Cart and Cwidder. Diana Wynne Jones

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СКАЧАТЬ Moril squeezed up to that end to change, very careful not to bang a cwidder or scrape the hand organ. Each instrument was shiny with use and gleaming with care. Each had its special place. Everything in the cart did. Clennen insisted on it. He said that life in a small cart would otherwise become impossible.

      Once Moril was changed, he emerged from the cart as a very flamboyant figure, for his suit was the same peacock as Brid’s dress and his hair was red – a bright, wild red. He had inherited Lenina’s paleness. His face was white, with a few red freckles.

      “You know, Mother,” Brid said, as she had said before every show since they left Holand, “I don’t think I like that colour on Moril.”

      “It makes people notice him,” said Lenina, and went to take the reins while Clennen and Dagner changed in their turn.

      Moril went to walk in the damp springing grass on the roadside, which was rough-soft under his toes, where he could have a good view of the cart that was his home. It was painted in a number of noticeable colours, principally pink and gold. Picked out in gold and sky blue along the sides were the words Clennen the Singer. Moril knew it was garish, but he loved this cart all the same. It moved softly, because it was well sprung and well oiled, and ran easily behind Olob, the glistening brown horse. Clennen always said he would not part with Olob for an earldom. Olob – his real name was Barangarolob, because Clennen loved long names – was harnessed in pink and scarlet, with a great deal of polished brass, and looked as magnificent as the rest of the turnout. Moril was just thinking that his mother and Brid on the driving seat looked like two queens – or perhaps a queen and a princess – when Clennen stuck his head out of the canvas at the back.

      “Admiring us, are you?” he called cheerfully. Moril smiled and nodded. “It’s like life,” Clennen said. “You may wonder what goes on inside, but what matters is the look of it and the kind of performance we give. Remember that.” His head popped back inside again.

      Moril went on smiling. His father was always giving them odd thoughts to remember. He would probably want this one repeated to him in a day or so. Moril thought about it – in the dreamy way in which he usually gave his attention to anything – and he could not see that their turnout was like life. Life was not pink and gold. At least, some of theirs was, he supposed, but that was only saying the cart was life.

      He was still pondering when they came under some big trees covered with pale buds, and the canvas cover went down with a bit of a clatter, revealing Clennen and Dagner dressed in scarlet and ready for the show. Moril scampered back and climbed up with them. Clennen smiled jovially. Dagner, whose face was tight and pinched, as it always was before a show, pushed Moril’s cwidder into his hands and Moril into the right place without a word. He handed the big old cwidder to Clennen and the panhorn to Brid, and took up a pipe and a long, thin drum himself. By the time they were all settled, Olob was clopping smoothly into the main square of Derent.

      “Ready,” said Clennen. “Two, three.” And they struck up.

      Derent was not a big place. The number of people who came into the square in response to their opening song was not encouraging. There was a trickle of children and ten adults at the most. True, the people sitting outside the tavern turned their chairs round to get a better view, but Moril had a vague feeling, all the same, that they were wasting their talents on Derent. He said so to Brid, while Lenina was reaching past him to receive the hand organ from Dagner.

      “All your feelings are vague!” Lenina said, overhearing. “Be quiet.”

      Undaunted by the sparse crowd, Clennen began his usual patter. “Ladies and gentlemen, come and listen! I am Clennen the Singer, on my way from Holand to the North. I bring you news, views, songs and tales, things old and things new. Roll up, draw up chairs, come near and listen!” Clennen had a fine rolling voice, speaking or singing. It rumbled round the square. Eyes were drawn to him, for his presence matched his voice. He was a big man, and not a thin one, though the scarlet suit made his paunch look bigger than it really was. He had a good sharp curl of ginger beard, which made up for the bald patch at the back of his head – now hidden by his scarlet hat. But the main thing about him was his enormous, jovial, total good humour. It seemed to fetch people by magic or multiply those there out of thin air. Before his speech was over, there were forty or fifty people listening to it.

      “So there!” Brid said to Moril.

      Before the performance could start, however, someone pushed up to the cart, calling, “Have you got any news from Holand, Clennen?” So they had to wait. They were used to this. Moril thought of it as part of the performance – and it certainly seemed to be one of their duties – to bring news from one part of Dalemark to the others. In the South particularly, there were few other ways in which people could get to know what was happening in the next lordship, let alone the next earldom.

      “Now, let’s see,” said Clennen. “There’s been a new earl invested for the South Dales – the old one’s grandson. And they tell me Hadd has fallen out with Henda again.” This surprised nobody. They were two very quarrelsome earls. “And I hear,” said Clennen, stressing the hear, to show that he was not trying to stir up trouble, “I hear the cause of it had something to do with a shipload of Northmen that came into harbour at Holand last month.” This caused confused and careful muttering. Nobody knew what to make of a ship from the North coming into Holand, or whether they were breaking the law to think of it at all. Clennen passed on to other news. “The Earl of Waywold is making new money – copper and goodness knows what else in it – worth nothing. You get more than two thousand to one gold. Now the price on the Porter – you’ve all heard of the Porter, I suppose?” Everyone had. The Porter was a notorious spy, much wanted by the earls of the South for passing illegal information and stirring up discontent. Not one of the earls had been able to catch him. “The price on the Porter’s head now being two thousand gold,” said Clennen, “it’s to be hoped that he’s not taken in Waywold, or you’ll have to collect your reward in a wagon.” This caused some cautious laughter. “And the storm last month carried off the lord’s roof in Bradbrook, not to speak of my tent,” said Clennen.

      Lenina, by this time, had sorted out the strips of paper on which she had written messages from people in other places to friends and relatives in Derent. She began calling them out. “Is there someone called Coran here? I’ve a message from his uncle at Pennet.” A red-faced young man pushed forwards. He confessed, as if he were ashamed of it, that he could read, and was handed the paper. “Is there a Granny Ben here?”

      “She’s sick, but I’ll tell her,” someone called.

      So it went on. Lenina handed out messages to those who could read, and read them out to those who could not. More people hurried into the square, hearing there was news. Shortly there was a fair throng of people, all in great good humour, all telling one another the latest news from Holand.

      Then Clennen called out: “Now I’m putting my hat on the ground here. If you want a song of us too, do us the favour of filling it with silver.” The scarlet hat spun neatly on to the cobblestones and waited, looking empty and expectant. Clennen waited too, with rather the same look. And after a second the red-faced Coran, grateful for his message, tossed a silver coin into it. Another followed, and another. Lenina, watching expertly, muttered to Brid that it looked like good takings.

      After that the performance began in earnest. Moril did not have much time even for vague thinking. Though he did not do much of the singing, his job was to play treble to the low sweet notes of his father’s big cwidder, and he was kept fairly busy. His fingers grew hot and tingly, and he leant over and blew on them to cool them as he played. Clennen, as he had promised the crowd, gave them old favourites and new favourites – ballads, love songs, and comic songs – and some songs that were entirely new. Several of these were СКАЧАТЬ