Текст книги "Beauty"

Автор книги: Robin McKinley

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I knew he was there, standing uncertainly before my door, several minutes before he said, tentatively: “Beauty? Is something wrong?” I was usually changed and downstairs again in less than half the time I had spent sitting on the floor tonight.

“They’re forcing me eo wear a dress I don’t like,” I said sulkily, from the floor. “I mean, it won’t come off.”

“Forcing you? Why?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea!” I shouted, and pulled off a few bracelets and hurled them at the fireplace. They half-turned and threw themselves back at me, and over my wrists.

“That’s very odd,” he said through the door. After a pause, he added, “What’s wrong with it?”

“I don’t like it,” I said sullenly.

“Er—may I see?”

“Of course not!” I shouted again. “If I didn’t mind your seeing it, why am I staying in my room? Who else is there to see me?”

“You care how I see you?” he said; his voice was muffled by the door, and I could be sure of only the astonishment.

“Well, I won’t wear it,” I said, avoiding the question.

There was a pause and then a roar that made me cower down where I sat and clap my hands over my ears; but I realized in a moment that it wasn’t the sort of roar I could protect myself from that way. I couldn’t catch the words. Whatever it was, I found myself hauled to my feet and tumbled in several directions at once; and when I emerged again, breathless, the fairy dress was gone. So, my sixth sense told me, were Lydia and Bessie. I was wearing a dress of an indeterminate colour somewhere

between beige and grey; the only decoration was a white yoke, and plain white cuffs on the long straight sleeves. The high round collar reached nearly to my chin. I laughed, and went over to open the door. As I moved, I felt something around my neck; I put my hand up. It was the griffin.

I opened the door, and the Beast looked at me gravely. “I fear that they are angry with you,” he said.

“Yes, I think you’re right,” I said cheerfully. “What did you say to them? Whatever it was, it nearly deafened me. If deafened is the word.”

“Did you hear that? I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful in the future.”

“That’s all right,” I said. “It produced the desired result,”

“Shall we go down then?” he said. He turned, and waved me towards the staircase.

I looked at him a moment. “Aren’t you going to offer me your arm?” I said.

There was a silence, while we stared at one another, as if every candle, every tile in the mosaic floor and coloured thread in the tapestries, had caught its breath and was holding it as it watched. The Beast walked the few paces back to me, turned, and offered me his arm. I laid my hand on it, and we walked downstairs.

4

Summer turned gradually, peacefully, to autumn. I had been in the Beast’s castle for over six months. I was no nearer the answer to the riddle of the magic that Lydia and Bessie hinted was laid on the Beast and his estate; nor did my sixth sense develop any further. Or at least—I didn’t think so. I found I could read more of the books in the library with comprehension; if I stopped and tried deliberately to envision, say, a motorcar, I managed only a headache, and my reading was spoiled. But if once I slipped into an author’s world, nothing in it disturbed me, and I could slip out of it again when I closed the book. But perhaps there was nothing really mysterious in that. I had accepted Cassandra and Medea, and Paris’s choice among three goddesses as the reason for the Trojan War, and other improbables long before I read about steam-engines and telephones; I had accepted my life in this castle, for example. The principle was probably the same.

I continued to listen to Lydia and Bessie’s conversations without acknowledging that I could hear them, but I learned nothing that was useful. I had trouble, sometimes, when I inadvertently made comments I shouldn’t have been able to make. But Lydia was straightforward and trusting and never—I think—suspected. Bessie may have; she was the quieter of the two, and I didn’t know her as well; and she said nothing that would indicate one way or another. Perhaps the Beast had warned them. I didn’t see the princess’s dress again, nor the convent schoolgirl’s dress, and neither of them referred to that incident; although, once or twice, Lydia said with meaning during minor squabbles: “Now we know how stubborn she can be.” Whereupon I won.

I occasionally heard other things talking to one another, especially the plates and trays and glasses on the grand dinner table; but they spoke in a language that I had never learned. I understood a phrase, sometimes, by not listening: It was usually something like “Here you, move over,” or “I won’t have this, it’s my turn,” that would spill into my mind. But mostly I heard nothing more than echoes behind the clink of silver and crystal. This, with Lydia and Bessie, served to make me feel far less lonely; and the castle never again seemed as immense and solitary as it once had after I’d heard, once or twice.

“Hsst—wake up, you,” and seen a startled candle burst into flame.

And I always knew where the Beast was. If he was at a good distance, I could ignore him. If he was nearby, it was like listening to the soughing of wind through tall trees—it was there, and while I could choose not to pay attention to it, I couldn’t pretend it didn’t exist. Usually this latter situation prevailed. “Beast,” I said, exasperated, about a week after the night I’d fainted, “do you always lurk like this?”

“I like to watch you,” he said. “Does it disturb you?”

“Oh—well,” I said, off balance. “I suppose not.” When I looked out over the forest from my bedroom window there was a rosy flush of autumn leaves among the evergreens, and I began to wear a cloak again on the afternoon rides. I thought of my family as little as possible, putting them out of my head, and resisting any attempts to return to them. Although I had almost contrived to forget what the Beast had said that night many weeks ago, just before I fainted, it was nonetheless the reason that I had since then chosen never to think about the future. When I did remember my family—and I dreamed of them very often, nor were they ever far from my conscious mind, even if I would not entertain them there—I thought of them as I had left them. I avoided thinking about how much the babies must have grown, and whether Ger and Father had had time to build the extra room on the house as they had planned. I never allowed myself to think about seeing them again. And much deeper than all of this in my mind, where I probably couldn’t have reached it even if I had wanted to, was the thought that I couldn’t leave my Beast now even if the opportunity were offered. I still wanted to visit my family, and I missed them desperately; but not if leaving this world to return to theirs meant that I could not come back here. But I was only dimly aware of the smallest part of this. Consciously I understood only that to save myself needless pain I must not think about my life before I had come to live in the castle.

And every night before I left him in the dining hall the Beast asked, “Beauty, will you marry me?” And every night I closed my eyes, my heart, and my mind, and replied, “No, Beast.”

This magic land was not entirely free of the lashing storms of autumn. In October there was a day heavy and grey with foreboding, and that night I had difficulty sleeping, as the clouds crept lower and lower, and hung themselves balefully around the castle’s high towers. It was past midnight when the rain finally broke through; but even then it was nearly dawn when I fell uneasily asleep, and dreamed. I dreamed of my family, as I often did, but never before had I dreamed of them with such vividness.

They were eating breakfast—I could even smell the thick porridge as Grace spooned it into bowls. Everyone sat around the kitchen table, and there were two conversations going on at once. Ger and Father were having a friendly argument over the cutting of floorboards; Hope was telling Grace that Melinda had managed to find some thread from her own large supply that would just match the green cotton she wanted to make into a dress. Grace set the full bowls around while Hope cut bread, and

Father passed the plate of fried ham. The babies were wielding spoons, sort of; Richard was mashing his bit of bread into the bottom of his bowl with the back of his spoon, to the accompaniment of much interesting splashing. Mercy tried to help, till their mother prevented her, and also rearranged her son’s hold on his spoon. “It’s nice to have the cool weather back,” said Grace; “cooking over the fire in the middle of summer exhausts me.”

“Yes, I like fall,” said Hope, “after harvest, when everyone has the first bit of breathing space since spring sowing. That was quite a storm we had last night, though, wasn’t it? But this morning is fair; it must have blown itself out.”

“It’s funny, the way the roses never seem to lose their petals, even with the wind,” murmured Grace, and she and Hope glanced towards a vase on the table that held a dozen gold and red and white roses. “Or the way they never grow over the windows,” said Hope, “They’ve never been pruned, have they?” Grace shook her head.

Ger glanced over at them. “Pruned?” he inquired.

“The roses. Beauty’s roses,” said Grace. “They never need pruning. And they don’t seem to care about storms that take the heads off all the other Bowers within miles of here.”

“And after they’re cut, they live a month to the day, looking as if they had just been brought inside, and then they die in a night,” said Hope.

Ger smiled and shrugged. “It’s a good omen, don’t you think? The flowers so beautiful and all? I wonder if they’ll bloom all through the winter? That’ll make the townspeople talk.”

“I think they’ll always bloom,” said Father. “Summer or winter.”

Ger looked at him. “Did you dream about her last night?”

“Yes.” He paused. “She was riding Greatheart towards the castle. She was wearing a long blue habit, and a cloak that billowed out behind her. She waved at someone I couldn’t see. She looked happy.” He shook his head. “I dream about her—often, as you know. And I’ve noticed—oh, just recently it’s occurred to me—she’s changed. Changing. First I thought, I’m forgetting her, and it made me very unhappy. But it’s not that. She’s changing. My dreams are as vivid as ever, but the Beauty I see is different.”

“How?” asked Grace.

“I don’t know. I wish I did. I wish I knew where the dreams come from—whether I dream truly.”

“I think you do,” said Hope. “I believe you do. It’s like the roses; they comfort us.”

Father smiled. “I like to think that too.”

Then Mercy said in a clear thin treble: “When is Beauty coming home?”

Her words were like a rock in a quiet pool that I, the dreamer, was looking into: I saw only the beginnings of wonder, surprise, and a little fear in the faces of the rest of the family before the image was shattered, and my sleep with it. My first coherent thought, as I awoke, was: I was wearing the blue habit yesterday; I saw the Beast, and waved at him, as we cantered back towards the castle.

Dawn came clear and pale through my window. The storm was blown away and the sky was blue and cloud—

less. I was still tired; I nodded over my teacup, and walked slowly downstairs and out into the garden.

“Good morning, Beauty,” said the Beast.

“Good morning,” I returned, and yawned. “I’m sorry. The storm kept me awake most of the night.” I was tired, and didn’t mean to add: “And I had an upsetting dream just before I woke up,” and I yawned again, and then realized what I’d said.

“What was it?” he asked.

“It’s not important,” I mumbled. We had been walking towards the stable as we spoke, and I went inside to let Greatheart out. He ambled through the door, pricked his ears at the Beast, and wandered off in search of grass. The meadows were still wet from last night’s rain; I was wearing boots, but the hem of my dress was soon soaked through.

After several minutes’ silence, the Beast said: “Was it about your family?”

I opened my mouth to deny it, and changed my mind. I nodded, looking down and kicking at a daisy. It shook itself free of raindrops that the sunlight turned into a halo, “Must you read my mind?” I said.

“I can’t,” said die Beast. “But in this case your face is transparent enough.”

“I dream about them a lot,” I said, “but it was different this time. It was like watching them—it was as if I were really in the room, except they couldn’t see me. I could see the knots in the wood of the table—not because I remembered them, but because I saw them. Ger had a bandage wrapped around one thumb. I recognized the shirt Father was wearing, but it had a new patch on one shoulder. I saw them.”

The Beast nodded. “Did you hear them too?”

“Yes,” I said slowly. “They—they were talking about me. And the roses. My father said he had dreamed about me—I was riding towards the castle, I was wearing my blue habit, and I looked happy. He said he wished he knew if he dreamed truly; and Hope said she was sure he did, that the dreams and the roses were to comfort them.”

“She’s right,” said the Beast.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“The roses are mine,” said the Beast. “And I send the dreams.”

I stared at him.

“He dreams about you nearly every night, and tells die rest of your family about it the next day. It does comfort them, I think. I am careful not to let him see me.”

“How do you know? Can you see them?” I said, still staring.

He looked away. “Yes; I can see them.”

“May I?”

He looked at me, and his eyes were unhappy. “I will show you, if you wish it.”

“Please,” I said. “Oh, please show me.”

I put Greatheart away, and the Beast took me back inside the castle, up stairs and down hallways and up more stairs to the room I had found him in on the very first night. He closed the curtains and the door, and I noticed that the small table that stood behind the Beast’s armchair glittered strangely. He went over to it and peered at it; then he picked up a glass that stood on the mantelpiece, and said a few words as he poured a little of its contents onto the tabletop. He replaced the glass r and said to me, “Come here, stand by me.”

I could see that on the table a thick plate of what looked like pale nephrite lay. The glitter had died, and there was a cloudy grey swirling like harbour water just after the turn of the tide. It cleared slowly.

I saw my sisters in the parlour, Grace was sitting, head in hands, and Hope stood in front of her, hands on Grace’s shoulders. “What’s wrong, dearest?” she said. “What’s wrong?” Morning sunlight streamed in the window, and I heard Ger’s laugh, faintly, from the shop. “Is it something about Mr. Lawrey? I just saw him leaving.”

Grace nodded slowly, and spoke into her hands. “He wants to marry me.”

Hope knelt down and pulled Grace’s hands away from her face, and they looked at one another. “He has asked you?”

“Not quite. He’s much too proper—you know. But his hints—and he just told me that he wants to ‘speak’ to Father. What else could he mean?”

“Of course,” said Hope. “We’ve suspected all summer that this was coming. Father will be pleased—he thinks Mr. Lawrey is a very good sort of young man. It’ll be all right. You’ll make a lovely minister’s wife, you’re so good and patient.”

Grace’s eyes filled with tears. “No,” she whispered. “I can’t.” The tears spilled over and ran down her pale face. Hope reached out and touched her sister’s wet cheek with her hand. Her voice was a whisper too. “You’re not still thinking of Robbie, are you?”

Grace nodded. “I can’t help it,” she said through her tears. “We never knew. And I don’t love Pat Lawrey—

I still love Robbie. I can’t seem to think of anyone else. I can’t even try to. Have I been terribly unfair to Mr. Lawrey?”

“No,” said Hope, as if she weren’t quite sure. “No, don’t worry about that. But Father will encourage him, you know, and he’ll start courting you in earnest. Oh, my dear, you must try to put Robbie out of your mind. You can’t waste your life like this. It’s been six years.”

“I know,” said Grace. “Do you think I’ve forgotten a day of it? But it’s no use.”

“Try,” said Hope. “Please. Mr. Lawrey loves you and would be good to you. You needn’t love him as you did Robbie.” Hope’s voice was unsteady and she had begun to weep also. “Just be good to him—time and his love for you will do the rest. I’m sure of it. Please, Grace.”

Grace looked at her like a lost child. “Must I? Is this the only way left to me?”

“Yes,” said Hope. “Trust me. It’s for your own good—I know it. And it would please Father so much. You know how he worries about you.”

“Yes.” Grace bowed her head. “Very well; I will do as you say,” she whispered.

The mist gathered around the picture again, and then across it, and my sisters disappeared. “Oh, poor Grace,” I said, “poor Grace. I wonder what did happen to Robbie?”

As I spoke, the mist disappeared like a fog before a high wind, and a man stepped down from a ship’s side to the dock. There was a brisk wind blowing across a harbour I knew well: I had grown up on it and beside it, I could see one of the warehouses that used to belong to

Father. It had had a new addition built onto it, and it was freshly painted. The ship the man left was two-masted, but the second mast had been snapped off a third of its length from the deck, and a spar lashed to the stump. The rest of the ship was sadly battered also; there were gaps in her railing, hasty patches on her sides and her deck; most of the forward cabin had been torn away, and canvas sheeting turned the remains into a sort of tent. The men who manned her were ragged and hollow-eyed, nor were there many of them; but they stood to attention with a pride that showed in their faces and in their bearing. Several men from the shore came hurrying up to the one who had just stepped off the ship. They made a curious contrast: These men were stout and healthy, and well-dressed. The man they confronted was much taller than they, but thin and pale as if he had been very ill recently and had not yet fully recovered. His black hair was streaked with white.

“Please excuse me, masters,” he said; “we lost both our skiffs over the side during storms. I thought it would be best to tie up at the dock rather than trust to luck in hailing another ship in the harbour. You see,” he added with a grin, “I’m afraid we’ve lost our anchor also, and the old tub is leaking so fast that I thought it would be well that my men be near enough to leap ashore when the time comes. We’re not fit for much swimming.”

I recognized the grin when I hadn’t recognized the man. It was Robbie.

“But who are you, sir?” said one of the men who approached him.

“My name is Robert Tucker, and my ship—what’s left of her—is the White Raven. I sail—or I used to—for Roderick Huston. I set out six years ago with three other ships: the Stalwart, the Windfleet, and the Fortune’s Chance. I’m afraid we ran into rather more trouble than we were expecting.” I couldn’t see the faces of the men he was talking to. One young lad, dressed like an office boy, detached himself from the group and ran off to spread the news. After a pause, Robbie went on: “Can you tell me what’s become of the other three? We lost track of them entirely, four years ago, during a storm—the first storm,” he said wryly. “And where might I find Mr. Huston? Things have changed, I see, since we’ve been gone,” and he nodded towards the warehouse I had noticed. “He must have written us off long since. We’ve not been anywhere that we could well send a message from. I tried, once or twice, but I don’t suppose they ever arrived.”

And then the mist obliterated the picture once again, and I found myself staring at the top of a table in a dark room in the Beast’s castle, “Robbie,” I said. “He’s come home—he’s alive! And Grace doesn’t know—oh dear—Beast,” I said, turning to him, “is what I’m seeing happening now? Has Robbie only just docked? And Grace only just had her conversation with Hope?”

The Beast nodded.

“Then it’s not too late,” I said. “Yet. Oh dear. If Robbie sets out for Blue Hill today it’ll take him nearly two months—and he wouldn’t, besides: He’ll stay and see to the ship, and his men. And he’s not well—you can see that just by looking at him. I wonder if he’ll even send a message. You can never tell with these desperately honour-bound people; he may think he has to put it off for some reason. Oh dear,” I said. I walked away from the table, and paced up and down the room several times. The Beast wiped a cloth carefully over the table and then sat down in the big chair near it, but I was preoccupied and paid him little attention. “Grace must be told. If she gets herself engaged to that young minister—if she even feels that she’s encouraged him to believe that she would accept his suit—she’ll go through with it. She’ll feel she must, Robbie or no Robbie.

“Beast—could you send her a dream—telling her about Robbie?”

He shifted in his chair. “I could try, but I doubt that I would be successful. And even if I were, she would not believe it.”

“Why? Father believes.”

“Yes, but he wants to—and there are the roses that remind him that there is some magic at work. Grace often dreams that Robbie is safely home. She knows that the dreams are wraiths of her own love, and so she has trained herself not to believe. She would not believe any dream I sent. And—well—both your sisters’ minds are strongly pragmatic; I’m not sure I could send them anything at all. Your father is different—so is Ger, for that matter; so is Mercy. But neither your father nor Ger would mention dreaming of Robbie, you know, to save your sister pain; and Mercy is too young.”

I paused in my pacing. “You know a great deal about my family.”

“I have watched them many hours, since your father rode home alone. They have grown very dear to me, perhaps for your sake; and I have watched to see that they were well.”

“Then let me go home—just for a day—an hour—to tell Grace. She mustn’t marry Lawrey—she’ll be miserable for the rest of her life, after she finds out that her heart was right about Robbie. And then they’ll know too that I’m all right, that I’m happy here, that they needn’t worry about me anymore. And then I’ll come back. And I’ll never ask to leave again. Please, Beast. Please.” I knelt down in front of him and put my hands on his knees. The room was still dark, the curtains unopened, and his face was hidden in the darker shadows of the wing chair; all I could see was a glitter of eyes. There was a long silence, while I could hear nothing but the quick heave of my own breathing.

“I can deny you nothing,” he said at last, “if you truly want it. Even if it should cost me my life.” He took a deep breath; it seemed that he would suck in all the air in the room. “Go home, then. I can give you a week.” He leaned forwards. There was a bowl of roses on a what-not at his elbow; he lifted out a great red one, like the one Father had brought home nearly eight months ago. “Take this.” I took it, the stem still wet, cool against my fingers. “For a week it will remain fresh and blooming, as it is now; but at the end of the week it will droop and die. You will know then that your faithful Beast is dying too. For I cannot live without you, Beauty.”

I looked at him, appalled, and with a little gasp and gulp I said: “Can you not send me as you send dreams? It would be much swifter. And—and you would know when to bring me back, before—anything happened.”

“I could,” he said. “But you must take Greatheart with you, and I cannot send him thus, as I have already told you; it would drive him mad.”

“He could stay here, with you,” I said.

“No; he suffers me only for love of you. You must take him with you. If you leave at once, you will be home in time for supper.”

Those words, “home in time for supper,” filled my whole world and echoed in every part of my head, and I spared no further thought for any of my scruples at leaving the poor Beast. All the longing to see my family mat I had suppressed so urgently over the last few months surged and poured into me till I could scarcely breathe. I stood up, looking through the thick walls of the castle to a little house on the far side of the enchanted forest.

“Wear your ring,” said the Beast, “and remember me.”

I laughed, and my voice was shrill with excitement. “I couldn’t forget you, dear Beast,” I said, and bent down, His hands lay, fingers curled a little upwards, on his knees; I kissed the right palm, and looked into the shadows for a moment, where his eyes watched me. The glitter of them was strangely bright, as if reflected by tears; but that must have been the blur in my own vision. As I turned away, I saw his right hand close slowly.

I ran to my room, down a hallway and around the first corner, pulled out a silk scarf, and bundled a few things into it; then a loaf of bread from breakfast and a few oranges into another scarf, and knotted them hastily together. It did not occur to me, that day, to wonder why breakfast had not yet been cleared away. I grabbed my cloak and bolted downstairs. Greatheart knew at once that something was up. I fastened the rose to his headstall as I had done with another rose, when we had first followed the path that we were about to retrace. I pushed my small bundles into the saddle-bags, and mounted; Greatheart had thundered into a canter before I was settled in the saddle. I grabbed the reins.

The silver gate winked at us across the meadows; we were beside it, it seemed, before I had my feet in the stirrups. But when I looked back, the castle was far away, the gardens only a memory outlined in delicate green. I pulled Greatheart to a halt for a moment, a strange and unexpectedly queasy moment for me; but I thought, Nonsense; I’ll be back in a week. We jogged through the gate, and it swung silently shut behind us.

I had no idea of direction, hadn’t thought to ask the Beast before I left, but Greatheart jogged steadily along the carriage-road as if he knew where he was going. I remembered that the road ran out within a few miles of the grey gates; but the dark afternoon shadows lengthened across the sand-coloured road, and it still showed no sign of ending. I had a queer, sixth-sense feeling that just beyond the first shadow up ahead that I couldn’t see through, the road ended, but had unrolled as far as the next shadow by the time we had reached the first. Great-heart trotted tirelessly; I knew that we still had a long way to go, and we should reserve our strength, but when I slackened the reins, the horse leaped forwards into a gallop. I let him run, the sun sparkling in his pale mane as it lifted and fell with the motion, the pale road unfolding just beyond the edge of sight.

We stopped once, and I slacked the girths and fed Greatheart pieces of bread and orange, but we were both eager to go on. I tried to make him walk, but he fretted so that I told myself that he was wasting more energy than if I let him jog; so we jogged.

The sun sank beyond our sight, and twilight crept out from behind the trees and spread across our way; the road glimmered faintly. Then something else, a golden glimmer, showed among the trees for a moment and was gone. Then it showed again. It might be lamplight from a house. I leaned forwards and Greatheart broke into a gallop again, and galloped till the reins were slippery with sweat; and then we burst through the border of the trees, and we were in the meadow behind the house, lamplight gleaming through the kitchen window, gold-edging the roses that hung near it, and laying down a little golden carpet on the grass verge between the back door and the kitchen garden. Greatheart plunged to a stop, then threw his head out and neighed like a war-horse. There was a moment of dreadful silence, then the back door flew open, and Hope said, “It is Greatheart!” and I slid out of the saddle and ran to the door. By the time I got there, everyone else had come outside, and we laughed and hugged one another, and Greatheart, who had followed me for his share of the attention, was petted and kissed, and most if not all of us were crying.

The babies, left alone in the kitchen, had made their way to the door and were looking curiously at the confusion outside. Mercy slid down the two steps to the ground and stood, precariously, clutching one of the posts of the chicken-wire fence that protected the garden from the little creatures that never came out of the enchanted forest. “Mercy,” said her grandfather, after the initial uproar had subsided, “do you remember Beauty?”

“No,” she replied, but when I walked over to her she smiled at me and held up her arms. I picked her up, while the more timid Richard made a dash from the door and wrapped himself in his mother’s skirts.

“Come in, come in/’ said Father. “You must tell us everything,”

“Wait, I have to put Greatheart away—is there space for him?”

“We’ll make space,” said Ger.

“I’ll set another place at the table,” said Grace. “We’re just sitting down to dinner.” All our voices sounded strange, breathless, and creaky; I found it difficult to think clearly. Grace and Hope and Richard went back inside the house while the rest of us went out to the stable. “Would Mercy like a ride?” I said, with laudable presence of mind; my own earliest memories were of wanting to sit on horses. “Try her,” said Ger, “She and Richard are old friends with Odysseus now.” Mercy was arranged on Greatheart’s saddle and held by the leg from both sides, and we safely navigated the few steps to the stable. Ger went inside to light a lantern. “Big” was Mercy’s comment when she was lifted down.

Besides Odysseus’s brown blazed face, there was a new chestnut face that looked over Greatheart’s old stall door. “Cider,” said Ger. “Five years old; a nice little mare. I hope they’ll get along. We can tie Greatheart in a corner, here. There’s plenty of hay.” I pulled off the saddle. My head was ringing.

“Hurry up, can’t you?” begged Father, who was holding Mercy. “I mustn’t ask you anything till we go back inside and join the girls and the suspense is killing me.” Just then Hope appeared in the doorway, “Are you going to stay here all night? We’ll die of suspense, and the food will get cold, in that order.” Ger took my saddle-bags, and we walked back, I with an arm each around Hope and my father. ‘-’I don’t believe it yet,” I said. “Neither do we,” said Hope, and hugged me again.