Diana Jones - Cart and Cwidder

Then Clennen went on to how Manaliabrid asked Osfameron for help. Osfameron sang, and made Kastri visible. Then he took up his cwidder and journeyed by a way that only he knew, to the borders of the Dark Land. There he played such music that all the dead crowded in multitudes to hear him. Once they were gathered, Osfameron sang and called the soul of the Adon to him. And – this part always gave Moril a delicious shiver – Clennen once more lowered his voice to say: “I shall not sing you the song Osfameron sang then, for fear of calling the dead again.”

Osfameron led the Adon’s soul back and restored it to his body. The Adon arose, defeated Lagan, and reigned as the last King of Dalemark. He was the last king because Manaliabrid’s son, who was to have been king after him, chose instead to go back to his mother’s country. “And since that time,” said Clennen, “there have been no kings in Dalemark. Nor will there be, until the sons of Manaliabrid return.”

Moril gave an entranced sigh. He had hardly the heart, after such a story, to join in Jolly Holanders , and he only managed to sing with an effort. After it he crept away to the other end of the barn to avoid the usual crowd, and sat under the cart, brooding, while Clennen greeted his friends and Dagner failed to explain how he made up songs. If only such things happened nowadays! Moril thought. It seemed such a waste to be descended from the singer Osfameron, who knew the Adon and could call up the dead, and to live such a dull life. The world had gone so ordinary. Compare the Adon, who lived such a splendid life, with the present-day Earl of Hannart, who could think of nothing better to do than to stir up a rebellion, so that he dared not show his face in the South. Or you only had to think of the difference between that Osfameron, Moril brooded, and this one, Osfameron Tanamoril, to see how very plain and ordinary people had become lately. If only –

Here the plain and ordinary life interrupted in the person of Lenina, carrying the chinking hat to the cart. She was followed by the usual kind of murmuring gentleman. “And it must be sixteen years now …” this gentleman was murmuring.

“Seventeen,” Lenina said briskly. “Moril, come out of that dream and count this money.”

Moril unwillingly scrambled out from under the cart. As he did so, Clennen turned his head, and his voice boomed across the barn. “No, I didn’t care for him at all, last time I was in Neathdale.” With his voice came a look that caused the murmuring gentleman to wither away into the crowd. Moril watched him wither, a little puzzled. He seemed to be the twin of the murmuring gentleman in Derent.

The takings were not bad, which pleased Lenina. And Clennen was in good humour because an old friend of his had made him a present of a beefsteak. It was beautifully red and tender and wrapped in leaves to keep it fresh. Clennen stowed it carefully in a locker. He talked jovially of supper as they drove through Crady in the slackening drizzle. Kialan, to Brid’s contempt, was waiting for them under a tree just beyond the town.

“Huh!” said Brid. “Not interested in our shows, isn’t Mr High-and-Mighty! Did you see him, Moril? Drinking in every word!”

“Yes,” said Moril.

While the red steak fizzled over the fire, Brid said mock-innocently to Kialan: “Father told one of the Adon stories at the show. Do you know them at all?”

“Yes. And a dead bore they are too,” said Kialan. “All that magic!”

“You would say that!” said Moril. “I saw—”

“Silence!” said Clennen. “You’re interrupting the steak. Not another word until it’s ready to eat.”

The steak was certainly worthy of respect. Even Kialan had nothing to say against it. They went on again after supper. In his carefree way, Clennen seemed to be quite as anxious as Moril to see the North again. He refused to let Olob choose them a meadow until the sun was nearly down and the sky ahead and to the left was a mass of lilac clouds barred with red.

“Imagine that over the peaks of the North Dales,” he said. “But even in the South, Mark Wood is fine at this time of year. There’s nothing to beat a tall beech in spring. And do you know the Marsh at all, Kialan?”

“A little,” said Kialan.

“If we’d time, I’d take you through it just for the flowers,” said Clennen. “But it’s too far east, more’s the pity. The ducks there make your mouth water.”

“There are rabbits in the South Dales,” Dagner suggested.

“So there are,” said Clennen. “Look the snares out tomorrow.”

By the end of the following day the landscape had begun to change. The rolling grey-green slopes gave way to higher, greener hills, and there were more trees. It was like a foretaste of the North. Moril began to feel pleasantly excited, although he knew that they were only entering the South Dales. Tholian, Earl of the South Dales, was reputed to be a tyrant fiercer even than Henda. It was still a long way to the North. Beyond these green hills lay the Uplands and Mark Wood, before they came to Flennpass and the North at last.

Nevertheless, budding apple trees made a pleasant change from rows of vines. The nights were slightly cooler, and rabbits were plentiful. Every night Dagner went off to set snares round about the camp, and to Moril’s surprise, Kialan made his first helpful gesture and went with Dagner.

“It’s only because he likes killing things,” Brid said. “He’s that type.”

Whatever the reason, Kialan was surprisingly good at catching and skinning rabbits, and Lenina was good at rabbit stew. Since they had wine as well, they fed very well for the next few days. Moril was almost grateful to Kialan. But Brid was not in the least grateful because every time they stopped in a town or village to give a show, Kialan would put on his act of not being interested and announce that he would meet them outside the town. And every time, unfailingly, they would see him among the audience, as interested as anyone there.

“Two-faced hypocrite!” Brid said indignantly. “He’s just trying to make us feel small.”

“That wouldn’t do you any harm,” Lenina said, in her dry way. Brid was more indignant than ever. It was becoming clear that Lenina rather approved of Kialan. Not that she said anything. It was more that she did not say any of the things she might have done. And when Kialan tore his good coat in the wood, Lenina mended it for him with careful neat stitches.

Kialan seemed far more surprised than grateful when Lenina handed him the mended coat. “Oh – thanks,” he said. “You shouldn’t have bothered.” His face was red, and he seemed actually a little scornful of Lenina for doing it.

“Nothing to what I am!” said Brid. “He can go in rags for all I care.”

The day after this they entered the part of the South Dales which was the lordship of Markind. They never gave shows in Markind. Brid’s dislike of Kialan came to a head while Olob was patiently dragging the cart up and down the steep little hills of this lordship. The reason was that Clennen, who never disdained an audience, began to explain to Kialan exactly why he always hurried through Markind without giving a performance.

“I took Lenina from here, you see,” he said. “From the very middle of Markind, out of the Lord’s own hall. Didn’t I, Lenina?”

“You did,” said Lenina. She always looked very noncommittal whenever Clennen told this story.

“She was betrothed to the Lord’s son. What was his name? Pennan – that was it. And a wet young idiot he was too,” Clennen said reminiscently. “I was asked in to sing at the betrothal – I had quite a name, even in those days, and I was a good deal in demand for occasions like that, let me tell you. Well, no sooner did I come into the hall and set eyes on Lenina than I knew she was the woman for me. Wasted on that idiot Fenner. That was his name, wasn’t it, Lenina?”