Eva Ibbotson - The Dragonfly Pool

It was the shortest speech ever made by a president, but no one forgot it.

“Today sees the start of the new Republic of Bergania. I have agreed to serve as your president, but I do so because of three things: the memory of my friend Johannes who reigned as your king and gave his utmost; the example of his son, Karil, who has had the humility to reject kingship…”

Here Matteo had to pause because the clapping and cheers were deafening, and Karil, who was sitting with his friends, had to stand up and bow.

“And because of the people of Bergania,” he finished, “who toiled and suffered through the years of hardship and occupation and who deserve their turn in the light.”

The party went on all night. The dancing in the square, the fireworks, all the festivities, which had come to an end with the shot that killed Johannes, were unleashed. The next morning most of the visitors slept late, but two people crept out by the back door of the palace and made their way to the dragonfly pool.

It was unchanged in its stillness and its beauty.

“I suppose it all began here,” said Tally.

“Yes. When you said you would be my friend and nobody could stop you.”

“And nobody has,” said Tally. “Nor ever will.” And then: “Will you come back here to live do you think, ever?”

“Perhaps. I would like to work here one day. Not yet — but when I’ve got enough experience, try to set up clinics and hospitals. It’s because you lent me your father after mine died.”

Dr. Hamilton had not been able to keep Tally and Karil out of harm’s way in the holidays after the bombing began. They had insisted on coming back and helping in any way they could. Digging people out of the rubble, carrying stretchers to the ambulances, Karil had seen what the arrival of a doctor could mean to the injured, and when it came to choosing his profession he found that the decision was already made. He was starting at medical school in the autumn.

“But I’d need someone to help me. Someone a bit fierce maybe. The kind of person whose great-grandmother removed the socks of tramps in the London Underground.”

Tally felt no need to answer. She had known from the start that her life and Karil’s were bound up together and now she watched as he felt in his pocket for the pebble he had brought back to his homeland and dropped it into the water. Their reflections, side by side, were still there, steady and unmoving, when the surface was quiet again.

But there was one more ceremony to attend, and they had left it till the day on which they were going home. It took place out of doors, high in the mountains, at the base of the Quartz Needle, where Uncle Fritz had erected a small headstone with an inscription.

Pom-Pom had lived with the government-in-exile throughout the war, and the news that his bride had passed away in Brazil had come as a considerable relief. Uncle Fritz had intended to do what he could to save the ancient line of Outer Mongolian pedestal dogs, but the journey would have been arduous and Pom-Pom, in human terms, was already over a hundred years old. When the little dog died at last (not in Uncle Fritz’s arms but on his feet) it did not seem right that he should lie in a London pet cemetery surrounded by traffic and fumes, and since the mountains of Mongolia were out of reach, Uncle Fritz had brought his ashes back to the high peaks of Bergania and interred them there.

The party from Delderton had not expected a big turnout, but when it got about that the little creature who lay under their soil had freed their prince from a cruel and sadistic bully, a surprising number of people came to pay their respects — and with them came the stonemason and his family, for it had not been easy to inscribe the unusual poem in a foreign language neatly onto the gravestone and he wanted to make sure that all was well. He had been working to a deadline but now, as he removed the cloth that had been covering his handiwork, he knew that he had produced a masterpiece.

When news of Pom-Pom’s death reached Delderton, O’Hanrahan had organized an epitaph competition — and now Karil stepped up to the tombstone and while everyone bowed their heads respectfully, he read out the winning entry.

There had been some doubt about the last line, but when it was put to the vote this was the poem that was judged the best and Kit flushed a modest pink, for the winning entry had been his.

Then from higher up the mountain there came the sound of “The Last Trump” played on Matteo’s sackbut — and realizing that nobody could have had a more fitting send-off, the mourners linked hands and ran down to the buses that were waiting to take them to the station — and home.