Fire and Hemlock. Diana Wynne Jones

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СКАЧАТЬ while Polly considered. “We go to kill giants and dragons and things,” she said.

      “Where? Up the road in the supermarket?” Mr Lynn asked.

      Polly could tell he thought poorly of her answer. “Yes, if you like, if you’re so clever!” she snapped at him, just as if he were Nina. “I know we’re that kind of heroes – I know we’re not the kind that conquers mad scientists – but I don’t know it all. You do some of it, if you know so much! You were just pretending not to know about being things – weren’t you?”

      “Not altogether,” Mr Lynn said, politely holding a wet lump of evergreen bush aside for Polly. “It’s years since I did any. Beside you, I’m the learner. I’d really much prefer to be a trainee-hero too. Couldn’t I be? You could happen to be there when I kill my first giant – and perhaps it could be thanks to you that I didn’t get squashed flat by him.”

      “If you like,” Polly agreed graciously. He was so humble that she felt quite mean to have snapped.

      “Thank you,” he said, just as if she had granted a real favour. “That brings me to another question. Do I know about my secret life as a hero while I’m being an ironmonger? Or not?”

      “You didn’t at first,” Polly said, thinking it out. “You were awfully surprised and thought you were having visions or something. But you got used to it quite quickly.”

      “Though at first I blundered about, utterly bewildered,” Mr Lynn agreed. “We both had to learn as we went on. Yes, that’s how it must have been. Now, what about my life selling hardware in Stow-on-the-Water? Do I live alone?”

      “No, I live there too, when I get there,” said Polly. “But of course there’s your wife, Edna—”

      “No there isn’t,” Mr Lynn said. He said it quietly and calmly, as if someone had asked him if there was any butter and he had opened the fridge and found none. But Polly could tell he meant it absolutely.

      “Well – there has to be,” she argued. “There’s someone – I know her name’s Edna – who bosses you round, and makes your life a misery, and thinks you’re stupid, and doesn’t allow you enough money, and makes you do all the work—”

      “My landlady,” said Mr Lynn.

      “No,” said Polly.

      “Sister, then,” said Mr Lynn. “How about a sister?”

      “I don’t know about sisters!” Polly protested.

      They wandered round the overgrown garden, arguing about it. In the end, Polly found she had to give way about Edna and make her a sister after all. Mr Lynn was just quietly adamant over it, and he would not budge. He gave in to Polly on most other things, but not on that.

      “Must I kill dragons?” he said, rather pleadingly, as they came up to the house from the back somewhere.

      “Yes,” said Polly. “It’s what our kind of heroes do.”

      “But most dragons seem to have rather interesting personalities – besides probably having quite good reasons for what they do, if only one could understand them,” Mr Lynn objected. “And almost every dragon-slayer I ever heard of came to a sticky end in the end.”

      “Don’t be a coward,” said Polly. “St George in my book didn’t come to a sticky end.”

      “I’m nothing like St George,” said Mr Lynn. “He didn’t wear glasses.”

      This was true, even though Polly had always imagined St George as tall and thin like Mr Lynn. He seemed so unhappy that she relented a little. “We’ll keep the dragon to the end, then, for when we’re properly trained.”

      “That’s a good idea,” Mr Lynn said gratefully. “Now come over here. There’s something I think you’ll like.”

      He led the way up the lawn, against the gusts of the wind, right up to the house. Three stone steps there led up to a closed door. On either side of the steps there was a short stone pillar with a stone vase on top of it. Mr Lynn stretched his arms out so that he had a hand on each stone vase. “Are you looking?” he said, standing in his bowed way between them. Like Samson in my book, Polly thought, getting ready to pull the temple down.

      “Yes,” she said. “What?”

      “Watch.” Mr Lynn’s hand moved on the right-hand vase. The vase began to spin slowly, grating a little. Two, three heavy turns and it stopped. Now Polly could see there were letters engraved on the front of the vase.

      “HERE,” she read.

      “Now watch again,” said Mr Lynn. His big left hand spun the other vase. This one went round much more smoothly. For a while it was a grey stone blur. Then it grated, slowed, and settled, and there were letters on it too.

      “NOW,” Polly read. “NOW – HERE. What does that mean?”

      Mr Lynn spun both vases, one slowly, grinding and groaning, the other smooth and blurring. They both stopped at exactly the same time.

      WHERE, said the one on the left. NOW, read the right-hand one.

      Upon which, Mr Lynn spun them again. This time when they stopped, the vases read NO and WHERE.

      “Oh I see!” said Polly. “NOWHERE! That’s clever!” She moved sideways to look round the curve of the vases and found they still said NOWHERE, though this was because the left-hand vase now seemed to say NOW and the right-hand one HERE from where she had moved to. Both vases really said NOWHERE, but the letters were so arranged on them that you could never see the whole word at once on the same vase. Polly made sure, by going right up to them, ducking under Mr Lynn’s arm, and putting her head sideways to read the letters round the other side.

      “Yes that’s right,” Mr Lynn said. “They both say NOWHERE really.” He spun them again, the slow grinding one and the fast smooth one, and this time they came up with HERE – NOW.

      “Heroes see things like that,” he said.

      “It’s obviously an enchantment of some kind,” Polly agreed, humouring him.

      “It must be,” he said. It sounded as if he was humouring her.

      Here, they both looked round, Polly was not sure why. The boy who had been at the funeral was standing behind them, still very smooth and neat in spite of the wind. Maybe he had snorted. At any rate, he was looking very scornful.

      “Oh hello, Seb,” Mr Lynn said. “You got out at last, then?”

      “Only because it’s over,” the boy said contemptuously.

      “Is it? Thank goodness for that!” Mr Lynn said.

      Instead of answering, the boy simply turned round and walked away. Mr Lynn’s face, Polly thought, showed just a trace of hurt feelings.

      “What a horrible, rude boy!” Polly exclaimed, hoping it was loud enough for the boy to hear as he walked. But he walked very quickly and was out of sight round the corner of the house before she had finished saying it. “What relation is he?” she asked.

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