Emily Rodda - The Third Door

He woke again to dazzling sunlight, to painful jolting, to the dull crashing of waves, to the jingling of harness, the clopping of hooves and the noise and smells of a city. Then somehow he was in a soft bed, between cool sheets in a dim, quiet room.

Dreamlike days and nights followed—days and nights of slipping in and out of sleep, of slowly ebbing pain, of firm but gentle hands tending him like a baby. Sometimes he dreamed that someone was calling him, but when he woke he could never remember what the voice had said.

Gradually the room became familiar to him. He knew the window opposite where he lay, kept closed and shaded when the sun was strong, opened to let in a tangy sea breeze and a glimpse of sky at other times. He knew the cot behind the screen in the corner where Petronelle dozed at night, and the little stove where she made the broth he drank from a cup with a spout. He knew the armchair by the window where Petronelle often sat sewing or knitting.

And he knew the wooden chair beside his bed. He always turned his head to it first when he stirred. Often it would be empty, but sometimes a golden-skinned woman would be there, smiling at him, the lemony scent of her perfume sweet in the air.

At last, however, there came a day when he woke completely—woke enough to realise he was wearing a clean white nightshirt and that a bandage was bound around his head. Woke enough to notice and examine curiously the little ring of plaited threads that he wore on his finger. Woke enough to wonder how long it had been since he stood on his feet, how long he had been in this room.

The window was open. He could see bright sky outside. He could hear the rattling of carts and the distant cries of seabirds. Petronelle was sitting in her usual armchair. The chair beside him was empty.

‘Where am I?’ he asked aloud.

Petronelle rose without haste, put her sewing aside and came over to the bed.

‘Why, you’re in New Nerra, Keelin,’ she said, laying the back of her hand on his forehead, then pressing her fingers to his wrist to check his pulse. ‘In the best guest bedroom of the chieftain’s lodge.’

He stared at her, bewildered. ‘New Nerra’ struck some sort of chord in his mind, though very faintly. ‘Keelin’ meant something to him too, of course. He had heard Petronelle say the name many times. It was his name, it seemed. But …

‘Keelin,’ he murmured, testing the sound on his tongue.

His nurse shrugged, looking embarrassed. ‘Oh, I know that’s not your real name,’ she said. ‘But I had to call you something, didn’t I? I’ve been boxed up in here with you for five whole days.’

‘Five …’ He felt a stab of pure panic.

Time is short …

He should not be lying here. There was something he had to do. Something vitally important.

‘Now, don’t you fret,’ Petronelle scolded, as he started up on his pillows. ‘You’ll make yourself ill again and undo all my good work! So, what is your name? Can you tell me?’ She put her head on one side, and waited.

He thought. Nothing came to him.

‘No,’ he said bleakly. ‘I cannot remember it. I cannot remember anything! Only running to Zak and the beast …’

A shadow flickered in the old woman’s strange, odd-coloured eyes but her smile remained in place. ‘Never mind,’ she said comfortably. ‘It’ll all come back to you soon enough, and in the meantime you can be Keelin. It means “young dragon”, so it suits you. Brave as a dragon, you were at Fell End, and that’s the truth.’

She pulled the covers back in a bustling way that stopped him saying any more. ‘Now, let’s get you out of bed for a while. That’ll do you good. And I’ll wager you’re hungry as a dragon, too!’

In a few minutes ‘Keelin’ was sitting by an empty fireplace, next to the window he had watched from his bed for so long. The sea breeze was cool on his flushed face, but he was warm in a striped cotton dressing gown, with a light rug over his knees.

A fragrant smell rose from the corner of the room where Petronelle was clattering dishes. In the darkness of the fireplace something chattered and squeaked. Keelin caught a glimpse of a twitching pink nose.

Clink he thought, and was absurdly pleased to have remembered the word.

As he leaned forward in his chair to see the little creature more clearly, something crackled in the pocket of the striped gown.

Curiously he pushed his hand into the pocket and drew out a scrap of paper. It seemed to be a message of some kind. He blinked at it, the angrily scrawled words blurring before his eyes.

8 - Keelin

Fighting down a wave of sickness, the boy whose name for now was Keelin crumpled the threatening note in his fist. Who am I? he thought frantically. What have I done to make someone hate me so much? His head began to swim. He shut his eyes, ordering himself to relax.

And as his mind steadied, he realised with grim amusement that he had learned something new about himself, at least.

He was not used to being hated. Not like this. Not so personally. Otherwise, the loathing in the message would not have shocked him so badly. Whoever he was, he had been used to being liked—even loved.

So he did not need to fear. Deliberately he opened his eyes, smoothed out the paper and read the words again. This time, he took in the points that should have struck him from the beginning.

The writer of the message thought he was only pretending to have lost his memory. The writer knew him. And the writer had been in this room, for how else could the message have been placed in the pocket of the gown?

Keelin’s thoughts ran on, suddenly clear as a bubbling stream.

He had a secret enemy. If he could unmask that enemy, he would get what he most wanted—knowledge of who he was, and, with luck, what he should be doing.

Petronelle turned and began stumping towards him carrying a steaming bowl. Hastily Keelin stuffed the note back into his gown pocket. He did not want her to see it, to exclaim, to make a fuss. He wanted to think about the problem in peace, at least for now.

Murmuring his thanks, he took the bowl of rice porridge sprinkled with dried berries and drizzled with honey.

Petronelle peered at him. ‘You’re looking a bit feverish,’ she said, frowning.

‘I am well,’ he assured her, and took a spoonful of the sweet, gluey porridge to prove it.

Petronelle waited till he had taken another spoonful, then whisked away to pull open the door of the apartment.

Watching from his chair, Keelin was surprised to see that a strapping young man with a scarred face was standing on guard outside the door.

‘Jett, please tell Chieftain Farr that the patient is awake,’ Petronelle said crisply.

The man nodded sullenly and marched away.

Petronelle closed the door again with a slight flounce. She looked round and saw her patient staring, the spoon halfway to his lips.

‘I had to tell, Keelin,’ she said. ‘I swore to Farr that I would.’

‘I did not know this room was guarded,’ said Keelin. ‘Is that to keep me in, or to keep others out?’

The old woman shrugged. ‘A bit of both, I daresay. Eat up!’ She went to his bed and began straightening the covers with sharp, cross little tugs.

Keelin ate a little more porridge. It was very good. The clink in the fireplace chattered and he threw it a scrap of dried fruit.

‘That guard—Jett—did not seem friendly,’ he ventured.

‘He’s not,’ snapped Petronelle. ‘Not to me, in any case. It’s my eyes.’