Is (2 page)

Outside, the snarls and howls of the wolves increased to a mad triumph; it seemed they had caught up with their quarry and were fighting each other for a chance to get at him.

‘Now, Is!’

Is shoved back the beam, Penny dragged open the door.

A wolf catapulted inside, but was instantly driven out again by Is, twirling her burning faggot in its face. Then she knelt in the crack of the dopr, waving the improvised torch so as to give light while Penny stood guard over her with the gun, aimed high; next moment she fired, and, in the startled silence that followed the blast, gave her order:

‘
Quick
, Is – grab his arm, he’s done in!’

Penny leaned the gun against the wall, Is hurled her firebrand through the doorway among the disconcerted wolf-pack, which sprang back a few paces; and their intended victim was hurriedly half-dragged, half-lifted through the narrow crack of doorway and left unceremoniously lying on the floor while Penny hastily refastened the door and Is, with rapid care, re-loaded the gun. Not until this was done did they turn to examine the person they had rescued.

He proved to be a thin, worn-looking man with scanty grey hair and a wispy grey beard; his face was dreadfully pale and his clothes were mostly in tatters. He bled from a score of wounds on his neck, arms and back, some of them quite deep. He had fainted, probably from loss of blood.

‘Marvel he’s still living!’ said Penny. ‘Looks as if they been arter him for miles, poor devil. Give us a hand, Is, to hoist him on the bed.’

He was so thin and worn that they could easily lift him.

‘Where are
we
going to sleep?’ demanded Is, when he was stretched out on the bed, a wooden frame with cords and canvas slung across it.

‘On the floor, where else? You
would
bring him in,’ Penny told her. ‘Save us, those wounds look nasty. Set a pan of water on the fire, Is. Too bad we’ve no brandy; he’ll have to make do with mint tea. Drop in a bunch of leaves to steep, will you, while I get these togs off him. Queer, he don’t look like a tramp, though he’s so ragged.’

‘Hark at them outside!’ said Is, balancing a copper pan across two logs.

The wolves, deprived of their supper, had not given up. Half a hundred of them must have been out there, howling and scrabbling at the wooden walls. Figgin the cat crouched on a high shelf, his fur all on end, his eyes rings of green fire with huge black pupils.

‘Keep your fur on, Figgin, they can’t get in. Pay them no mind; they’ll give over by and by.’

It took a long time to wash the stranger’s dripping and filthy gashes; meanwhile he lay limply in a half sleep of total exhaustion.

At last Penny wrapped him in a man’s old flannel shirt, worn but clean, which she took down from a nail on the wall.

‘Lucky van Doon left it behind,’ she remarked with a sour quirk of her mouth.

‘Poor Mr van Doon,’ said Is. ‘D’you reckon he’ll ever come back?’

‘Leyden’s a long way off,’ said Penny shortly. ‘And two years is a long time. Here, take the cup and spoon and try if you can get the cove to swaller.’

With a good deal of trouble, Is managed to trickle a few spoonfuls of the hot aromatic brew down the man’s throat.

‘Reckon that’s all he’ll take,’ she said at length. ‘He jist wants to sleep.’

‘Oh well, leave him be, then. We might as well have our soup and get some rest.’

They made up a pallet for themselves on the floor with two extra blankets and what spare clothes they had. The fire was banked to stay in till morning. Figgin came down from his high shelf and huddled against Is, while she and Penny lay down to such rest as they might hope for, with the wolves clamouring outside and their uninvited guest moaning on the bed.

Towards morning the wolves finally gave up, and went in search of other prey. But the hurt man, instead of getting better, grew feverish and wild; he suddenly sat up with a flushed face and blazing eyes, which seemed to take in nothing of what lay around him.

‘Arun! Arun!’ he cried hoarsely. ‘Where are you? Your mother wants you! She is going to the shore for cockles! She wants you! Where are you, boy?’

‘Be quiet! Lie down!’ exclaimed Penny crossly. ‘Isn’t it enough that we give up our bed to you, but you must keep us awake with your potherings? There’s no Arran here, whosoever he be! And if you throw off the covers, you’ll only take a chill. Lie down, do, for mercy’s sake!’

But the stranger, ignoring Penny completely, continued to call for ‘Arun! Arun!’ in heartbroken tones.

‘His head’s as hot as fire,’ muttered Penny, frowning, feeling his brow. ‘
And
his hands. And I don’t like the look of those wounds. Wolf bites can turn right nasty. And some of them go deep.’

‘What can we do? We washed ’em as best we could,’ said Is.

‘Even so. Reckon I oughta go for Doc Spiddle at Lewisham.’

Is thrust out her lower lip, wholly disliking this plan.

‘That’s an hour’s walk, Pen. Suppose the wolves is still around?’

‘They’ll not come back this way. They never do. And it’ll be daylight in an hour.’

‘How’ll we pay old Doc Spiddle?’

‘I’ll give him a couple of toys for his grandchildren,’ said Penny with a brief, sour smile, and she glanced at the shelves where rows of dolls and toy animals were stacked. ‘Dear knows we’ve plenty, the way sales are falling off.’

‘Maybe he won’t come.’

‘He’ll come. I’ll roust him outa his dozy old bed. You mind the sick cove while I’m gone. Keep him covered, don’t let him get chilled.’

After wrapping herself up in various hoods and shawls, Penny set out. She did not take the gun, for it was too cumbrous to carry any distance, but armed herself with a knobbed, spiked stick of thornwood.

‘Bar up after me and don’t open to strangers.’

‘As if I would!’ said Is.

When she had slid the beam across the door again and fed the fire till it blazed, Is settled herself cross-legged on a big tree-trunk stool and listened to the sounds of the night, with Figgin vigilant beside her.

‘Arun, Arun!’ pleaded the sick man again, imploringly.

‘There bain’t no Arran here, mister; there’s only me. Here, swig a mouthful of mint tea.’

She tilted the cup to his lips. This time his eyes focused, and he seemed to take in the fact of her existence.

‘No more!’ he said faintly. ‘That’s enough. Who are you? Where am I? There were wolves – they mauled me badly – I ran for hours, it seemed . . .’

He stared about the place, puzzled.

‘You’re on Blackheath Edge, mister.’

‘I was looking for Arun.’

‘There’s no one of that name in these parts. There’s no one but me and my sister Penny.’

‘He ran away. My boy Arun. He ran away a year ago.’

‘Why look for him on Blackheath Edge?’

‘It was London. He had spoken of – threatened to run to London. Where godless songs are sung. I have walked to London over thirty times – every second week – since he ran away; I have stood by Charing Cross, asking all the passers-by if they have beheld him.’

Is stared at the stranger with scorn and pity. She had spent the first nine years of her life in London, scurrying about its crowded streets, and could imagine the total unconcern that such an enquiry would receive from the hustling, jostling mob around Charing Cross.

‘Why ask there, mister?’

‘Charing Cross is the centre of London, I have heard. Is it not so? Sooner or later, somebody there must have seen my son.’

‘Humph.’ Is did not argue this, but asked, ‘Did he have a trade, your boy?’

‘He – that is – we had apprenticed him to a wigmaker. An honest,
useful
trade. But he was not grateful!’ declared the sick man in trembling, bewildered tones. ‘In ten years he would have become a journeyman, in fifteen a master wigmaker . . . Who knows, he could have made wigs for the Duke of Kent – even for His Majesty, perhaps.’

‘Wigs?’ said Is doubtfully. ‘Does the king wear a wig?’

‘The boy left a note. He wished for songs. My pouch – ’ The man looked about him anxiously.

Among his tattered clothes had been a small leather satchel. Is passed it to him and he fumbled with the strap. After rummaging through its contents he pulled out a scrap of grey paper – damp, now, and stained with blood.

Is, who had been taught reading by Penny, slowly made out the unevenly printed words on it.

‘Did your boy write that?’ asked Is, much struck.

‘Ay. Our silence, it seems, distressed him. We belong, you must understand, my wife and I, to the Silent Sect. But Arun always wished to ask questions.’

‘Can’t blame him,’ muttered Is. ‘You gotta find out. Don’t you?’

‘All our acquaintances, in Folkestone, are of the Silent Sect. Amos Furze, the wig-maker, is one, of course – Chief Elder. They are devout, good folk,’ said the stranger chidingly, and coughed. Is passed him the mug of mint tea.

‘So your boy run off to the Smoke, to get the answers to his questions? He wanted
songs
, you said?’

‘His mother has wept her eyes out, every night since. When he was at home he could
not
be prevented from singing in his bedrooom –
singing!
– though we told him, over and over, that song is an offence against the Holy Quiet. Now, Ruth wishes that she had not reprimanded him.’

‘Eh, me,’ said Is. ‘Reckon you’d best give up hunting for that boy, mister. He’ll not be back.’

‘Child! Do not say so! Ruth would never lift up her head again. She had – has – a fondness for the lad. Of course she would never, never show it.’

‘Why not?’

‘That is not our way.’

Is made no comment but, getting up, put more wood on the fire. Then she said, ‘Could you take a bite, mister? Soup? Mouthful o’ bread?’

He shook his head weakly.

‘No victuals. I could not swallow bread . . .’

‘What fetched you up on Blackheath Edge, then?’ asked Is, after a pause, in which, far far away, they heard the faint, triumphant cry of a cock, on some outlying farm where woods gave way to ploughland.

‘I fancy my younger brother once dwelt hereabouts. Long ago when he first married. In truth I do not know if he is still living – it is many years since we communicated. Our minds were not in tune. But – having failed yet again in my quest – I bethought me to seek him out and take counsel of him. He was a man shrewd in the ways of the city. And he knew many songs. My boy might – ’

‘What’s his name, your brother?’ Is inquired, yawning as she dribbled more tea into the mug.

‘Abednego Twite.’

Is let fall the pan from which she had been pouring. A puddle of green tea spread over the bricks.

At this moment a sharp rap on the door made itself heard. Penelope’s voice called: ‘Hey, in there! Open up!’

Is ran to unbar the door and let in her sister. Ice-cold air came in as well, like a wrapping round Penny. The frost on the ground lay thicker than ever.

‘Deliver us! That’s sharp!’

Penny knelt by the hearth to warm her blue hands. ‘Lucky you kept a good fire up, Is.’

‘Where’s the doc, then?’

‘Had a lying-in at Hilly Fields. Said he’ll be along by and by.
In
his own good time,’ said Penny, with a lift of the lip. ‘But he gave me this flask of tincture for the cove.’ She got up and walked towards the bed. ‘How’s he been? How are you, mister?’

‘
Pen
,’ hissed Is, pulling her back, ‘that chap’s our
uncle
!’

Pen slowly turned round.

‘How d’you figure that?’

‘He said he was looking for his brother, Abednego Twite. There couldn’t be
two
.’

‘ – He’s a mite late,’ remarked Penny drily, after a moment or two.

She approached the stranger.

‘Mister? Here’s some jossop for you, from the sawbones.’ She uncorked the little flask and obliged the stranger to swallow a mouthful. When he had done so, and laid down again, not visibly benefited by it: ‘You say your brother was Abednego Twite?’ she demanded, in a voice that entirely lacked any warmth.

‘Ay, that’s him. Abednego Twite the hoboy player. He makes up sinful songs as well. Sometimes I believe he calls himself Desmond. But music is the devil’s voice,’ muttered the sick man. ‘Only in total silence may we hear the Word of Truth. Why, daughter, are you acquainted with the man Twite, my brother?’

‘Only since I was born. He was my father,’ said Penny shortly. ‘But he’s dead. Some years past. The wolves got him.
And
it was a fitting end for him,’ she added in an undertone.

The stranger did not seem surprised, or much moved, by this news. He sighed.

‘Dead; doubtless with his sins upon him. He was not a right-thinking man. So you are my niece then. Dido, is it?’