The blazing low sun had dazzled her, but Lalla seemed taller than she had thought. In the dimness, her hair seemed not white but red, or brown. But it was the same singing island voice which said, “It was only two things I asked you. Would you come again to the Islands, and would you trust Alhammitt?”
Hildy felt the ground shake under the weight of the bull as it trod nearer. It was unfair of Libby Beer to try and frighten her. “What happens if I say no to those questions?” Hildy asked defiantly.
The lady standing in the dimness might have been a little surprised. “Nothing will happen. You will go in peace and live quietly.”
Then Hildy found that it was important to her to answer both questions truthfully. She stood thinking, while the bull twitched its tail and paced heavily in the sunlight. “Yes, I want to come here again,” she said. That was the easy part. “And—and I suppose I do trust Mitt really. I did in the storm. It’s just when I’m angry I notice the difference between us, but I don’t think that’s quite the same. Is it?”
She looked up to Libby Beer for an answer, but there was no one there. The stone room was empty. Shaken, Hildy looked out into the courtyard. That was empty, too.
“Didn’t I answer right, then?” Hildy said. Her lonely voice rang round the room. Since there was no good to be done there, Hildy went out into the warm dazzle of the courtyard and walked over to the open gate. The damp scent of the Islands met her there. The sea hurried to the shingle of the causeway in myriad small ripples, setting the waiting rowing boat nuzzling at the stones.
As Hildy’s feet crunched on the pebbles, Riss stood up in the rowing boat and smiled warmly. “Will you thrust on the boat and climb in, little one? We will be stirring to your ship.”
Beyond Riss, Wind’s Road was moored in the deeper water between the mainland and the causeway. Hildy could see her swinging gently in the tide. She smiled at Riss delightedly.
“I think,” she said, as she kicked off her shoes on the shingle and tied a knot in one side of her Island dress to keep it out of the way, “I think I’ve just been talking to Libby Beer.”
“That is not the name we use here,” Riss said. “She is called She Who Raised the Islands.”
19
Al slung Mitt into a room which was probably a storeroom and left him there while he went to attend to Navis. It was a very small stone room with a skylight too small even for Mitt to squeeze out through. Mitt sat with his hands behind his head, glaring up at it and hating Navis with all his heart. All his troubles went back to Navis. He felt as if instead of kicking a bomb this time, Navis had actually kicked him in the teeth. And Mitt had only been trying to help!
“That’s the last time I ever do anything for that lot!” Mitt said to himself, and fell into a prolonged and fierce daydream about what he would like to do to Navis. He imagined himself as a powerful outlawed revolutionary with several hundred seasoned followers at his back. He imagined himself conquering a town full of terrified lords and ordering them all to surrender. Out they came, with Navis among them, cringing Harchads, quaking Hadds, dozens of Hildys, and several frightened Ynens, all hanging their heads and shuffling, as the men from the North had shuffled through Holand. Mitt had them all killed, but Navis he saved till last for a truly frightful death.
It was most interesting. For years now Mitt had been too busy with other things to do any daydreaming. He found he had been missing something. He did the story over again, with a larger town, and made himself more powerful and even more merciless. He began to see that he really had it in him to become such a revolutionary. He felt considerable respect for himself. He did the story a third tim
e and conquered all South Dalemark, pursuing Navis ruthlessly until at last he caught him.
He was halfway through killing Navis very slowly, with great attention to detail, when Al came back again. Mitt jumped up and backed into the far corner of the small space. Al’s face had its most blank and unpleasant look. Because of what he had been thinking of doing to Navis, Mitt knew rather well how much Al could hurt him if he wanted to.
But Al simply leaned against the door and surveyed Mitt. “You’re a real nuisance to me,” he said, “and I’m going to have to get rid of you quick. How many people know where you are?”
Mitt stared at Al uncertainly. He did not know what Al thought he had done.
“Out with it,” said Al. “Or do I have to knock your head in? Navis knows you were the one with the bomb. Does Hobin know about that? Hobin must’ve given you that gun. I don’t see you pinching one of Hobin’s specials. He’s too careful of them. Does Milda know where you are, too?”
Mitt shook his head and went on staring at Al. Out of the distant past came memories of Al’s voice shouting that the cow had calved, and Al’s square back marching away toward Holand to find work, but he could not bring himself to believe it.
“If you was anyone else,” Al went on bad-temperedly, “I could send you back to Holand with the other two and good riddance! But I’m not having you tell Hobin about me. He’d have it round every gunsmith in the country, and without Harchad to back me I’d never get near a gun again. He’s made it hard enough for me as it is. And all because I happened to drink a bit too much one day and let out to him how I bust up the Free Holanders. He said he was going to Holand to look after you and Milda, but I know he did it just to spite me.” Here Al noticed the way Mitt was staring at him, and laughed at him. “Say hallo to your pa, then, why don’t you?”
“Aren’t you proud of me at all?” Mitt asked him. Al stared at him. “Chip off the old block, and so on?” said Mitt.
At this Al spit on the floor as Mitt remembered him often spitting in the dike. “Proud of you! I’ve got three kids in Neathdale, and the lot of them put together never got in my way like you do. First thing you ever did was get lost and put me under an obligation to Navis. Then you let the bull get at the rent collector. Then you hang round my neck in Holand. Then, when I thought I’d seen the last of you years before, you bob up dressed like a side of bacon and dump a bomb in front of Hadd just when I’d got my sights lined up on him! I don’t know what good you thought that would do. Mind you,” said Al, “I didn’t know who you were then, but if I had known, I’d have said it was Milda’s fault. It looked just like one of her daft ideas.”
Mitt was not much given to blushing, but he felt his face going warm and red at this. “It was my idea. So!” he said. He felt he had to defend Milda to Al. “She’s all right, Milda is. It’s just she’s not too clear about what’s real. You know, always throwing her money about—” Mitt stopped. That was exactly the truth about Milda, and he had always known she was like that. Milda never looked to the future, whether she was buying too many oysters or sending Mitt to be taken by Harchad. The fact was, neither of them had dreamed what it would be like. It was very painful to Mitt, the way Al was laughing about it.
“You don’t have to tell me she’s got no flaming sense!” Al said. “She’d have ruined me if I’d let her. And you’re just the same. Fancy making friends of Hadd’s grandchildren!”
“They’re not my friends!” Mitt said angrily.
“You could have fooled me,” said Al. “Swap jokes on the cabin roof with your enemies, do you? Told them half your life story, didn’t you? And that Hildrida’s no fool. If you say one word more to her, she’s going to add it up with what I said and spoil all the plans I got for her. You finished yourself when you opened your big mouth, you did. You don’t make friends with people like that. You batten on them.”
There were hurrying footsteps outside the storeroom door. Someone shouted, “Al! Al, are you there? Lithar wants you.”
“Coming!” Al shouted back. “I’ll have to leave you to Bence to deal with,” he said to Mitt. “Can’t that gibbering fool manage for five minutes without me?” He banged out of the storeroom, muttering.
The bolts shot home. Mitt slid down into a heap in the corner. After a moment he wrapped his arms round his head, as if that could keep some of his misery off him. But nothing could. The horrible similarity between himself and Al was clearly no accident. Like father, like son. And as Mitt hated Al so vehemently, he hated himself, if possible, even more. He had set out to be a brute like Al, and it had not been his fault if he had failed. Worse still, everything he had thought he was doing it for turned out to be a complete sham. Al had betrayed the Free Holanders, not the other way round. Mitt felt as if his whole mind was falling to pieces, like Canden in his dream. There seemed nothing left of him at all.