Peter Dickinson - The Ropemaker

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Asarta

1 - The Forest

2 - The Story

3 - The Gathering

Faheel

4 - The River

5 - The Camp

6 - Ellion’s House

7 - The Pirrim Hills

8 - The Walls of the City

9 - The Grand Trunk Road

10 - The City of Death

11 - The Island

12 - The Palace

13 - The Common Way

Ramdatta

14 - A Bunch of Grapes

15 - The Road North

16 - Lord Kzuva’s Tower

17 - The Forest Edge

18 - Roc Feathers

19 - The Lake

20 - Home

Epilogue

About the Author

By the Same Author

Copyright Page

The Cost of Living

For Robin

Go then, adventurer, on your vivid journey,

Though once again, of course, I cannot join you—

That is as certain as your happy ending.

The one-armed captain in the pirate harbor

Would know me in an instant for a Jonah.

No gnome would ever speak with me for witness,

And so let slip the spell-dissolving answer

Before you’d even heard the sacred riddle.

I, as it happens, know it from my reading,

But the blind queen would ask it in a language

Not in the syllabus of my old college,

But which your loved, illiterate nanny taught you.

No, I will stay at home and keep things going,

Conduct the altercation with the builders,

Hoe the allotment, fix the carburetor.

I’m genuinely happier with such dealings;

It isn’t merely that they pass the seasons

Until I hear your footstep on the threshold.

Then I will sit and listen to your story

With a complacently benign amazement,

Believing it because it’s you that tell it.

And when you’ve done, and I have asked my questions,

I for the umpteenth time on such homecomings

Will say what’s happened to the cost of living.

Asarta

1

The Forest

It had snowed in the night. Tilja knew this before she woke, and waking she remembered how she knew. Some-where between dream and dream a hand had shaken her shoulder and she’d heard Ma’s whisper.

“It’s snowing at last. I must go and sing to the cedars. You’ll have to make the breakfast before you feed the hens.”

Tilja reached up to the shelf beyond the bolster and pulled her folded underclothes in under the quilt, where she spread them along beside her body to warm through. While they did so she lay and listened to the wind hooting in the chimney above her. Anja, beside her, grumbled in her sleep, clutching at her share of the quilt while Tilja wriggled out of her nightshirt and into the underclothes. Then she slid out and hurried into another layer of clothing, tucked Anja snugly in and finished dressing.

The bed was a boxlike structure set right into the immense old fireplace, on one side of the stove. Her parents slept in a larger box on the far side, but that would be empty by now, with Da in the byre seeing to the animals, and Ma on her way to the cedar lake, far into the forest.

Faint light seeped through the shutters, but she didn’t open them, and not just because of the savage wind that was battering against them and shrieking into their cracks. She liked to do these first tasks in the dark, knowing without having to feel around exactly where to put her hand for anything she needed. Woodbourne was her home, and this kitchen was the heart of it, as familiar to her as her own body. She had no more need to see to find things than she had to put her finger to the tip of her nose. Relighting the stove in the dark was a way of starting the day by telling herself that this was so.

First, she opened the firebox and carefully riddled out the old ash, leaving just the last black embers, flecked with sparks. Onto these she spread a double handful of straw and another of dry twigs, then closed the fire door, opened both dampers, and stood leaning against the still-warm stove while she repeated the fire charm three times. Ma never bothered with the fire charm, but Tilja’s grandmother, Meena, had taught it to her so that she would know how long to wait for the twigs to be well alight before she added the coarser kindling. Usually it took four times, but three would be enough with a wind like this to drag the draft up.

A wind like this? And snowing? That wasn’t right.

Once the kindling was in, and had caught, she slid in four logs, sawn and split to fit the stove and dried all summer in an open shed. The flames began to roar into the flues. Now at last she poked a taper in and used it to light the lamp, poured water into a pan and set it to boil, heaved the porridge pot out of the oven where it had been quietly cooking all night in the remaining heat from the old fire, stirred in a little water and set it beside the water pan to warm through.

Next she finished getting up. She rinsed her face and hands, combed and bunched her hair and slipped into her boots, leaving the laces loose, and opened the door into the yard. At once the wind flung a gust of snow into her face, stinging as if it had been a handful of fine gravel. Brando was out of sight, cowering in his kennel from the storm.

This is all wrong, she thought again as she clumped across to the outhouse. The first snow in the Valley should have fallen a month ago, on a still night, huge soft flakes floating steadily down, blanketing yard and roofs and fields a foot deep by morning. These furious flurries weren’t snow. And nothing was really lying. Any flakes that reached the ground were snatched up by the wind and whirled into drifts in the corners of the yard. When a gust hurtled in from another direction it would catch at these and set them streaming away like smoke.

Worse still, checking by touch in the dark of the outhouse, she found that some of the stuff had found its way in through a crack and made a miniature drift across the seat. With freezing fingers she scooped it away, did what she had to and clumped back in a foul temper to the kitchen. She half thought of sending Anja out with a storm lantern to clear the outhouse and block the crack before Da got back, but in the end she did it herself.

By the time he came in she had the porridge hot and the sage tea brewed and the bacon frying, and Anja was up and dressed and clean.

“Stupid sort of snow we’ve got this year,” he muttered. “I hope your mother’s all right.”

“Where’s Ma gone?” said Anja, through porridge.

“She’s gone to the lake to sing to the cedars,” said Tilja. “She’ll be home to cook your dinner.”

But she wasn’t, so Tilja started to do what she could. By noon Da had twice gone up to the forest and as far in among the trees as he dared, the second time foolishly far, so that he came out dazed and unsteady with the strange forest sickness that only affected men. Tilja helped him to his chair and pulled off his boots and put a bowl of hot soup into his hands while he hunched by the fire, shaken by sighs and shudders.

Then they heard Brando’s silly little yap of welcome for someone he knew, so different from his deep bay of warning to a stranger. Anja ran to the door, peered out, turned and shouted, “It’s Tiddykin! Oh, where’s Ma? When’s she coming?”

Tilja rushed out and saw Ma’s pony coming shambling down beside the top meadow. One of her panniers was gone, and the other was dragging and bumping among the snowy tussocks. Tilja was still staring when Da came staggering to the door to look.