Diana Wynne Jones’s Fantastical Journeys Collection. Diana Wynne Jones
on me and went, “Craark!” And I realised she had a raven sitting on her green hat.
“His name’s Roy,” she said. “He’ll not hurt you. And what will you folks be wanting?”
“Your help, brothers and sisters,” Aunt Beck said. “We need to be directed to the king.”
“The king!” said several of them, rather astonished.
And one little fat man asked, “And why would you be wanting the king?” He was perhaps the oddest of all the monks because he had a beard that grew in two long wisps, one wisp from each cheek, that were long enough to be tucked into the rope he wore as a belt. On his shoulder sat a truly magnificent green bird – shiny green with an arched beak and round yellow eyes even more knowing than the raven’s. Each eye was surrounded in wise pinkish wrinkles that made it look very clever indeed. The long, long green tail swept down the little monk’s back like a waterfall even longer than the monk’s wispy beards.
And it spoke. Ogo, Ivar and I all jumped when it said, in a loud, squawking voice, “It’s Thursday! It’s Thursday!”
“Oh, and so it is!” said the nun with the raven. “Green Greet is quite right.”
“No, no,” said another monk. “It’s Wednesday, I swear.”
“It is indeed,” someone else declared. “The foxes always bark on a Wednesday.”
“They bark when they like,” another monk said. “Thursday it is, when the sun is on the tower.”
“Oh no,” disagreed a nun in the distance. “Wednesday is today, and the Lady’s birthday only a week away now.”
“Thursday,” someone else insisted. “The Birthday is only six days away.”
The argument went on and on, with our own heads turning from one to another. By this time, there were people insisting it was only Tuesday and others who seemed equally sure it was a Friday today.
At length Aunt Beck said, highly exasperated, “What does it matter what day it is? I only asked to be directed to the king.”
“But that is just the point, Wise Woman,” said the monk with the green bird. “The king is under geas, poor man. He is forbidden to see strangers on a Thursday.”
“Oh,” said Aunt Beck. “I’ve heard tell of this kind of thing in Bernica. What will happen to the king if he does see a stranger on a Thursday?”
“No one knows, except that it’s bad to anger the gods,” said the little monk. “And—”
“And how do you know I’m a Wise Woman?” Aunt Beck demanded.
“It sticks out a mile,” said the monk. “Green Greet saw it at once.” He reached up and patted the bird on its head. The bird promptly seized one of his plump little fingers in its beak. I suppose it was meant to be affectionate, but it looked painful. The monk took his hand away and shook it. “Why are you wanting to see the king?” he said. “Are you in need of justice?” He looked from Aunt Beck to me and on to Ogo and Ivar as if the idea puzzled him greatly.
“Not exactly,” said Aunt Beck. By this time, everyone had stopped arguing and was staring at her with interest. She drew herself up tall. “We are on a mission, for the High King of Chaldea,” she said.
All the green-robed people seemed impressed by this. Their green hats and little round caps turned and nodded as they looked at one another. “Well then,” said the one with the bird, “it seems best that we take you to our House so that we can divine what day it is. Would you care to take breakfast with us there?”
“Oh yes!” Ivar said, heartfelt. Ogo’s stomach gave a sharp rumble.
“We shall be delighted,” said my aunt, stately as ever.
So the group went on choosing fish. I noticed that they did not pay much for it. Most fishermen seemed quite ready to give them fish for nothing. “For luck,” said each man, pouring handfuls of tiny silver fish into the baskets.
Beyond the wharf was a market. Here the party acquired armloads of bread, several crocks of butter, a lot of early apples and a great many cherries. Again, they did not have to pay much for it.
“It’s almost worth being holy,” Ogo said to me, as we went out from the market and among the grey houses of the town. There he nudged me again and pointed. I was just in time to see Plug-Ugly crouched in a patch of sun with a large fish in his mouth. He was gone when we came level with the place. “Do you think that beast is magical?” Ogo whispered.
“Yes,” I said. “He must be.”
The monks and nuns, chatting cheerfully, led us on to the edge of the town. Their House, when we came to it, was more like a barn than a religious establishment. It was lofty and dark and warm inside, with a fire in the middle of the floor in a most smoky, old-fashioned way. That fire puzzled Ivar because it was low and glowing and made of dark chunks of stuff. Ivar had only seen log fires before. “What are they burning?” he said, peering at it.
“Peat,” said Aunt Beck. “This island is made of peat, they say.”
Peat seemed to be lumps of marsh, but it served perfectly well to cook fish on. Fishes were sizzling in iron pans in no time. We were each given a heaped wooden plateful of them and nothing but a chunk of bread to eat them with. Everyone sat on the floor to eat. Ogo and Ivar kept getting their long legs in the way. I was as unused as they were to eating on the floor and I kept having to shift about, trying to get comfortable. Aunt Beck of course sat elegantly cross-legged and daintily picked up fish with bread and her fingers as though she had been doing this all her life.
“I call this dreadful!” Ivar grumbled. “It’s not civilised!” Luckily, he had the sense to grumble in a whisper, but even so, Aunt Beck shot him one of her nastiest looks. Ivar turned very red and sat with his back to her after that.
The fish was delicious. We all ate a great deal, being very hungry by then. When we were finished, a grubby rag – which Aunt Beck looked at rather primly – was passed around so we could wipe our fingers. Then the monks and nuns fetched out all manner of strange implements, and an abacus and some sheets of parchment and sticks of charcoal, and began to calculate which day of the week it actually was.
“I make it Friday,” Ogo whispered to me. “We set out on Monday, didn’t we?”
Just then the great green bird flew up into the rafters on a huge spread of green feathers, shouting, “It’s Thursday! It’s Thursday!”
Ivar and Ogo and I went off into giggles. Aunt Beck said, “I’ve heard of parrots. It would probably say that if it were Sunday. Quiet now.”
But, do you know, the monks and nuns still couldn’t decide what day it was. At last, Aunt Beck lost patience and stood up. “We shall go to the king now,” she said, “and take a risk on what day it is. Can someone set us on our way, please?”
The monk who owned the parrot stood up too. We had gathered by then that his name was Finn. “I’ll take them,” he said, “and bring them back if need be. Does anyone know what became of my sandals?”
There was much hunting around the edges of the barn and a nun eventually produced a pair of thick leather sandals. Finn stamped his chubby feet into them and beckoned the green bird down to his shoulder. “Off we go,” he said, cheerfully picking up Aunt Beck’s bag. Ogo picked up his and Ivar’s, I picked up mine, and we thanked the others and left. As we went, they were busy feeding the animals, almost as if they had forgotten us.
“Is it far to the king?” I asked as we left the houses behind.
“A mile or so,” Finn said.
I was glad. My bag was heavy. I envied Ivar striding ahead with Aunt Beck. We were taking a track that led gently upwards among dozens of small green fields, most with sheep in them, but some growing crops I couldn’t recognise. There was honeysuckle in the hedges. The air