Beguilers (5 page)

I nodded. At times like that I regretted my allergy. If I lived to be old I might be lonely.

Hemmy’s house had once been rather grand. She and her husband had not had children, but when they first married they had expected to and had built several rooms around the central part of the house. But one by one they had fallen into disrepair and the rain had washed away the walls. Now the house looked a bit like a honeycomb from the outside with just the round shells of the old rooms remaining. Their inner doors had all been closed off or made into windows and Hemmy lived, cooked and slept in the large, circular room in the middle.

The chuffie had revived the fire for our arrival and was bringing a pot of water from the well. I took it from him and settled it on the clay runnel above the flames. Hemmy lowered herself carefully on to a pile of mattresses which fitted snugly between the fire and the wall. She was too stiff to cross her legs, so she propped herself up with cushions and quilts and let out a great sigh. Her other chuffie, an old, smelly creature with a coat like a mountain goat, got up from where she had been sleeping in the corner and walked stiffly over. The poor creature was clearly worn out, and had nothing left of her youthful exuberance. But the attachment between her and Hemmy was still strong, and if the old chuffie had not had something still to give, she would not be there. I watched as she climbed on to the cushions and propped herself firmly against Hemmy’s side.

There was nothing unusual about the relationship between them, but there was something about it that moved me all the same and started my heart on a new descent. I sat on the hearth-rug, remembering what had happened and what I was doing here. Immediately the young chuffie came bounding over, knocking over a pile of empty pots as he came, and prodded my cheek with his wet nose. I tried to send him off, I really did, but my sadness was like a magnet to him. I tried explaining that it wasn’t appropriate, that I was allergic to him and that in any case it was right for me to be feeling sad in the circumstances, but I might as well have been talking to the wall. He glued himself to my side and wouldn’t move until he had succeeded in lifting my mood. Then he jumped up beside Hemmy despite all her protests and draped himself over her stiff old legs.

We sat quietly until the water began to hiss, then Hemmy instructed me on how to make her special whisker-fruit brew. She had a huge block of lace-tree sugar and I kept adding shavings from it until the tea turned brown. I’m not sure that it wasn’t the best brew I’ve ever tasted. Hemmy told me to mix a bit of it with milk for the chuffies. The younger one slurped up his share, but the old one refused to come down from Hemmy’s side. Instead she let out a long, low moan, which told me better than any words how far down an old woman’s spirits can fall when she gets tired and how much effort it can take to lift them up again. I handed the old chuffie a couple of the dried whisker-fruit and she sucked them noisily for the rest of the evening. The younger one returned to Hemmy’s lap, and she rested her tea on his broad, hairy back. He must have been quite a weight on her legs, but she didn’t seem to notice it.

If Hemmy knew of my allergy she made no allowances for it. I’m not sure it would have made any difference if she had, because I couldn’t imagine any way of getting that chuffie off her legs. So when my eyes began to itch I just had to put up with it.

When she had finished her brew, Hemmy handed me the empty glass and said, in a voice which creaked and scraped like her arthritic limbs, ‘I nearly went once, you know?’

‘Went where?’

‘On your journey. To catch a beguiler.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. It’s one of the reasons that your parents are happy enough to leave you in my care tonight. They think that I will talk you out of this nonsense.’

The first glimmer of suspicion entered my mind. ‘And will you?’ I asked.

‘Not if I can help it.’

‘Why didn’t you go?’ I said, between a succession of sneezes. ‘What made you change your mind?’

‘Doubts. But they wouldn’t have been enough on their own.’ She ran a hand through her sparse hair, which would have been white if it hadn’t been stained a dingy yellow by liver-wood smoke. It was a gesture which recalled the vanity of youth.

‘A young man held me back,’ she went on. ‘Bream Yolper.’

Simultaneously, the two chuffies sighed and turned to me with exasperated expressions as though I was confounding all their efforts. Hemmy’s unhappy and childless marriage to the handsomest young man of her generation was no secret in the village. The younger chuffie sighed again and wrapped a despairing paw over his nose as if to block out any more interference from outside.

‘If I had it over to do again,’ said Hemmy, ‘I’d do what you’re about to do, no matter how it turned out.’

‘Would you?’

‘Yes. Because I was unfulfilled. I’m ninety-seven years old and nothing in my life has measured up to my expectations. I can’t even manage to die according to plan, as you may have noticed.’

Hemmy’s words were mellowed by a humorous glint in her eye, and the chuffies, who had gone quite rigid as she spoke, relaxed again.

‘I know why, though, now,’ she went on. ‘I ought to have known all along.’

‘Why?’ I said.

‘Because I have some things to give you, to help you on your way.’

‘Have you? What things?’

‘I could show you if it wasn’t for this dim-witted creature.’ Hemmy tugged at the young chuffie’s shaggy coat, but he was as inert as a crumpled rug. ‘I’ll have to get some sleep before I have a chance of moving him.’ She looked across at me and her face showed the first signs of sympathy that I had ever seen on it. ‘And so will you,’ she said.

I nodded, and a great wave of exhaustion washed over me as though it had been waiting for her permission to rise. I looked around me at the jumble of pots and pans and food containers that made up Hemmy’s existence. In the furthest corner from the fire was a single mattress with a pile of folded quilts at one end. From the layer of moulted hair on the mattress I guessed that it was the chuffies’ bed, and if I tried to sleep there I would be desperate for breath within an hour. Instead I picked up two of the quilts.

‘Do you mind if I sleep outside?’ I said, breaking into another series of fierce sneezes as though to illustrate my reason.

Hemmy nodded. Then she manoeuvred herself into a lying position with the chuffies snuggled up close beside her, and it seemed to me that she was asleep before she stopped moving.

I wandered out to the edge of the village before I went to bed, on the off-chance of seeing my beguilers again. A group of porters were camped there and I could hear them snoring inside their light tents. Beneath the full moon the snowy peaks which rose so sheer above me shone like rare metals in the sky. I could even see the shapeless top of the cloud mountain, which is usually only visible on the clearest of spring and autumn days. It seemed right that I could see it, somehow, a phenomenon as vague and unknown as the future that awaited me.

I was still gazing at it, wondering what it could be, when a voice came out of the darkness, sending a shrill shock through my bones.

‘Hello?’

I looked around but I could see no one. ‘Hello?’

‘Are you the one?’ said the voice.

I saw him, then. A young porter, lying on his back at the edge of the encampment, barely ten yards from where I stood. He was nestled among bulging sacks of rice and millet, and it was no surprise that I hadn’t seen him earlier. I took a step closer. The boy was gazing up at the skies. His arms were folded beneath his head, and their undersides were white and soft in the darkness, giving an impression of vulnerability, like a lizard’s belly. The nippers must have been feasting off his blood, but he was as still as the moon above.

‘Am I what?’ I answered.

‘I heard that someone had made an Intention. To go after a beguiler. Is it you?’

His face was hidden by the moon-shadows cast by the tents, but I could imagine the scorn that would undoubtedly be written upon it.

‘What if it is?’ I said.

He propped himself up on his elbow and faced me, but I couldn’t make out his features or his expression. I flushed, aware of a desire to sneer at him and make mad faces, to prove his suspicions were well-founded. But another thought struck me.

‘Why are you outside? Aren’t you afraid of the beguilers?’

His voice was soft and a bit creaky, on the edge of breaking. ‘Not a bit. I wish you the best of luck.’

I wanted to ask him more. Of all the people who had cause to move about in the mountains, the porters were the most superstitious. I had never encountered anyone, anywhere, sleeping out in the open at night, even beneath the full moon. From inside one of the tents, an irritable voice called out to him to be quiet and go to sleep. He shrugged at me, then turned on to his side and pulled his blanket over his head. Our conversation was clearly over.

‘Thank you,’ I said quietly to his enshrouded form and turned my attention back to the hills. On the slopes of our own mountain, a single bright spark danced above the drowning pool. I hadn’t expected to hear good wishes from anyone, and it seemed to me like an omen. If it hadn’t been for Hemmy’s promise, I would have gone there and then.

W
HEN I WENT BACK
to Hemmy’s house the next morning the young chuffie was absent, presumably out on some errand or other. The old one was sprawled on the hearth-rug, all four legs splayed wide, utterly exhausted. Hemmy was sitting on a stool beside her, stirring a pot of peppernut porridge which gave off a strong, spicy smell. It wasn’t one of my favourite foods, but I was hungry enough that morning to eat anything.

I made my way round the sleeping chuffie and gazed into the bubbling pot. The door was wide open and the fresh morning air circulated its optimism around the dark dome of the house. It was a day for setting out on an adventure, without a doubt.

‘You’ve missed your start,’ said Hemmy. ‘The porters are already up in the hills and I just saw Simka go past with the goats.’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘I’m not going to see any beguilers by daylight, am I?’

‘I suppose not,’ said Hemmy, pouring porridge into two wooden bowls. I had been wondering how she filled her lonely days, but when I saw how slowly she did everything that particular mystery was solved. By the time she had finished clearing up after breakfast it would be time to start lunch. She handed me one of the bowls and put the other down beside her stool. Then she poured the last of yesterday’s milk on to what was left in the pot and put it down beside the chuffie’s nose. She prodded her with a stiff foot but she didn’t stir.

‘Poor old thing,’ she said. ‘She’ll be leaving me soon, no doubt.’

She fell silent, and I realised that she would miss the old chuffie when it set out on its last journey. It was said in our village that chuffies went to the cloud mountain to die, but the truth was that it was a perpetual mystery. No one really knew where they came from or where they went when they were old and worn out, replete with the sorrows of our kind.

My thoughts were leading me into sadness, and the old creature stirred wearily in response. With an effort, I turned my mind to the future. As though she read my mind, Hemmy said, ‘Maybe you think it’s going to be simple. Just go and catch your beguiler, and that’s it.’

I looked at her in bewilderment and realised that what she said was true. I expected to go up on to the mountain side as I had that other night and that would be it.

‘If it was as easy as all that, though, why would everybody not do it?’

‘Fear, I suppose. Fear that they might be led over the edge.’

‘And don’t you fear that?’

I began to feel a bit foolish. ‘I hadn’t thought that far,’ I said. ‘Do you think I really will catch one?’

‘They say that it hasn’t been done, don’t they?’ She picked up her porridge and began to eat it. I followed suit, halfheartedly, as she went on. ‘But it isn’t true. People have caught them. It’s what happens afterwards that causes the problems.’

‘What kind of problems?’ I asked.

‘From what I’ve heard,’ she said indistinctly, through a gluey mouthful, ‘it’s easier to catch them, or at least to get hooked on to them, than it is to let them go.’

‘If I caught one,’ I said, sounding gluey myself, ‘why should I want to let it go?’

She shrugged. Her bones creaked, or maybe it was the stool. ‘If I was you,’ she said, ‘I wouldn’t be in any rush to get myself entangled with one of those things. If I was you, I would do a bit of learning first.’ The peppernut was burning my throat and making me cough and splutter, but it was one of the hazards of breakfast in our village at that time of year and I was quite used to it. I swallowed hard and wiped my watering eyes on my sleeve.

‘What kind of learning?’

‘Find out what happened to the others. That’s what I would do.’

‘Others?’

Hemmy said no more. She didn’t need to. Despite my question, I knew exactly who she was talking about. The thought struck a chill into my heart and reminded me of the nature of the tradition which I had decided to follow. My first real doubts assailed me and my stomach contracted. I offered my remaining porridge to the old chuffie, but she still didn’t stir.

When Hemmy had finished I took the bowls to the barrel outside the house and the neighbour’s hens gathered round to see if there were any slops. As I washed up I could hear Hemmy groaning as she moved around the room. I left the bowls to dry on a rack in the sun and went back inside. There was a pot of water on the flue for tea, but Hemmy wasn’t watching it. She was in the darkest corner of the room, beneath a window that was always, to my knowledge, shuttered, rummaging around in a wooden trunk. When she heard me come in she beckoned stiffly, without turning round.

Her back was bent double as she leaned over the chest. As I came up beside her, she pointed with a knobbly finger at a piece of folded material.

‘Take it out,’ she said.

I picked it up. It was a large shawl or a small blanket, I’m not sure which, made of cotton. It had been dyed, like many of the clothes in the village, with the yellowish clay that the weavers dig from a muddy hollow beneath the furthest terraces. It’s one of the cheapest dyes, used for work clothes and bedding. The brighter and more delicate colours come from berries and flowers and they take a lot of labour to gather.