Читать книгу: «The Moon of Gomrath»

PLUMBING THE DEPTHS

Speculation has been aroused by the discovery of what appears to be a thirty-foot well, during excavations in front of the Trafford Arms Hotel, Alderley Edge.

While workmen employed by Isaac Massey and Sons were digging to trace a surface water drain they moved a stone flag and discovered a cavity. The lowering of a weighted string showed that the depth was thirty feet, with fifteen feet of water. The well was in no way connected with the drain, and although the whole of the covering was not removed it was estimated that the cavity was about six feet square with stone walls covered with slabs of stone.

It has been suggested that at one time there was a pump in front of the hotel and that excavations have revealed the well from which water was pumped.

Another theory is that it may probably be an air shaft connected with the ancient mines, which extend for a considerable distance in the direction of the village.

“The funny thing is,” said Gowther when the children had finished reading, “as long as I con remember it’s always been said there’s a tunnel from the copper mines comes out in the cellars of the Trafford. And now theer’s this. I wonder what the answer is.”

“I dunner see as it matters,” said Bess Mossock. “Yon’s nobbut a wet hole, choose how you look at it. And it con stay theer, for me.”

Gowther laughed. “Nay, lass, wheer’s your curiosity?”

“When you’re my age,” said Bess, “and getting as fat as Pig Ellen, theer’s other things to bother your head with, besides holes with water in them.

“Now come on, let’s be having you. I’ve my shopping to do, and you’ve not finished yet, either.”

“Could we have a look at the hole before we start?” said Susan.

“That’s what I was going to suggest,” said Gowther. “It’s only round the corner. It wunner take but a couple of minutes.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” said Bess. “I hope you enjoy yourselves. But dunner take all day, will you?”

They went out from the chip shop into the village street. Among all the parked cars, the Mossocks’ green cart, with their white horse, Prince, between the shafts, stood thirty years behind its surroundings. And the Mossocks were the same. Bess, in her full coat, and round, brimmed hat held with a pin, and Gowther, in his waistcoat and breeches – they had seen no reason to change the way of life that suited them. Once a week they rode down from Highmost Redmanhey, their farm on the southern slope of the Edge, to deliver eggs, poultry, and vegetables to customers in Alderley village. When Colin and Susan had first come to stay at Highmost Redmanhey everything had seemed very strange, but they had quickly settled into the Mossocks’ pattern.

Gowther and the children walked at Prince’s head for the short distance up the street to the De Trafford Arms, a public house built to Victorian ideas of beauty in half-timbered gothic.

A trench about three feet deep had been dug along the front of the building, close against the wall. Gowther mounted the pile of earth and clay that stood beside it, and looked down into the trench.

“Ay, this is it.”

Colin and Susan stepped up to join him.

The corner of a stone slab was sticking out of the trench wall a little way above the floor. A piece of the slab had broken off, making a hole three inches wide: that was all. Susan took a pebble, and dropped it through the gap. A second later there was a resonant ‘plunk’ as it hit water.

“It dunner tell you much, does it?” said Gowther. “Con you see owt?”

Susan had jumped into the trench, and was squinting through the hole.

“It’s – a round – shaft. There seems to be something like a pipe sticking into it. I can’t see any more.”

“Happen it’s nobbut a well,” said Gowther. “Pity: I’ve always liked to think theer’s summat in the owd tale.”

They went back to the cart, and when Bess had done her shopping they continued on their round of deliveries. It was late afternoon before all was finished.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting to walk home through the wood again,” said Gowther.

“Yes, please,” said Colin.

“Ay, well, I think you’d do best to leave it alone, myself,” said Gowther. “But if you’re set on going, you mun go – though I doubt you’ll find much. And think on you come straight home; it’ll be dark in an hour, and them woods are treacherous at neet. You could be down a mine hole as soon as wink.”

Colin and Susan walked along the foot of the Edge. Every week they did this, while Bess and Gowther rode home in the cart, and any free time they had was also spent wandering on this hill, searching—

For a quarter of a mile, safe suburban gardens bounded the road, then fields began to show, and soon they were clear of the village. On their right the vertical north face of the Edge rose over them straight from the footpath, beeches poised above the road, and the crest harsh with pine and rock.

They left the road, and for a long time they climbed in silence, deep into the wood. Then Susan spoke:

“But what do you think’s the matter? Why can’t we find Cadellin now?”

“Oh, don’t start that again,” said Colin. “We never did know how to open the iron gates, or the Holywell entrance, so we’re not likely to be able to find him.”

“Yes, but why shouldn’t he want to see us? I could understand it before, when he knew it wasn’t safe to come here, but not now. What is there to be scared of now that the Morrigan’s out of the way?”

“That’s it,” said Colin. “Is she?”

“But she must be,” said Susan. “Gowther says her house is empty, and it’s the talk of the village.”

“But whether she’s alive or not, she still wouldn’t be at the house,” said Colin. “I’ve been thinking about it: the only other time Cadellin did this to us was when he thought she was around. He’s either got tired of us, or there’s trouble. Why else would it always be like this?”

They had reached the Holywell. It lay at the foot of a cliff in one of the many valleys of the Edge. It was a shallow, oblong, stone trough, into which water dripped from the rock. Beside it was a smaller, fan-shaped basin, and above it a crack in the rock face, and that, the children knew, was the second gate of Fundindelve. But now, as for weeks past, their calling was not answered.

How Colin and Susan were first drawn into the world of Magic that lies as near and unknown to us as the back of a shadow is not part of this story. But having once experienced the friendship of Cadellin Silverbrow, they were deeply hurt now that he seemed to have abandoned them without reason or warning. Almost they wished that they had never discovered enchantment: they found it unbearable that the woods for them should be empty of anything but loveliness, that the boulder that hid the iron gates should remain a boulder, that the cliff above the Holywell should be just a cliff.

“Come on,” said Colin. “Staring won’t open it. And if we don’t hurry, we shan’t be home before dark, and you know how Bess likes to fuss.”

They climbed out of the valley on to the top of the Edge. It was dusk: branches stood against the sky, and twilight ran in the grass, and gathered black in the chasms and tunnel eyes of the old mines which scarred the woodland with their spoil of sand and rock. There was the sound of wind, though the trees did not move.

“But Cadellin would have told us if we couldn’t—”

“Wait a minute!” said Colin. “What’s down there? Can you see?”

They were walking along the side of a quarry. It had not been worked for many years, and its floor was covered with grass, so that only its bare walls made it different from the other valleys of the Edge. But their sheerness gave the place a primitive atmosphere, a seclusion that was both brooding and peaceful. Here night was gathering very quickly.

“Where?” said Susan.

“At the other end of the quarry: a bit to the left of that tree.”

“No—”

“There it goes! Sue! What is it?”

The hollows of the valley were in darkness, and a patch of the darkness was moving, blacker than the rest. It flowed across the grass, shapeless, flat, changing in size, and up the cliff face. Somewhere near the middle, if there was a middle, were two red points of light. It slipped over the edge of the quarry, and was absorbed into the bracken.

“Did you see it?” said Colin.

“Yes: if there was anything there. It may just have – been the light.”

“Do you think it was?”

“No.”

CHAPTER 3
ATLENDOR

They hurried now. Whether the change was in themselves or in the wood, Colin and Susan felt it. The Edge had suddenly become, not quite malevolent, but alien, unsafe. And they longed to be clear of the trees: for either the light, or nerves, or both, seemed to be playing still further tricks on them. They kept imagining that there was white movement among the tree tops – nothing clear, but suggested, and elusive.

“Do you think there was anything in the quarry?” said Susan.

“I don’t know. And, anyway, what? I think it must have been the light – don’t you?”

But before Susan could answer, there was a hissing in the air, and the children leapt aside as sand spurted between them at their feet: then they saw that there was an arrow, small and white, imbedded in the path, and as they stared, an impassive voice spoke out of the dusk above their heads.

“Move not a sinew of your sinews, nor a vein of your veins, nor a hair of your heads, or I shall send down of slender oaken darts enough to sew you to the earth.”

Instinctively Colin and Susan looked up. Before them a very old silver birch threw its trunk in an arch across the path, and among the branches stood a slight figure, man-like, yet not four feet high. He wore a white tunic, and his skin was wind-brown. The locks of his hair lay close to his head like tongues of silver fire: and his eyes – were the eyes of a goat. They held a light that was mirrored from nothing in the wood, and in his hand was a deeply-curved bow.

At first, Colin and Susan stood, unable to speak, then the tension of the last few minutes broke in Colin.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he shouted. “You nearly hit us with that thing!”

“Oh, the Donas! Oh, the holy Mothan! It is himself that can speak to elves!”

Colin and Susan started at the sound of this rich voice that welled with laughter. They turned, and saw another small, but stockier, figure standing on the path behind them, his red hair glowing darkly in the last light. They had rarely seen such an ugly face. It was big-lipped, gap-toothed, warted, potato-nosed, shaggily thatched and bearded, the skin tanned like brambles at New Year. The left eye was covered with a black patch, but the right eye had the life of two in it. He was unmistakably a dwarf. He came forward and clapped Colin on the shoulder, and Colin rocked under the blow.

“And it is I, Uthecar Hornskin, that love you for it! Hey now! Will his mightiness come down out of yon tree and speak with his friends?” The white figure in the tree did not move: he seemed not to hear what was said. “I am thinking there is more need of elf-shot in other parts of the wood this night than here! I see Albanac coming, and he in no quiet mood!”

The dwarf looked down the path beyond Colin and Susan. They could not see far in the dark, but they heard the faint sound of hoofs pounding towards them. Nearer and louder they grew, and then out of the night came a black horse, wild-eyed and sweating, and halted in a spray of sand. Its rider, a tall man, himself clothed in black, called up into the tree. “My lord Atlendor! We have found it, but it is free of the wood to the south, and moving too fast for me. Ermid son of Erbin, Riogan son of Moren, and Anwas the Winged, with half their cantrefs, have it in sight, but they are not enough. Hurry!” His straight hair hung black upon his shoulders, gold glinted at his ear, and his eyes were like burning ice. A deep-crowned, wide-brimmed hat was on his head, and about his shoulders was a cloak fastened with a silver buckle.

“I go. Albanac shall teach my will to these folk.” The elf ran lightly along the birch trunk and disappeared into the crown. There was a rush of white in the surrounding trees, like swirling snow, and a noise like wind in the branches.

For some time nobody spoke. The dwarf gave the impression that he was enjoying the situation and was happy to let others make the next move; the man called Albanac looked at the children; and Colin and Susan were recovering from their surprise, and taking in the fact that they were back in the world of Magic – by accident, it seemed; and now that they were back, they remembered that this was a world of deep shadows as well as of enchantment.

They had been walking into it ever since they reached the quarry. If they could have recognised this atmosphere for what it was, the successive shocks of elf, dwarf, and rider would not have been so breathless.

“I think now,” said Albanac, “that the matter is out of Cadellin’s hands.”

“What do you mean?” said Colin. “And what’s all this about?”

“As for what I mean, that will take some telling, and what it is about is the same thing. And the place for it all is Fundindelve, so let us go together.”

“Is there not more urgent business in the wood this night?” said Uthecar.

“Nothing that we can do,” said Albanac. “The speed and the eyes of elves are the only hope, and I fear they will not be enough.”

He dismounted from his horse, and walked with the children and the dwarf back along the path. But after a little while, Susan noticed that they were not making for the Holywell.

“Wouldn’t it be quicker that way?” she said, pointing to their left.

“It would be,” said Albanac, “but this way the path is broader, which is a good thing this night.”

They came to a wide expanse of stone and sand which spilled down the face of the Edge. This was Stormy Point, a place of fine views in daylight, but now it was friendless. From here they crossed over the rocks to Saddlebole, which was a spur of the hill jutting into the plain, and half-way along this stood a tall boulder.

“Will you open the gates, Susan?” said Albanac.

“But I can’t,” said Susan. “I’ve tried often enough.”

“Colin,” said Albanac, “will you put your right hand to the rock, and say the word ‘Emalagra’?”

“What, like this?”

“Yes.”

“Emalagra?”

“Again.”

“Emalagra! Emalagra!”

Nothing happened. Colin stood back, looking foolish.

“Now Susan,” said Albanac.

Susan stepped up to the boulder, and put her right hand against it.

“Emalagra. See? It’s no good. I’ve tried every—”

A crack appeared in the rock; it grew wider, revealing a pair of iron gates, and beyond these a tunnel lit by a blue light.

CHAPTER 4
THE BROLLACHAN

“Will you open the gates?” said Albanac.

Susan stretched out her hand, and touched the iron gates. They swung open.

“Quickly now,” said Uthecar. “It is a healthier night within than without.”

He hurried the children through the gates, and the rock closed after them the moment they were all inside.

“Why did they open? They wouldn’t before,” said Susan.

“Because you spoke the word, and for another reason that we shall talk about,” said Albanac.

They went with Albanac down the paths of Fundindelve. Tunnel entered cave, and cave gave way to tunnel: caves, and tunnels, each different and the same: there seemed to be no end.

As they went deeper the blue light grew pale and strong, and by this the children knew that they were nearing the Cave of the Sleepers, for whose sake the old dwarf-mine of Fundindelve had been charged with the greatest magic of an age, and its guardian was Cadellin Silverbrow. Here in this cave, waiting through the centuries for the day when Cadellin should rouse him from his enchanted sleep to fight the last battle of the world, lay a king, surrounded by his knights, each with his milk-white mare.

The children looked about them, at the cold flames, now white in the core of the magic, flickering over the silver armour, at the horses, and the men, and listened to the muted, echoing murmur of their breathing, the beating of the heart of Fundindelve.

From the Cave of the Sleepers the way led uphill, by more tunnels, by stark, high-arching bridges over unknown depths, along narrow paths in the roofs of caves, across vaulted plains of sand, to the furthest caverns of the mine. And finally they came to a small cave close behind the Holywell that the wizard used for his quarters. In it were a few chairs, a long table, and a bed of skins.

“Where’s Cadellin?” said Susan.

“He will be with the lios-alfar, the elves,” said Albanac. “Many of them are ill of the smoke-sickness: but until he comes, rest you here. There is doubtless much you would know.”

“There certainly is!” said Colin. “Who was that shooting arrows at us?”

“The elf-lord, Atlendor son of Naf: he needs your help.”

“Needs our help?” said Colin. “He went a funny way about getting it!”

“But I never thought elves would be like that!” said Susan.

“No,” said Albanac. “You are both too hasty. Remember, he is under fear at this time. Danger besets him; he is tired, alone – and he is a king. Remember, too, that no elf has a natural love of men; for it is the dirt and ugliness and unclean air that men have worshipped these two hundred years that have driven the lios-alfar to the trackless places and the broken lands. You should see the smoke-sickness in the elves of Talebolion and Sinadon. You should hear it in their lungs. That is what men have done.”

“But how can we help?” said Susan.

“I will show you,” said Albanac. “Cadellin has spoken against this for many days, and he has good reason, but now you are here, and I think we must tell you what is wrong.

“In brief, it is this. There is something hiding in the dead wastes of the Northland, in far Prydein where the last kingdom of the elves has been made. For a long while now the numbers of the lios-alfar have been growing less – not through the smoke-sickness, as is happening in the west, but for some cause that we have not found. Elves vanish. They go without a sign. At first it was by ones and twos, but not long since a whole cantref, the cantref of Grannos, was lost, horses and weapons: not an arrow was seen. Some great wrong is at work, and to find it, and destroy it, Atlendor is bringing his people to him from the south and the west, gathering what magic he can. Susan, will you let him take the Mark of Fohla?”

“What’s that?” said Susan.

“It is the bracelet that Angharad Goldenhand gave to you.”

“This?” said Susan. “I didn’t know it had a name. What good is it to Atlendor?”

“I do not know,” said Albanac. “But any magic may help him – and you have magic there. Did you not open the gates?”

Susan looked at the band of ancient silver that she wore on her wrist. It was all she had brought with her out of the wreckage of their last encounter with this world, and it had been given to her, on a night of danger and enchantment, by Angharad Goldenhand, the Lady of the Lake. Susan did not know the meaning of the heavy letters that were traced in black, in a forgotten script, upon the silver, yet she knew that it was no ordinary bracelet, and she did not wear it lightly.

“Why is it called that?” said Susan.

“There are tales,” said Albanac, “that I have only dimly heard about these things, yet I know that the Marks of Fohla are from the early magic of the world, and this is the first that I have ever seen, and I cannot tell its use. But will you give it to Atlendor?”

“I can’t,” said Susan.

“But the elves may be destroyed for lack of the Mark!” said Albanac. “Will you fail them when they most need help?”

“Of course I’ll help,” said Susan. “It’s just that Angharad told me I must always look after my bracelet, though she didn’t say why: but if Atlendor needs it, I’ll go back with him.”

At this, Uthecar laughed, but Albanac’s face was troubled.

“You have me there,” he said. “Atlendor will not like this. But wait: is he to know? I do not want to burden him with fresh troubles if they can be avoided. Perhaps this would be of no use to Atlendor, but let me take it to him, Susan, so that he can try its powers. If they are deaf to him he will accept your provision more easily.”

“And why should himself not be away beyond Bannawg sooner than the fox to the wood, and the Mark with him?” said Uthecar.

“You do not know the lios-alfar, Hornskin,” said Albanac. “I give you my word that there will be no deceit.”

“Then another word shall go into Cadellin’s ear,” said Uthecar, “lest Atlendor should think black danger merits black deed. None of the lios-alfar will leave Fundindelve if Cadellin bids them stay.”

“No,” said Susan. “I trust you. And I think I trust Atlendor. Here you are: let him see what he can do with it. But please don’t keep it longer than you need.”

“Thank you,” said Albanac. “You will not be sorry.”

“Let us hope so,” said Uthecar. He did not look at all happy. “But from what I have heard of you, I am thinking you are not wise to put off your armour. The Morrigan does not forget, and she goes not forgive.”

“The Morrigan?” said Colin. “Where? Is she after us again?”

Although the children had first crossed this woman in her human shape, they had soon learnt that there was more to her than her ungraciousness. She was the Morrigan, leader of the witch covens called the morthbrood, and above that, she could wake the evil in stones and brew hate from the air, and she was terrible in her strength. But mainly through Colin and Susan her power had been broken by Cadellin Silverbrow, and they had not been certain that she herself had survived the destruction that had overwhelmed her followers.

“The morthbrood is scattered,” said Albanac, “but she has been seen. You had best ask him who brought word of her.” He nodded towards Uthecar. “This honey-natured dwarf from beyond Minith Bannawg in the Northland.”

“Why? Have you seen her?” said Colin.

“Have I not!” said the dwarf. “Are you all wanting to know? Well then, here is the tale.

“On my way south I came to the hill of the Black Fernbrake in Prydein, and a storm followed me. So I was looking for rocks and heather to make a shelter for the night. I saw a round, brown stone, as if it were set apart from other stones, and I put my arms about it to lift it up – and oh, king of the sun and of the moon, and of the bright and fragrant stars! the stone put arms about my neck, and was throttling the life of me!

“Ask not how, for I cannot say, but I plucked myself free; and then the stone was the Morrigan! I sprang at her with my sword, and though she took out my eye, I took off her head, and the Black Fernbrake’s sides called to her screech.

“But the head leapt a hard, round leap to the neck again, and she came at me loathingly, and I was much in fear of her. Three times we fought, and three times I lifted her head, and three times she was whole again, and I was near death with pain and faintness.

“So once more I set iron to her shoulders, but when the head was making for the trunk I put my sword on the neck, and the head played ‘gliong’ on the blade, and sprang up to the skies. Then it began to fall, and I saw that it was aiming at me, so I stepped aside, and it went six feet into the ground with the force it had. Was that not the head! Then I heard stones crunching, and a chewing, and a gnawing, and a gnashing, so I thought it was time for me to take my legs along with me, and I went on through the night and the winnowing and the snow in it.”

They were waiting now for the wizard to come. And while they waited, Uthecar saw to it that talk never flagged.

He told how Albanac had met him one day, and had spoken of a rumour that something had come out of the ground near Fundindelve and was being hunted by Cadellin Silverbrow. Having himself been idle too long, Uthecar had decided to make the journey south from Minith Bannawg in the hope that Cadellin would be glad of his help. He was not disappointed. The matter was greater than he thought—

Long ago, one of the old mischiefs of the world had brought fear to the plain, but it had been caught, and imprisoned in a pit at the foot of the Edge. Centuries later, through the foolishness of men, it had escaped, and was taken at heavy cost. Albanac’s news was that man had loosed the evil a second time.

“And there was no knowing in the hard, shrivelling world,” said Uthecar, “where we might find the Brollachan again.”

The Brollachan. “Now the Brollachan,” said Uthecar, “has eyes and a mouth, and it has no speech, and alas no shape.” It was beyond comprehension. Yet the shadow that rose in Susan’s mind as the dwarf spoke seemed to her to darken the cave.

Shortly after this, Cadellin arrived. His shoulders were bowed, his weight leaning on the staff in his hand. When he saw the children a frown grew in the lines about his eyes.

“Colin? Susan? I am glad to see you; but why are you here? Albanac, why have you gone behind me to do this?”

“It is not quite so, Cadellin,” said Albanac. “But first, what of the lios-alfar?”

“The elves of Dinsel and Talebolion will be slow to heal,” said Cadellin. “These that have come from Sinadon are stronger, but the smoke-sickness is on them, and some I fear are beyond my hand.

“Now tell me what has brought you here.”

He spoke to the children.

“We were – stopped by Atlendor – the elf – and then Uthecar and Albanac came,” said Susan, “and we’ve just heard about the elves.”

“Do you think badly of Atlendor,” said Albanac. “He is hard-pressed. But Susan has given us hope: I have the Mark of Fohla here.”

Cadellin looked at Susan. “I – am glad,” he said. “It is noble, Susan. But is it wise? Oh, you must think I have the destruction of elves at heart! But the Morrigan—”