The Whispering Mountain (3 page)
Read The Whispering Mountain Online
Authors: Joan Aiken
“YR AMGUEDDFA.”
“O Dewi Sant!” breathed Arabis enviously. “To live in a museum! There's lucky! Whenever we stop in a town, if Tom is busy with the hair-cutting, I always look for the museum. Full of wonders, they are. And your granda is the ceidwad? He must be a wise man, Owen, and greatly respected in the town!”
“Well,” Owen said, “yes.” A troubled frown creased his brow. “But this trouble of the harp, and the sleepers' ticketsâ'
“Sleepers' tickets?”
“Here we are, though,” he said. “I'll tell you about that later. You can stay the night here? The wagon will go in the courtyard.”
“Hey, Da!” Arabis jumped out and ran round to take the reins from Tom Dando, who was in his usual dream and would have driven on over the mountain westwards towards the coast. She turned the horse and led him in through the gateway. “Wake up, Dada! Owen lives here in the museum, lucky boy! And he's invited us in to meet his grandfather. Where shall I tie Galahad, Owen? To this stone pineapple on the gatepost?”
She kicked a loose rock under the rear wheel of the wagon so that it should not run away backwards downhill into the river Gaff.
The museum was housed in a brick hall that had once belonged to the Detached Baptists, until they had merged with the Separated Rogationists, who owned a larger chapel, built of granite, with an organ. The courtyard in front of the hall was a pool of dark, split by feeble rays
from a small lamp over the door. Here another notice, fresh-painted, announced that the museum was open from 10 am to 5 pm every day except for the Sabbath, St. David's Day, St. Ennodawg's Day, Christmas, Easter, and various other public holidays. It was signed O. Hughes, Custodian. The light above was just bright enough also to reveal some words chalked on the wall under the sign. They said:
from a small lamp over the door. Here another notice, fresh-painted, announced that the museum was open from 10 am to 5 pm every day except for the Sabbath, St. David's Day, St. Ennodawg's Day, Christmas, Easter, and various other public holidays. It was signed O. Hughes, Custodian. The light above was just bright enough also to reveal some words chalked on the wall under the sign. They said:
GIVE US BACK OUR SABBATH OPENING! DOWN WITH SLEEPERS' TICKETS!
Looking desperately worried, Owen began wiping this message off the wall with his handkerchief, while Arabis exhorted her father,
“Come you now, Tom! Don't you want to meet Owen's Granda?”
“Oh, well, now, I don't know,” Mr. Dando said doubtfully, struggling out of his dream. “Meet his grandfather? What for? Do we really want to do that? Eh? More to the purpose, does he want to meet us?”
“Of course!” Arabis gave him an impatient shake and pulled him down, straightening his cloak and putting him to rights. Dislodged from his box he was revealed as an unusually tall, thin man, with wild dark locks beginning to turn grey, and deep-set eyes in a long, vague, preoccupied face.
Owen by this time had opened the heavy outer doors of the museum and stepped into a large porch. Here he found another damp sheet of paper lying on the floor which,
when he held it towards the light, proved to bear the message:
when he held it towards the light, proved to bear the message:
LEAVE THIS TOWN, OWEN HUGHES, WE DON'T WANT YOU
Without a word he folded it small and thrust it into his jacket pocket. Arabis and her father, who came up at this moment, had noticed nothing. Owen pulled on a bell-rope, which hung by the locked inner door, and they all waited, shivering in the damp darkness.
Owen's qualm was growing inside him faster than a thundercloud. How would his grandfather receive the visitors?
He was to discover soon enough.
The inner door flew open as if it had been jerked by a wire. His grandfather stood just inside, peering angrily out into the gloom.
“Is that you, boy?” he said sharply. “You are over an hour late from school. What kept you, pray? You knew that I particularly required you to be on time today. I will not have such unpunctualityâI have told you before!”
“IâI am sorry,” Owen stammered, “but, you seeâ'
“Call me sir, or Grandfather! Well! What explanation have you to offer? I suppose you have been idling and playing and wasting time with your classmates.”
Captain Owen Hughesâor Mr. Hughes, as he preferred to be called, saying there was no sense in using bygone titlesâwas a smallish, spare, dried-up old gentleman with pepper-and-salt grey hair, worn in a short peruke and tied with a black velvet bow. He had on a jacket and pantaloons
of grey alpaca, exceedingly neat, but shabby. His linen, however, was white as frost, and the buckles on his old-fashioned shoes and his eyes behind his rimless pincenez were needle-bright.
of grey alpaca, exceedingly neat, but shabby. His linen, however, was white as frost, and the buckles on his old-fashioned shoes and his eyes behind his rimless pincenez were needle-bright.
“Sir, I m-met the kind friends who carried me all the way to Gloucester last summer. I have brought them to see youâ” Owen began again.
“Friends!”
exclaimed his grandfather harshly. “I thought you said they were a travelling tinker, or bonesetter, and his gypsy daughter? How can such lower-deck sort of folk be friends?”
exclaimed his grandfather harshly. “I thought you said they were a travelling tinker, or bonesetter, and his gypsy daughter? How can such lower-deck sort of folk be friends?”
“Grandfatherâplease!” Owen was in agony. “You must not speak of them so! Here they are, Mr. Dando and Arabisâ'
“Tush, boy, I have no time for them now, or ever. I have an important appointment at the inn and must delay no longer. But I can tell you this: when I return you shall be punished for your tardinessâsoundly punished.” He shook himself impatiently into a frieze greatcoat and picked up a shovel-hat and cane, muttering, “Arabis, forsooth! What kind of an unchristian name is that?”
“But sir, they are here now, in the porch!”
“Then they will just have to take themselves off againâI've no intention of receiving them.” Mr. Hughes cast an angry glance at the cloaked figures of Mr. Dando and Arabis standing quietly in the shadows. “Bustle along nowâmake haste, pray!” he snapped at them. “I must go out, and I've no wish to leave the museum while there are strangers loitering outside it. Let me see you take your cart out of the yard, if you please!”
“Certainly, sir,” Tom Dando replied with dignity. “We
have not the least wish to remain where our presence causes inconvenience.”
have not the least wish to remain where our presence causes inconvenience.”
Owen, half choked with grief and indignation, could say nothing. He stood speechless while Arabis turned the horse and led him out of the gate. Her father climbed back to his perch on the box. Then, realizing that unless he moved they would depart without another word, Owen flew after them and caught Arabis by the hand.
“Arabis, I am sorry, oh, I am sorry!”
Her grave face broke into the smile with the three-cornered dimple.
“Proper old tartar your granda, isn't he?” she whispered. “Poor Owen, there's sorry I am that we came to bring trouble on you. Never mind, boy, we'll take ourselves off quick.”
“I wish I were going with you. I hate him!”
“There's silly! When he's giving you a home, and a fine education too? You make the most of it, boy!”
“But when shall I see you and Mr. Dando again?” he said forlornly.
“Does he ever let you out for a bit of pleasuring? We'll be stopping over by Devil's Leap for a week while the fair lastsâit's only half a day's ride. Would he let you go?”
“Not while I'm in such disgrace, for sure.”
“Welladay!” she said laughing.
“Owen!” called his grandfather. “Come here directly!”
“Never mind,” Arabis whispered. “We're sure to meet again.” She gave his hand a hurried squeeze and jumped nimbly back into the wagon as it rolled away.
Dumb with suppressed feeling, Owen moved back towards his grandfather.
“Now sir, what have you to say for yourself?” barked Mr. Hughes. “Rogues and gypsies off the road, indeed! Never let such a thing occur again, I beg! And
now
, just
now
, too, when we are housing such a treasure in the museum. Thoughtless, reckless lad! I trust you did not speak of the Harp of Teirtu while you were hobnobbing with that shady pair?”
now
, just
now
, too, when we are housing such a treasure in the museum. Thoughtless, reckless lad! I trust you did not speak of the Harp of Teirtu while you were hobnobbing with that shady pair?”
“Iâyes, I did, Grandfather.”
Mr. Hughes raised his hands to heaven. “May all the saints give me patience! Why was I ever saddled with such a millstone round my neck? And now I must go off to see his grace and leave youâ
you
âalone in charge of the harp! I've a good mind to take it with me, inclement though the weather be. But no,” he added, half to himself, “in the circumstances that would hardly be wise, until it is certain how matters stand. However, let me be sure that all doors and windows are double-locked, barred, and chained. I have enough to contend with, dear knows, in this town of cockatrices, without risking the loss of my good name. Boy! follow me.”
you
âalone in charge of the harp! I've a good mind to take it with me, inclement though the weather be. But no,” he added, half to himself, “in the circumstances that would hardly be wise, until it is certain how matters stand. However, let me be sure that all doors and windows are double-locked, barred, and chained. I have enough to contend with, dear knows, in this town of cockatrices, without risking the loss of my good name. Boy! follow me.”
In sullen silence Owen accompanied his grandfather as they made the rounds of the windows and the front and back doors. All were securely fastened.
“Very well,” Mr. Hughes said at last. “Nowâwhile I am gone, unbar to no oneâ
no one
at all, do you understand me, boy? No respectable person should be abroad at this hour, in any case. If there should be a knock, open the slot in the outer door, ask the business of whomever it be, and tell them to return in the morning. Do you understand?”
no one
at all, do you understand me, boy? No respectable person should be abroad at this hour, in any case. If there should be a knock, open the slot in the outer door, ask the business of whomever it be, and tell them to return in the morning. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And don't show me that sulky face! While I am gone you may occupy yourself usefully by dusting the glass cases and polishing the Roman, Saxon, and Danish weapons. You will find your supper in a bowl. Do not neglect to stoke the brazier. There will be no occasion for you to enter the libraryâI do not wish to come back and find you with your nose in a book and no work done! Do not retire to bed until I returnâI shall not be late.”
“No, sir.”
“No, sir, yes, sir!” snapped his grandfather. “I would wish to have less of your yes, sir, and a more obliging, open manner and honest will to please. But it is no matter. We cannot, I suppose, fabricate a silk purse out of a sow's ear.âI will take my departure, then. Let me hear you make fast the front door behind me. I have the key of the rear.”
He stepped out into the night and Owen shot home the heavy bolts.
When his grandfather's brisk footsteps had died away across the yard, Owen picked up a feather duster and began listlessly passing it over the glass cases which held Roman pottery, geological specimens, birds' eggs, and old coins. These, with a stuffed sheep, a crossbow, and some iron tools, use unknown but probably instruments of torture, occupied the two main rooms. The library, a smaller room, shelved from floor to ceiling, housed volumes of sermons and reference books. A sign on its door said: “Sleepers' Tickets 5/â. Not transferable. No sleeping in the Library without a Ticket.”
At the rear of the museum a series of small offices had been adapted by Owen's grandfather, with the minimum of alteration, to serve as kitchen, washroom, and broom
closet. Owen slept in the broom closet, his grandfather in the main hall on a truckle bed, erected at night beside the helmet of Owen Glendower, which, up till now, had been their most valuable exhibit.
closet. Owen slept in the broom closet, his grandfather in the main hall on a truckle bed, erected at night beside the helmet of Owen Glendower, which, up till now, had been their most valuable exhibit.
The place was bleak and cheerless enough, its sole source of warmth being the small charcoal brazier which served Owen and his grandfather as a cooking-stove. Some rush dips gave a flickering uncertain light and threw odd-shaped shadows.
In general Owen did not object to being left alone at night in the museumâhis grandfather's occasional absences on town business gave him indeed a welcome sense of freedomâbut this evening he felt a strange anxiety and uneasiness. He tried to tell himself that this was merely because of the encounter with Hwfa's gang, or the second unhappy parting from Arabis and her father. But there was something more to it than that.
Taking a rush dip he once again made the rounds of all doors and windows listening at each. But there was nothing to be heard save the moaning of the gale outside, as it swept over the bare grassy mountain and licked round the corners of the museum. The wind itself did not penetrate, but the stout little building quivered with each new blast, so that the air inside was agiatated and the candle flames were never steady.
Having satisfied himself that all was secure, Owen wandered back to the kitchen, where his supper, a bowl of flummeryâcold, sour, jellied oatmealâwas set out for him. He had no appetite for it, and covered it with a dish, to wait for breakfast. His heart ached at the thought of Arabis and her father, out on the windy mountainside.
Would Galahad still be plodding on his way towards Devil's Leap, or would they have decided to stop and camp somewhere for the night? He imagined them, snug by their stove, Galahad, good easy horse, turned out to grass, a blanket which Arabis had embroidered with his name, Gwalchafed, strapped round his barrel sides. Tom and Arabis would be telling storiesâsince it was one of Tom's talking daysâor playing verse games, swapping rhymes. Or they would be singing together, treble and tenor, accompanied by Arabis on the crwth, hymns, probably, for Tom dearly loved a good hymn. Many a time had Owen heard him booming out the strains of “Llanfair,” or “Hyfrydol,” or some other favourite, conducting himself so vigorously that he swayed about like a tree in a hurricane, and seemed likely to lift himself clean off the ground.
Would Galahad still be plodding on his way towards Devil's Leap, or would they have decided to stop and camp somewhere for the night? He imagined them, snug by their stove, Galahad, good easy horse, turned out to grass, a blanket which Arabis had embroidered with his name, Gwalchafed, strapped round his barrel sides. Tom and Arabis would be telling storiesâsince it was one of Tom's talking daysâor playing verse games, swapping rhymes. Or they would be singing together, treble and tenor, accompanied by Arabis on the crwth, hymns, probably, for Tom dearly loved a good hymn. Many a time had Owen heard him booming out the strains of “Llanfair,” or “Hyfrydol,” or some other favourite, conducting himself so vigorously that he swayed about like a tree in a hurricane, and seemed likely to lift himself clean off the ground.
Plucking his thoughts away from this picture, which presented such a contrast to the chill, silent museum, Owen busied himself with stoking the brazier and polishing the weapons. But his thoughts would not be checked; they raced away from him like a pack of hounds, and their cry was that he would be happier anywhere else, working as a clerk, as a labourer, in the fields, in the mines, anywhere rather than this cheerless place, where he was barely tolerated by his grandfather, and treated as an interloper by the boys of Pennygaff.
Suddenly, almost without being aware of it, Owen found that he had come to a decision.
He would stay here no longer; he would go to Port Malyn and try to find employment on a ship.
He would have liked, above everything else in the world, to join Arabis and her father in their roving life, but
he was much too proud to run after them begging to be taken up. What could he offer them? Nothing. Of what use was he? None at all. He was unhandy, short-sighted, timid, and the only subject on which he could claim to be well-informed was navigation, since he had been born and brought up on His Majesty's sloop
Thrush.
he was much too proud to run after them begging to be taken up. What could he offer them? Nothing. Of what use was he? None at all. He was unhandy, short-sighted, timid, and the only subject on which he could claim to be well-informed was navigation, since he had been born and brought up on His Majesty's sloop
Thrush.
No, a ship was the only answer.
With neat dispatch, he packed his possessions in a bundle: two new shirts, some hose, a comb, a lock of his dead mother's hair, and his greatest treasure, a little book which had been given him by his father. It was called
Arithmetic, Grammar, Botany & c; these Pleafing Sciences made Familiar to the Capacities of Youth.
His other treasure, a compass, always hung round his neck on a cord.
Arithmetic, Grammar, Botany & c; these Pleafing Sciences made Familiar to the Capacities of Youth.
His other treasure, a compass, always hung round his neck on a cord.
It would be needful to leave a note for his grandfather: no easy task. Owen wasted five or six sheets of paper in false starts before achieving a message that satisfied him.
Dear Grandfather:
I feel I do not truely belong here & can only add to your Troubles. So I fhall not give you the Burden of my Prefence any longer, but fhall try to find Employment on a fhip fo as to follow my Father's Calling. I am forry to be obliged to carry fome of your Property with me [he meant the shirts] but will fend Money to Repay as foon as I am in a Pofition to do fo. That you may long continue to enjoy the blefsings of Health is my Sincere With. Pray reft afsured that I am very Senfible of the many Kindnefses you have fhewn me & though I feel I am undeferving of them I am & fhall always Remain
Your moft dutiful Grandfon
Now, where to leave the note so that his grandfather would be sure to discover it in due course, but not too soon? After some consideration Owen decided to put it under the Harp of Teirtu; his grandfather's first act in the morning was always to lift the cover off this treasure, but on his return late at night he was unlikely to do more than glance in and make sure that it was still in its place.
At this moment Owen was startled by a single loud bang on the front door. His heart shot into his mouth. Could Hwfa and the others, discovering that Mr. Hughes (whom the town boys disliked but held in considerable respect) was from home, have agreed that this would be a good time to raid the museum? Or could Arabis and her father have returned? No, sadly Owen dismissed that idea. Full of apprehension for his trust, he made his way to the porch, opened the peephole in the outer door, and looked out.
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