side shivered and caught at her hand. His face was lifted too, very white in the moonlight.

"Oh, look!" he whispered. "Look at it! Look!"

And then another wave of the Fairy Folk came plunging through the waterfall, and the stillness melted into a happy confusion of voices and laughter, blowing about the glade like the leaves on the wind. A cup was going from hand to hand. Somebody passed it on to her, laughing, and she laughed and drank and passed it on in her turn; a cool, spicy liquid, smelling of flowers. A ring of dancers had begun to circle the oak tree. The song broke out again, call and answer:

O where is the Queen, and where is her hall?
  Over the wall O, with never a wall!

The quick, driving rhythm was setting the measure for the dance; and one of the flying figures — she thought it was Gwenhyfara — reached out and drew her into the line. That was the last thing she remembered clearly. Then she was dancing too, round and round the tree, lightly and more lightly still, the new sweet sureness in her own feet catching the beat of the music, faster and faster, dancing around the tree with the Fairy Folk — out of her body — racing on the air —

She opened her eyes to find that she was lying on the couch back in the stable, with the mortal women whimpering beside her. Gwenhyfara was just stooping down to rouse them, the branch of candles in her hand and her severe delicate face locked and remote again. The glade, the stars, the oak tree, and the dancers were all gone like a dream.

"Lord!" said Christopher that night, when she told him about it. "What did they give you to drink?"

"Nothing but what they drank themselves," Kate protested. "It wasn't that."

"No? What was it, then? One of their tricks?"

Kate shook her head. She did not know how to explain it to him. Now that the enchantment was over, she could hardly explain it even to herself. "It was the air," she said lamely, "the air, and everybody laughing, and the leaves blowing, and — and — "

"Leaves?" Christopher's voice cut across the halting phrases, suddenly quick and hard. "How do you mean? Leaves on the trees?"

"No, not on the trees," said Kate, struggling to remember. "Well, some on the trees — the branches weren't bare — but all over the ground too, and blowing on the wind — "

She stopped short, realizing just where the answer was leading her, but it was too late: Christopher had reached it already.

"We must be nearly into the autumn, then," he said. "Randal seems to have gone blowing off on the wind too, doesn't he?"

Kate found that she had closed her eyes as if to shut out something that she could not bear to look at, even though it made no difference at all in the blind darkness of the little passage.