Then, out under the gray sky, still palely streaked with early-morning color, he would wander among the heaving, sighing trees, his face stinging with the cold, and pick up pieces of dead wood scattered over the ground. Occasionally he would come upon a whole dead tree, and feeling very woodsmanlike (he only attempted the thinnest ones), he would either pull it down, or hack at it with the little ax. He loved watching them crash noisily to the ground through the other tree branches, but it was even more satisfying to stagger back to the house, to Philippa’s cries of praise, with the trunk on his shoulder and the whole length of it dragging along behind him.
By the light of the Aladdin lamp, he would study at the round wooden table in front of the fire. He had done reasonably well at school in London, but it was due more to the way he could figure out just what the teacher wanted than to actual hard work. He had always been drowsy and inattentive in class, frequently even falling asleep in geometry, his closed eyes hidden by his hand. But here, whether from the invigorating cold air, or the strenuous exercise (something almost completely unknown to him before), his mind was unusually alert. History seemed much more real to him, because now he could more clearly imagine what it must have been like to be alive in other times. Latin, and even math, were easier to concentrate on. And not only did he feel more alert, but for the first time in his life his mind was more concerned with what was actually going on, less apt to drift off into some vague dreamworld.
Lunch was usually eaten standing up in the kitchen, and consisted of a thick and crumbly ham or cheese sandwich and a mug of hot, milky tea. Afterward Danny would deal with any outdoor chores that were left. Frequently there were big pieces of wood to saw up into logs. On some days, after a heavy wind, he would have to gather up brush and twigs scattered over the yard, breaking them up to use for kindling, and prop up the lopsided arbor by the door. This was the time to carry coal up from the rapidly diminishing pile in the cellar, and to fill the lamps and the little kitchen burner with smelly oil. He always did this on the outside table which Lark had first used, but now he covered it carefully with newspaper to keep the spilled oil from seeping into the wood, for both he and Philippa were looking forward to the time when they would be able to eat outside.
Islington had his job too, and he enjoyed it thoroughly. Much of the time he was nowhere to be seen, but then he would suddenly appear, dashing madly past the house or inside it at the heels of a frantic, squealing little mouse or vole. He enjoyed playing games with the poor creatures, and would chase one into a corner and then just sit there, staring at the quivering ball of fur, or bat it violently about with his paws. Sometimes he would eat it, but most often he just trotted upstairs with the body in his mouth and dropped it on Philippa’s bed as a gift, and to show her how useful he was being. It was a rare day that she didn’t find one or more of them sprawled out on her pillow when she opened her eyes in the morning.
When his afternoon chores were over, and his studying for the most part was out of the way, Danny liked to wander across the hill. The tumuli, with their odd aura of magnificent bleakness and elemental, almost supernatural power, drew him frequently; and he would spend many hours there with no idea of how much time was going by. He loved it there on the rare sunny days, when he could see the ocean, and cloud shadows would fly, undulating, over the hills and valleys spread below. He loved it too when it was dark and threatening, when distant trees would toss and sway and the wind keened all around him.
Once, when a storm was approaching, he couldn’t bear to leave, but stood up on one of the mounds and watched as the black clouds and silvery rain swept toward him from the sea. The thunder seemed more passionate here, like the expression of some gargantuan rage, and the rain was a million speeding fingers, brittle and cold, drenching him instantly. Lightning reached out at the villages like palsied hands, but Danny did not move, feeling somehow protected by the mystical power of the tumuli. And the storm passed over him quickly, leaving him strangely breathless, his heart pounding and his spirits surging inside him. Philippa was almost wild when he got home, his clothes plastered to his shivering body. She was as wet as he, for she had been running out into the yard to call him, then dashing back inside at every loud clap of thunder.
Another time, coming back from the tumuli just at nightfall, he noticed a figure standing at the edge of the wood as he emerged from the thicket of pines. He stopped. The person had not heard him, and continued standing there, just watching the house. He was less than four feet tall, and at first Danny thought he was a child. But then he noticed how short his arms and legs were, how large his torso and his head, and how sad and wrinkled his face was in the cold evening light. Danny moved to get a closer look, and the dwarf spun around to face him, his eyes glinting like a cat’s. He looked at Danny for an instant, an odd smile on his heavy face, and then waddled quickly away into the woods behind him. Danny hurried into the house. He did not mention the incident to Philippa.
For the first week or so, Danny wondered about Mr. Bexford, who was still his legal guardian. He had never bothered much with Danny, but that did not mean that he would simply forget about him now. As long as the lawyer knew that Danny was leading a safe and orderly life, as he had done in London, there really wasn’t any reason for him to do anything more than send Danny his check once a year. But it was quite a different thing for a ward simply to dis-appear, and Danny was sure that inevitably Mr. Bexford would learn of it. Though busy and preoccupied, the lawyer was nevertheless very scrupulous and correct, and would probably go to great lengths to find his vanished charge. Would he alert the police? Danny wondered. Would he run a photo in the papers? And once Mr. Bexford did find him, would he take him away from here? Then what would happen to him? Had he committed a crime? Would he be sent to some horrible reform school?
These worries gave a rather insecure quality to Danny’s first days at Blackbriar, but as time went on he began to think about them less and less. The world of London and his old life began to seem far away and unreal, and soon took up very little of his thoughts.
But as this worry faded, another took its place. After those first two days, he had seen Lark very rarely. He had hoped to be seeing her all the time. He wondered if it would have been any different if Philippa had never met or heard about her. True, Lark had to go to school, which was inconvenient (the holidays had ended), and it would have been difficult for him to see her secretly very often; but still, it was usually Philippa who got in the way of their meeting. She would frequently find some chore he had to do, some errand or trip they had to go on that did not include Lark. And Philippa was very cautious about inviting the girl to Blackbriar. “It isn’t fair to subject her to the danger we are in,” she would say. “Her father would
never
forgive me if anything should happen.” But when Danny would retort with, “If you really thought we were in danger, you wouldn’t want to stay here, either,” Philippa would have no answer. Sometimes Danny did visit her when he was supposed to be in the library, and occasionally Philippa would relent and invite her up to the house; but Danny certainly didn’t see her as much as he would have liked.
Of course, he understood what Philippa was trying to do; but this time it was different from the way it had been with Tony Bramble and the others in London—for this time Danny was determined. Over and over again he insisted to himself that he must not let her stop his friendship with Lark. And he could see that Philippa suspected this change. She was always watching him. Frequently he would look up to find her eyes on his face, as though she were trying, by looking closely enough, to see what was going on inside his head.
But she never actually forbade him to see Lark, or really spoke against her, as she had done with the others in London. Danny’s new determination seemed to be forcing her to tread more cautiously; and his knowledge that it was having an effect made his determination all the stronger.
At night, Danny continued to dream.
Not every night, but frequently, dreams more vivid than any he had had in London would wake him in the darkness. Sometimes he would dream of the tumuli, of the strange procession there. But most frequently he dreamed what he began to call his pesthouse dream, in which he tried to push his way through the pale, groping figures in the living room, never quite reaching the open window. No dream was ever repeated exactly, but in one way all were the same: he always awoke to half-heard laughter; laughter so distant, so quickly fading, that he never failed to wonder if it had really been there.
A couple of times a week they drove to town in the afternoon. Philippa shopped for food and supplies, and Danny either explored the twisting cobblestone streets or spent his time in the library, returning books, getting out new ones, and doing research. The old librarian who had once questioned Danny so intensely was not always there; and when he was, he behaved as though Danny were a stranger to him, casting down his eyes and stamping the cards without a word.
Late one afternoon, having grown tired of his Latin translation, Danny found himself wandering aimlessly through the stacks. The dim, labyrinthine passages, lined with faded volumes, seemed mysterious and intriguing to him; and on this day he moved quietly through them, running his hand vaguely along the dusty spines, hardly pausing to read the titles. He had climbed several of the narrow iron staircases, and now rather enjoyed not knowing quite where he was, or how to get back to the reading room. The stacks were kept unlit; anyone wanting to see more clearly could switch on a light at the end of each row, but today Danny preferred to walk in the dark, relishing the slightly uneasy sensation of not being able to see where the passage led, or what was in the next aisle.
Suddenly he stopped. There were voices coming from somewhere quite near him. He felt a shiver of excitement. How perfect it was, to be exploring this eerie place (which of course was really perfectly safe, he told himself), and then to hear a conversation he could secretly listen to. Cautiously he crept toward the voices. The aisle ended at a narrow corridor. In the wall across from him was a door, a little to his left, directly opposite the aisle which ran next to his. The door was slightly open, emitting a thin crack of light. The voices were coming from behind it. He took one step backwards, into deeper shadow, then leaned forward, straining his ears.
“—can’t understand why it seems to bother you so little. It’s a bit more than just inconvenient, after all.”
Danny recognized the librarian’s voice at once. The one time he had spoken to him, Danny remembered with mounting excitement, the man had obviously known something about Blackbriar which he didn’t want to tell. Perhaps there was a chance that he might even say something about it now.
“You have always been an alarmist,” said the other voice. It was a voice with a slight lisp to it, and Danny felt a sudden icy pang in his stomach. The feeling that the stacks were basically a place of safety quickly drained, away. The other person in the room was Lord Harleigh.
Perhaps it is rather unscrupulous of me to eavesdrop on them, Danny thought for an instant; but then he discarded the thought with disgust, as simply an attempt to rationalize his fear.
“Too much of an alarmist, I think,” Lord Harleigh went on. Although his voice was slow, there was a note of annoyance in it. “If we’d bought the house, as I wanted, we wouldn’t be having this little difficulty. But no,
you
were against buying it, and now look what has happened.”
“I’m sorry,” said the librarian. He cleared his throat nervously. “It
is
my fault. But please, don’t hold it against me. I—I thought it was best. I was afraid that if you bought it, you would draw attention to us, that people might begin to suspect the connection we have to the place.”
Lord Harleigh laughed dryly. “As if they didn’t already. Why do you think it was for sale for such a long time? No one around here dares to go near it. It’s only because these people are from far away that they are foolhardy enough to buy the place, let alone remain there for so long.”
There was no longer any doubt in Danny’s mind as to what place they were talking about, or which people they meant. But why “foolhardy,” he wondered. That must mean there really was danger there. . . .
“Well,” said the librarian, “perhaps I am an alarmist. But there is something you don’t know, something I’ve learned from Ivor since you and I met last week. Do you remember that artist, Hovington, the one whom you actually invited to your house when—”
“Yes, yes, I know the man,” said Lord Harleigh irritably.
“I can certainly see that you must have had your—ahem—
motives
for asking him, but it was an unfortunate occurrence nonetheless,” the librarian wheezed, and cleared his throat. “You are aware, I think, that he has a daughter, a child, with whom he lives alone. And who knows what he might have told her about that little visit—”
“He has told her nothing,” Lord Harleigh snapped. “He wouldn’t dare.”
“Nevertheless, the possibility exists. Which in itself would not be alarming, except for the fact that she has been seen with them, at Blackbriar.” He paused, as if to give the statement more impact. “Somehow,” he went on, “she must have become friends with the boy. Now, we don’t know what she knows, we don’t know what
they
know, but together they might have discovered something, and—”
“What of it? Many people know
something
. It is no threat to us.”