Eva Ibbotson - The Dragonfly Pool

“They’re paying homage to the king,” said his wife, and the waitresses nodded and said, “Yes, they are honoring the king.”

But if the decent people of Bergania understood what the procession was about, the Gambettis were horrified.

“It’s an outrage — the noise, the disrespect,” said the baroness, peering out of her bedroom window. “They must be stopped at once. Look at those British savages in the front.” She turned to her husband. “You must do something. Call out the police.”

But Gambetti, who had been getting steadily feebler and more afraid since the king’s death, said he had no instructions to call out the police. “And Stiefelbreich’s in a meeting and mustn’t be disturbed.”

“Well, if you won’t call out the police, I will,” said the baroness, and reached for the phone.

“Listen,” said Matteo. “They’re coming.”

Karil crouched beside him on the bare wooden floor of the boarded-up hunting lodge. Matteo had pried aside a couple of planks and they had crawled inside: it was closer to the entrance of the hunting ground than the pool. Matteo had wrapped the prince in his own jacket and was talking to him quietly, telling him stories about his father as a boy. Karil, fixing his eyes on Matteo’s face, tried to listen, but he was still so deep in shock that he heard only the words, not their meaning. The uniform that Karil had worn had been tied around a stone and dropped into the water; everything was ready.

The music came closer. They could make out the sound of Augusta’s violin as she played a Celtic lament.

Matteo pried open another board and now Karil could see them: a whole hillside of children coming to fetch him away. Tally was near the front; she looked very small down there.

“Are they really coming for me?”

Matteo nodded. “You’ll be safe with them. Just join in and do what they tell you, and you’ll be in our tent in no time. And in the morning we’ll get you away to England.”

It was what Karil had longed for as he looked down at the lighted tents from the palace — to belong to the children that lived in them. Now he wanted nothing in the world except to have his father back.

The procession had reached the meadow. Now they formed a circle with the Deldertonians closest to the gates of the hunting ground and the wooden lodge. Soon Borro would slip in with Karil’s clothes and bring him.

But the farewell for the king had taken on a life of its own. Here on the dancing ground Johannes III had to be honored and now everyone was looking to the children from Delderton, who had brought this ritual into being.

“We absolutely can’t do the Flurry Dance,” whispered Tally. “It isn’t suitable at all.”

But what could they do?

“Someone ought to recite a poem,” said Barney. “Something noble.”

And one and all they looked at Julia.

“You can do it,” said Barney.

“No!” Julia’s voice was anguished. “Not in front of all those people.”

“This isn’t about you,” said Tally. “It’s for the king. Say the piece we did in class, about the hunter coming home from the hill.”

Julia looked around the circle of children waiting in silence.

“Please,” said Tally.

Julia did not fold her hands or step forward. She only lifted her head and began to speak the words that Robert Louis Stevenson had written for a much-loved friend. The poem that began:

No one needed to know English to understand what she said. Julia’s voice did it all.

When she had finished there was complete silence. Then suddenly a tall boy in a tunic and leather boots began to click his fingers. A second boy joined in — and a row of boys formed, resting their arms on each other’s shoulders. Music came now from an accordion and a drum, and now the girls broke ranks and twirled in and out of the men. This was not national dancing now; it was dancing that broke all the barriers. It was dancing for everybody who had ever sorrowed and lost somebody they loved.

“Now,” whispered Tally — and Borro picked up his bundle, ready to run for the gate.

And then everything changed.

They heard the roar of motorcycles coming up the path behind them, and three men in police uniforms dismounted. They were part of the new force recruited in readiness for the takeover.

“What’s going on here, then?” said the tallest. “You’re not supposed to be out.”

“There’s a curfew,” said the second man. “You’re breaking the law.”

The children clustered around. In a babble of languages they explained what they were doing.

“We are honoring the king.”

“We are performing a funeral dance.”

“It is what we do in our country.”

The policemen, if they understood what was being said, took no notice.

“You must stop this nonsense now, at once, and go back to your campsite or you’ll be in serious trouble.”

The tallest of the policemen lifted his billy club. “Let’s get going,” he ordered threateningly.

There was nothing to do but obey. As slowly as they dared, the children began to walk down the hill. But the Deldertonians had not started to move yet; they lingered still near the gate but how long could they hang back? One of the policemen was making his way toward them.

And then suddenly a truly terrible scream came from the front of the procession and everybody stopped. A second scream followed, more dreadful than the first, and two little girls could be seen rolling over and over each other, pounding each other with their fists. A third joined in; they were the smallest and frailest of the dancers, wearing flounced petticoats with ribbons in their hair, but now they fought and clawed and kicked like maniacs.

The scuffle turned into a fight and spread. Two tall youths in crimson sashes attacked each other with the flags they carried. These children, who had lived together in harmony ever since they came, were shouting appalling abuse at each other.

“You’re a garlic-eating peasant!”

“Everybody knows that in your country they cook babies and turn them into soup!”

“You’re nothing but a fascist beast!”

And all the time the fighting got worse — two boys were pounding each other with their fists. Another came up behind a youth and wrestled him to the ground.

“Look out, he’s got a knife,” shouted a girl, her face contorted with fear.

There were cries of “She’s bleeding!” and “Oh help, help — he’s coming for me!”

The policemen abandoned the loitering Deldertonians and ran downhill toward the disturbance. It was only what they had expected — that these unruly foreigners would start attacking each other. They waded into the middle of the fight, taking the youths by the scruff of the neck, pulling the little girls apart.

Musical instruments were tossed aside, the furry horn let out a frightful cry as they stepped on it with their heavy boots. As soon as they had quieted one group of children, a scuffle broke out somewhere else.

No one took any notice of the children left on the meadow at the top. No one saw a boy run into the forest with a bundle of clothes under his arm, or another boy come out and join the dancers.