Eva Ibbotson - The Dragonfly Pool

“We want them to stay.”

“They’re our friends.”

“They haven’t done anything.”

And repeated again and again: “It isn’t fair !”

Only the German children were silent. They had lived for too long in an oppressed country. They knew there was no hope. The small girl with flaxen pigtails was crying. Her friend from Portugal tried to comfort her and was turned away by one of the policemen.

Then Tally saw red. She ran up to the Nazi officer and began to pummel him with her fists. “You can’t do this,” she yelled. “You can’t, you can’t!”

Strong arms pulled her back. “Stop it, Tally,” said Matteo. “Stop it at once.”

Within an hour the tents had been stripped and the German children herded away.

Karil woke in high spirits. For once it was going to work; he was going to have a whole day alone with his father in their favorite place. The Scold had gone to visit a friend — there was nothing in the way. The king, when he came to fetch him, looked more relaxed than he had done for a long time. He carried his hunting bag filled with their picnic, and his collapsible fishing rod.

They made their way out of the palace by the secret door the guards had opened for them and set off along the turf path that led up toward the mountain.

“Look, a lammergeier,” said the king.

Karil, following his pointing arm, saw a tiny speck in the sky.

“How can you tell, so far away?”

“It’s the flight pattern and…” He shrugged. “I had a friend once who could identify birds that I could hardly see with the naked eye. He was uncanny — he could lead you up to a stone in a place he’d never been before and tell you what was underneath it. Almost exactly. It was as though he’d placed the creatures there himself.”

“Like giving you a present,” said Karil.

The king looked at him, startled. “Yes, exactly like that.”

“What happened to him?”

The king shrugged. “He went away, just when I needed him most. People do that with us.”

They walked for a while in silence. Then Karil said, “We’re sort of freaks, aren’t we? I mean because we’re… royal or whatever. It’s not real, being a king or a prince.”

The king turned to him. “Good heavens, Karil! Is that how you feel?”

Karil nodded. “When I wake up in the morning I think, why me? Why did it happened to me, being kept apart? Why didn’t I just get born as an ordinary person? Well, I am ordinary, but nobody realizes that. Why can’t I be like anyone else and belong?”

“There are good things, too,” said his father. “Sometimes we can help. Not often, but when we can…”

They came to a division of the path. The main track led up to the high meadows, to old Maria’s hut and the peaks. The smaller one veered off to the left, toward the hunting ground. This was a green and shady place of great trees and running water, of moss and unexpected pools. Nowadays it was more of a nature reserve. The king had little time for hunting; the dappled deer roamed without fear, and the hares when disturbed sat up and gazed at the intruders before lolloping away.

They passed a wooden lodge, now boarded up, and plunged into the cool greenery of the forest. There was a place here to which the king had come as a boy, a hidden pool known only to the foresters and groundsmen who worked there. He had taken his queen there when she came from England; Karil had taken his first steps on its mossy banks and caught his first trout in its waters. The dragonfly pool was outside time: safe, beautiful, and private.

They had not walked more than a few hundred meters into the forest when they heard the sound of hoofbeats. Turning, they saw a palace messenger riding a black mare and leading a second horse.

The messenger slid to the ground and bowed to the king.

“Your Majesty, there has been a crisis. The prime minister requests your presence most urgently.”

The king frowned. “Not today, Rudi. I’m going into the woods with my son.” And again, firmly, “Not today. Tell von Arkel I’ll deal with the matter tonight.”

The messenger leaned forward and whispered in the king’s ear.

Karil caught a few words. “Troops mustering… urgent telegram from the border station…”

The king’s face changed. All the weariness and strain of the last weeks returned.

“This is serious, Karil. You will understand; I have no choice.” He laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Next Sunday, by God’s grace — next Sunday we will go.”

But the boy pulled away and would not look at him.

“Please, Karil,” said the king. “Please try to understand.”

“All I understand is that you don’t care about me,” muttered Karil. “You care about everybody in the world except me. A few hours can’t matter; there’s always a crisis. Always.”

The king’s voice was suddenly the voice of an old man.

“A few hours can topple a kingdom, Karil.”

“Then let it,” said the boy furiously, and began to walk off between the trees.

The king stood for a moment, looking after him. The weight on his chest was almost more than he could bear.

“You must come back and fetch him, Rudi,” he said to the messenger. “He shouldn’t be out alone.”

And he took the second pair of reins and mounted, and they rode away.

Left alone, Karil walked without any sense of direction. His anger was like cold steel going through his body. He hated his father. All his life the king had put anything and everything before his son. The thought of this day had meant so much to Karil — they had begun really to talk — and then it was over before it began.

“But I don’t care,” he said aloud. “I’m not going to try anymore. I’m going to learn to be completely on my own. People you love just die or ignore you.”

He had cut a switch from a hazel branch and slashed at the undergrowth in a relentless and sullen rage. He wouldn’t make his way to the pool — what was the point? But he would not return home either. Not yet. They could worry about him if they wanted to, but they wouldn’t. What would his father care, busy in useless meetings and conferences that led nowhere?

Without thinking, he had turned away from the forest and come out on the meadows. The sun was very hot, but what did it matter if he got sunstroke? Who would be sorry if he died? Nobody — nobody at all.

He had not gone far when he saw, sitting by the side of the track, a small hunched figure. Coming closer, he made out a girl about his own age. She had light hair cut in a fringe and wore shorts and a blue shirt. Not a local then — probably one of the folk dancers. As he came up to her she lifted her head and he saw that she had been crying.

“Are you all right?” he asked in English.

For a moment she looked at him blankly, and he was about to try another language when she focused on him.

“No,” she said furiously. “No, I’m not all right. How can one be when things like that go on?”

“Like what?”

“The Nazis. Hitler. I’m so tired of Hitler. I’m so terribly tired of him.” She began to cry again. “We were all so happy. I thought we had done it.”

“It’s when you’re happy that God strikes you,” said Karil.

She shook her head angrily. “It’s nothing to do with God. It’s people who spoil things.” She went to wipe her eyes on her sleeve and Karil felt in his pocket for a handkerchief, which he gave her.