Authors: Peter Dickinson
He tossed the spoiled peach aside and said, ‘What use is Potok to me, while Restaur Vax is alive in the mountains? Bring him into my hands, and then I will protect you when the city falls.’
At that the Greeks were dismayed and returned to the city and took council. And one said, ‘A summer ago I travelled in the mountains, and
at
the bridge of Avar I traded with a woman who nursed a new-born child, her man being away. She spoke to me pleasantly but told me nothing of herself. There was, however, another woman, old and wandering in her wits, who told me that the first woman was the wife of Restaur Vax, and the child was his son, and that during the wars the woman had hidden in a cave far up the mountain until Restaur Vax had come to claim her as his bride. Now, no doubt, the woman is returned to that cave to hide. Let us therefore ask Selim for a safe conduct through his lines and take our Greek servants, whom we trust, and go and find this cave and seize this child, and then we can make Restaur Vax do our bidding for the child’s safety.’
So they agreed. But there was in this house a servant-woman, a Varinian named Olla, who, mistrusting the Greeks and knowing that they had stolen secretly from the town and returned, lay on the boards above, listening through a crack. And she had a small daughter, not eight years old. Olla took thought about how she should warn Restaur Vax, but the Turks ringed the city close about and she could see no way through for herself. So she took a butter barrel, just large enough for her daughter to curl within, and she made a fastening for the lid so that it could be opened from inside, and since she could not herself write, she taught her daughter what to say, and carried the barrel down to the river by night and set it floating on the current, which carried it away.
But the river was in spate with the snow-melt and the barrel jarred heavily against a boulder, so that the child was stunned and the barrel itself broke and the child was washed away down
the
stream and cast up on a sandbank far from the city.
There she was found by Lash the Golden, who was journeying to join Restaur Vax and fight the Turks once more. He had slept among bushes and woken at sunrise and gone to the river to bathe his face. Finding the child he turned her over and at first thought her drowned, but hoping that perhaps she yet lived, he made a fire and dried her and wrapped her in his coat and rubbed her limbs until she choked and opened her eyes.
Then, not knowing where she was or to whom she spoke, she whispered the lesson which her mother had taught her, saying, ‘I am the daughter of Olla, who is a servant-maid among the Greeks of Potok. My mother has heard her masters planning to seek the cave where the wife of Restaur Vax is in hiding, so that they may take his son and give him to Selim Pasha in exchange for their own safety.’
She closed her eyes and opened them again and said her lesson through, and again a third time, and then she died. At that Lash wept, and carried her to a priest, giving him silver for her burial, and then, going by goat-paths and the paths of the hunter, he hastened all day and all night and came at noon on the second day to the ridge above the Avar, below which lay the cave. There he heard shots, and ran with all speed, and saw men attacking the cave, while one held them at bay from within.
Seeing by their dress that these men were Greeks he lay down and took good aim and shot one man, and a second, and a third, so that the rest turned to flee. Then Lash the Golden drew his sword and fell upon them, cutting them down as they ran.
When
they were all slain or fled away he returned to the cave.
There he found Restaur’s wife and saluted her as the mother of heroes, for it was she who had held the cave until he came, using two guns, with her daughters loading one while she fired the other. He took them to a place of safety and journeyed on to the Old Stones, where he found Restaur Vax speaking strongly with the chieftains who had gathered there. Now, many were reluctant to take weapons once more and fight the Turk. They said, ‘What is Potok to us? It is spring, and we have our fields to sow and our flocks to drive to the high pastures.’ But Lash stood up before them and told them of the child who had carried the message, and they were shamed. For they said in their hearts, ‘If this child, this daughter of Olla, can die thus for Varina, how should not we, who are grown men and chieftains, do as much?’
1
Theodore Vax (1825–1870). Restaur Vax’s poem ‘Prayer for my Son’ (op. cit.) refers to the baby as having been born on the mountain, and baptized in blood, with the smoke of gunpowder for incense.
SEPTEMBER 1990
‘I THINK THAT’S
absolutely horrible,’ said Letta, putting the book down. ‘I mean, she was only eight! She didn’t know what she was doing! She didn’t choose! Her mother stuffed her into this barrel and threw her in the river and it went wrong and she got drowned, only she lived just long enough to give the message. And I bet she didn’t even know she was doing that, or what it meant, or anything. It was just something she had to get rid of before she could die. So they blub over her and think how noble they are and decide to go and fight the Turks after all. They just
used
her! It’s disgusting!’
‘One of the functions of legend is to make the disgusting tolerable,’ said Grandad. ‘There is in fact a poem by my great-grandfather about the daughter of Olla which makes much the same point. It’s called “Patriotism”. In fact it’s a difficult and obscure poem, very gloomy in tone, but I think what he’s saying is that patriotism is like the child’s message, something we don’t understand but we’ve still got to pass on, at whatever cost.’
‘He was using her too.’
‘I suppose so, but in his case . . .’
‘Hold it. That’s the telephone.’
Letta jumped up and ran downstairs. She and Grandad were alone in the house. It was the last day of school holidays. Momma was at work. Poppa was back in Bolivia, and Van was off on his
bike
somewhere up north. In fact he was supposed to have been back for lunch, and Letta was a bit cross with him for not letting her know, as she’d got it all ready, and she and Grandad had waited for him, too, when she’d been really hungry. She guessed the telephone would be him now, saying where he’d got to, all charm. She picked the receiver up, ready to snap, and gave the number.
‘May I speak to Letta Ozlins?’ said a woman’s voice.
‘Ozolins,’ said Letta automatically. ‘That’s me.’
‘I’m afraid I have some bad news for you,’ said the voice. ‘Will you please sit down?’
Letta’s heart gave a desperate thud and her throat went dry. She groped for the chair and sat.
‘All right,’ she managed to say.
‘This is the Royal Hospital,’ said the voice. ‘It’s about your brother Van. Is that his full name?’
‘Yes. Is he all right? What’s happened?’
‘He’s had a serious accident. I don’t know the details, but I understand he was wearing motor cycle gear when he was brought in. His condition is stable. He’s now conscious, and he’s asking to see you.’
‘Me? Has anyone told Momma? My mother?’
‘Your mother?’ said the voice, surprised. ‘We understood . . . Hold on a moment . . . No, it’s Letta, his sister, he’s asking us to get hold of.’
‘He probably didn’t know her work number. I’ll call her, then I’ll come. It’s only five minutes. Which ward?’
‘Nightingale.’
‘All right. Thanks.’
Letta rang off, gave herself a few seconds to calm down, and rang IBM. Momma was in a meeting, said the man who answered. He’d ask her to call
back
. He made it sound like a favour. Letta said no, it was urgent, and told him about Van and the accident. Grumpily the man said he’d see what he could do. Letta sat waiting, watching the secondhand swing round the clock, until Grandad’s head poked round the door.
‘Something bad?’ he said. ‘I heard the tone of your voice.’
‘Van’s had an accident. Serious. He’s in the Royal. He wants to see me. I’m trying to get hold of Momma, but she’s in a meeting.’
‘Yes, that is bad. Shall I wait at the telephone, and you can go now?’
‘Oh. Yes. Thanks. I said I’d be there in five mins and it’s almost that now. Tell her he’s in Nightingale.’
She gave him the receiver, took a carrier-bag from the hook, ran up to Van’s room, snatched up a few things she thought he might need, stuffed them into the bag and ran down. Grandad was still waiting at the telephone. He waved reassuringly to her as she went past.
She reached the hospital in a sweat of hurry, panting and with her heart racing, stood in the main lobby to steady herself and went straight to the ward. The Ward Sister was obviously surprised to see that she was nothing like grown-up.
‘You’re Letta?’ she said. ‘There isn’t another one?’
‘No. We’re trying to get hold of my mother . . .’
‘It’s you he wants. He’s a bit delirious. It’s something about his motor cycle. I’ve got to give you the keys. In my office.’
Letta followed her. The telephone was ringing. The Sister answered it and began to talk about some other patient, but at the same time took a set
of
keys from a drawer and passed them over, then made signs about which way Letta should go to find Van. She walked anxiously up the long ward, peering at beds. He was in the furthest left-hand corner, curtained off. She slipped into the narrow space between the bed and the curtains.
He was lying half-propped on his back, with his eyes closed. There was a tube going in through his nose, but his face seemed undamaged, though it was a horrible grey beneath the tan. His right arm was splinted and strapped across his chest so that he couldn’t move it. There was a drip going into his other arm, and the blankets were supported clear of his body by some sort of framework, so Letta guessed there must be something badly wrong there, too. She touched his hand and he opened his eyes, looked puzzled for a second, saw her and smiled.
‘Hi, Sis,’ he whispered. ‘She gave you the keys?’
Letta held them up.
‘Grandad’s calling Momma at work,’ she said. ‘I’m sure she won’t be long.’
He frowned, then nodded. The tiny movement must have hurt, for he closed his eyes and paused before he spoke.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘I want to keep her out of this. That’s why I asked for you. Listen.’
They were talking in Field, and since no other Varinians lived within twenty miles of Winchester there wasn’t a chance of anyone who overheard them understanding what they were saying, but even so he lowered his voice still further, so that she had to crane to hear.
‘This is complicated,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to get it right first time. Find my bike.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Don’t know. Last thing I knew, I was bombing down the M3. The cops will know. Say you want to get my stuff out of the panniers before it’s stolen. Now, look at the keys. See the one with two notches in the rubber? That’s the ignition. Unlock the panniers with the other one. Take everything out . . . hold it . . .’
Once again he closed his eyes. His lips went taut as a spasm of pain came and died away.
‘Shall I get someone?’ Letta whispered.
His grip closed on her hand. After almost a minute his face relaxed and he let out a sigh.
‘I’m OK,’ he whispered. ‘Right, you’ve taken everything out. Close the panniers and lock them. Now take the
ignition
key – got that? – put it into the locks and turn it twice in the wrong direction. You’ll hear a click. Unlock the panniers again with the other key. They’ve got false bottoms. You’ll find two packets, one yellow, one black. Take them out. Keep them separate if you can. Don’t let anyone see them. Push the false bottoms shut – they’ll latch – and lock the panniers. Take the packets home and hide them somewhere. Separate. They’re quite safe if they’re separate. They’re safe anyway, Sis, but you can be dead sure if they’re separate. Got all that?’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Good girl. Now the next thing is to ring Hector – number’s in my address book in the panniers. Do it from a call box. Chances are our phone’s tapped. Tell him you’re Vivian’s sister. Not Van, Vivian. Don’t say anything about bikes or accidents. He’ll ask you a question. When you answer, if you’ve got the packets OK, get “yellow” into your answer. He’ll make it easy. But if something’s gone wrong, “red”. Got that?’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘No time. He’ll want a number to call you back. He’ll have to get out to a call box, because his line’s going to be tapped too. Have you got a friend you can ask, a neighbour? Think of someone. And when you give him the number subtract six from it. Right?’
‘I suppose so, but . . .’
‘This is for Varina, Sis.’
‘All right.’
‘And you’re going to do this by yourself. You’re not going to tell anyone – anyone at all – what you’re up to?’
Letta looked at him and didn’t speak.
‘Varina, Sis. Varina,’ he whispered.
‘All right.’
‘Promise? Bones of St Joseph?’
‘Promise.’
She saw him relax. His eyes closed but his mouth fell open. His breath came in small sighs. She thought he’d fainted until he spoke again.
‘That’s a load off my mind,’ he whispered. ‘Now you can go and tell that nurse to give me something to stop it hurting. I had to make as if it wasn’t too bad till I’d seen you, or I might have been too dopey to explain.’
Letta found Momma listening to the Ward Sister. Without a word Momma hugged her to her side and went on listening. Van’s life wasn’t in danger, but his right foot was badly crushed and might need to be amputated. That was the worst thing, but his arm was broken in three places too, and his collar-bone, and he’d got several broken ribs, one of which had gone into his lung, so they’d had to drain a lot of blood out of it. Letta didn’t interrupt. It wasn’t easy with Momma there. She
couldn’t
explain about Van not wanting drugs till he’d seen her, and if she just said he’d started to hurt badly, they might think something new was wrong. To her relief Momma thanked the Sister and let go of her.
‘Do you mind waiting here, darling?’ she said. ‘I think one at a time’s enough.’