Cart and Cwidder. Diana Wynne Jones
tadpoles. Dagner and Kialan went off to set their snares. Lenina put herbs on the fire against the midges, and the fragrant smoke streamed sideways and settled across the lake in bands. Brid and Moril, quite unworried by insects, waded into the shallows of the lake and tried enthusiastically to collect tadpoles in an old pickle jar. Moril had just lost most of them by accident when he looked up to find his father watching them.
“You want a bigger jar,” Clennen said. “And both of you want to remember what I said to Kialan about give-and-take.”
“He doesn’t remember it,” Brid said sulkily.
“He’s never had to learn it before,” said Clennen. “That’s his trouble. But it’s not yours, Brid. A fight takes two.”
“Did you hear what he said?” Moril demanded.
“I’m not deaf,” said Clennen. “He’s entitled to his opinion, like everyone else. And it wouldn’t hurt you to find some opinions of your own instead of borrowing Brid’s, Moril. Now get that slime off your fingers before you touch my cwidder.”
While Moril was having his lesson, Kialan came out of the woods and into the lake, where he tried to teach Dagner to swim. The sight of them splashing about was a great distraction to Moril. It grew worse when Kialan tried to persuade Brid to learn to swim too. Brid claimed to be afraid of leeches. Nothing would induce her to go above her knees in water, but she agreed to learn the arm movements. Moril could hear her laughing. It looked as if Kialan were trying to make friends.
Moril became more distracted than ever. Perhaps, after all, Kialan was not bad at heart – only tactless. Moril tried to decide what he thought. It really rankled with him that Clennen believed he borrowed Brid’s opinions. Moril considered that he thought long and deeply – if rather vaguely – about most things. But he knew he had agreed with Brid, quite unquestioningly, both about Kialan and about the Ganner story. And it looked as if Brid had been wrong about both. Moril did not know what he thought.
“I suppose I ought to be used to you being up in the clouds by now,” said Clennen. “Do you want to swim too?”
“No,” said Moril. “Yes. I mean, is that story about Ganner true, then?”
“Word of honour,” said Clennen. “Except it’s the fellow’s face I seem to have forgotten, not his name. I may embroider a detail here and there, but I never tell a story that isn’t true, Moril. Remember that. Now go and swim if you want to.”
Clennen was clearly very relieved that Lenina was not leaving for Markind. He drank a great deal of the wine that night to celebrate. The level in the huge bottle was almost down to the straw basket when he finally rolled into the larger tent and fell asleep. He was still asleep next morning when Dagner and Kialan went off to look at their snares. When Brid and Moril got up, they could hear him snoring, though Lenina was up and combing out her soft fair hair by the lake. Brid attended to the fire, and Moril tried to attend to Olob. Olob, for some reason, was tetchy. He kept flinging up his head and shying at shadows.
“What’s the matter with him?” Moril asked his mother.
Lenina’s comb had hit a tangle. She was lugging at it fiercely and not really attending. “No idea,” she said. “Leave him be.”
So Moril left off trying to groom Olob and turned to put the currycomb back in the cart. He found himself looking at a number of men, who were pushing their way through the last of the wood into the clear space by the lake. They were out almost as soon as Moril saw them, six of them. They stood in a group, looking at Moril, Brid kneeling by the fire, Lenina by the lake, the cart and the tents.
“Clennen the Singer,” one of them said. “Where is he?”
Olob tossed his head and trotted away round the lake.
“He’s not here,” said Brid.
Moril thought he would have said the same. The men alarmed him. It was odd to see six well-dressed men outside a wood in the middle of nowhere. They were very well dressed. They wore cloth as good as Kialan’s coat, and all of them had that sleek look that comes from always living in style. Each of them wore a sword in a well-kept leather scabbard, belted over the good cloth of their coats, and Moril did not like the way the hilts of those swords looked smooth with frequent use. But the truly alarming thing about them was that they had an air of purpose, all of them, which hit Moril like a gust of cold wind and frightened him.
“My father won’t be back for ages,” he said, hoping they would go away.
“Then we’ll wait for him,” said the man who had asked. Moril liked him least of all. He was fair and light-eyed, and there was an odd look in those eyes which Moril did not trust.
Lenina evidently felt the same. “Suppose you give me your message for Clennen,” she said, coming forwards with her hair still loose.
“You wouldn’t like it, lady,” said the man. “We’ll wait.”
“Moril,” said Lenina. “Go round the lake and fetch your father.”
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 forwards 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 on to 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 greyish 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 grey 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