Cart and Cwidder. Diana Wynne Jones
d="ue44e597c-1607-5a1d-85ef-3d9294955ffc">
First published in Great Britain by Macmillan London Ltd in 1975
This edition published by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2016
HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd, 1 London Bridge Street,
London, SE1 9GF
The HarperCollins Children’s Books website address is www.harpercollins.co.uk
Copyright © Diana Wynne Jones 1975
Map illustration © Sally Taylor 2016
Cover artwork © Manuel Šumberac
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2016
Diana Wynne Jones asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008170622
Ebook Edition © 2016 ISBN: 9780008170639
Version: 2016-10-21
For Rachel
Contents
Map of North and South Dalemark
Map of North and South Dalemark
“DO COME OUT of that dream, Moril,” Lenina said.
“Glad rags, Moril,” said Brid. “We’re nearly in Derent.”
Moril sighed reproachfully. He had not been in a dream, and he felt it was unfair of his mother to call it that. He had merely been gazing at the white road as it wandered northwards, thinking how glad he was to be going that way again, and how glad he would be to get out of the South. It was spring, and it was already far too hot. But that was not the worst of the South. The worst, to Moril’s mind, was the need to be careful. You dared not put a foot, or a word, out of place for fear of being clapped in jail. People were watching all the time to report what you said. It gave Moril the creeps. And it irked him that there were songs his father dared not sing in the South for fear of sounding seditious. They were the best songs, too, to Moril’s mind. They all came from the North. Moril himself had been born in the North, in the earldom of Hannart. And his favourite hero, the Adon, had once upon a time been Earl of Hannart.
“You’re dreaming again!” Lenina said sharply.
“No, I’m not,” said Moril. He left his perch behind the driving seat and climbed hastily into the covered back of the cart. His mother and his sister were already changed into their cheap tinsel-trimmed show dresses. Lenina, who was pale and blonde and still very beautiful, was in silver and pale gold. Brid, who was darker and browner, had a glimmering peacock dress. Lenina hung Moril’s suit above the rack of musical instruments, and Moril squeezed up to that end to change, very careful not to bang a cwidder or scrape the hand organ. Each instrument was shiny with use and gleaming with care. Each had its special place. Everything in the cart did. Clennen insisted on it. He said that life in a small cart would otherwise become impossible.
Once Moril was changed, he emerged from the cart as a very flamboyant figure, for his suit was the same peacock as Brid’s dress and his hair was red – a bright, wild red. He had inherited Lenina’s paleness. His face was white, with a few red freckles.
“You know, Mother,” Brid said, as she had said before every show since they left Holand, “I don’t think I like that colour on Moril.”
“It