The Midnight Folk Read online

  I met with my true love and thus did she say,

  ‘Oh sweet grows the clover and blythe grows the corn,

  And the nightingale sings in the bonny white thorn.’

  “‘Oh true, love,’ I answered, ‘But what can I care

  Since the . . .’

  “Now join in with me and sing from there.”

  “Ah was only telling Mr. Harker in ma own way, ma Piney,” Sir Piney said, “Ah was nobbut beginning at t’beginning.”

  “My sweet Pa,” Miss Piney said, “that kind of beginning is over for you now forever, it is ended. We are beginning such a lovely time; don’t let us mix it with any bangs or brandy. Put it out of this little serub’s mind with a song; begin at:

  “‘“Oh true love,” I answered.’”

  “Ah daresay tha’s reet, ma Piney,” Sir Piney said.

  Kay saw Sir Piney rise to his feet, draw breath, beat with his hand, and look at his daughter for the signal to start singing.

  Somehow the song did not begin, though Miss Piney was nodding, and her father was beating with his hand. Something made Sir Piney flit rapidly over to the table; his daughter opened her mouth very wide.

  Then both Triggers faded swiftly, the drawing-room faded; but, no, Sir Piney was shaking a book on the table, saying, “Page 275”; he seemed angry about something, the book shook and shook, until it was as indistinct as the leaves of a tree all blown together on a windy day. “All right,” Kay said, “I’ll remember the page.” At this, he rolled over, wide awake.

  “It must all have been a dream,” he muttered, for the Triggers were gone; he was in his bed in the dark night, not in the drawing-room at all. “He seems to have got the treasure,” he thought. The church clock struck one.

  He was glad that it was not midnight. A cock, probably Mrs. Gossip’s cock, roused in his roost by the booming of the bell, flapped on his perch and gave a half-hearted crow. A horse stamped on the path just below the window, someone reined up there, blew a horn with a flourish and cried in a clear voice:

  “The harvest moon is rounding:

  King Arthur holds court this First Night.”

  At the stamping of the horse, Kay had been afraid, lest it should be the Nightmare, which Ellen’s father had seen, trotting on the road, not making a sound, but with a tongue of pale fire lolling over her teeth, and eyes of blue flame. At the sound of the voice all Kay’s fear left him; he hopped out of bed and looked down.

  There were two grey horses, one of them led; the rider of the other was a hatchet-faced man, clear in the moon-light, with rather long, yellow hair falling over his shoulders. He had a horn slung over his shoulder and a sword at his side.

  “Are you for the Court, Master?” the man cried.

  “May I?”

  “The horse is sent for you.”

  Kay ran downstairs, opened the door; the man helped him up into the saddle of the led horse. A sword was hanging from the saddle.

  “You may need that,” the man said. “If the Black Knight’s at the ford, we’ll have to fight our way.”

  “Will it bend, if I chop with it?” Kay asked, thinking of the sixpenny swords which did bend.

  “It’s Gareth’s sword,” the man said. “It will cut through steel and the bone beyond it.”

  “Could I chop off a person’s head with it?”

  “That’s never an easy chop,” the man said. “Your man’s shield is generally up to his ear.”

  “Could I if it wasn’t?”

  “So many mails are double at the throat,” the man said.

  “Could I if it were single?”

  “Your man is generally looking out for a chop,” the man said. “And a chop takes such a long time, you can see it coming.”

  “But suppose he didn’t see it coming?”

  By this time they were in the broad open green which ran between the lines of the houses of the village. The moonlight was very bright, and, lo, a marvellous thing, all the fronts of the houses were gone, just as though they were doll’s houses; Kay could see the shops and the living-rooms laid bare, with all the people in bed: Mr. Spiceman, the grocer, and old Mr. Spectacle, the clockmaker; and Mrs. Sweetlips, who made such sugar-candy; there they all were, and floating about them as they slept were the loveliest people Kay had ever seen; they were like people made of light and of rainbows, and with exquisite faces and hands. They were soothing the sleep of all there; driving away little black Annoyances and Bothers, and giving Lovely Dreams instead.

  “What are those people?” Kay asked.

  “Those?” the man said. “An old man called St. Alpig, down by the river, always sends those. They are quite real. They go about the world and help people. Now there’s the ford, and . . . yes . . . there’s the Black Knight. Take your sword in both hands, that’s the way.”

  “Halt there,” the Black Knight called. “Come up one by one and render up your weapons.” Kay could see him in the blackness of the ford as a big black man on a black horse reined up in mid-stream. The steel gleamed on his lowered helmet and moving sword. He stood stock still. The water gleamed as it flowed round the horse’s fetlocks. It was all still, moonlit night, not a cock-crow, not an owl’s cry, not a fox’s bark, no whisper of wind, nothing but that grim form in front and the water tinkling away past the fetlocks.

  Kay thought that he saw the black form incline forward in the saddle as though to urge up his horse.

  “Charge him, Kay,” the messenger cried. “Chop him on that side, I’ll chop him on this.”

  Kay felt his horse leap forward with a splash into the ford. He had long since dropped the reins, so as to have both hands on the sword. He trod down deep into his stirrups and leant against the back of his saddle . . . then . . . swoosh . . . he lashed out sideways at the Black Knight’s head just as he lashed out to a ball on the leg side at cricket. He had a lovely feeling that he had made a magnificent hit. As his horse came out of the river on the other side, Sir Lancelot caught his rein. “Well hit, Kay, well hit,” he said. “There goes his pagan head; look.”

  Turning round, Kay was just in time to see the Black Knight’s head, spouting blue fire, rolling splash into the river; his black horse, carrying his body, galloped away into the night.

  “He’ll come back to put his head on again, presently,” the messenger said; “Merlin ought to deal with him.”

  “Merlin is going to deal with him,” Lancelot said. “But meanwhile, Kay, that was a superb chop. You got in every ounce of your weight just in exactly the right spot; and, then, it was so perfectly timed. I never saw anything so neat. There was his head, and then . . . flash . . . there wasn’t his head.”

  “You ought to tell King Arthur about it, Sir Lancelot,” the messenger said. “For a midnight chop there’s been nothing like it since you fought that mad giant Ugg, the one with boar’s tusks, in the thunderstorm. I’m used to midnight work, but I missed him altogether. I tell you, Sir Lancelot, this Kay will make a Knight, and oh, won’t our present Kai be jealous.”

  By this time they had ridden up the hill into the dark lane, overshadowed by yew trees, which was still called King Arthur’s ride. The lane was a good place for wild Canterbury Bells, which were now in full blossom. Every Canterbury Bell was now lit with a glow-worm so that the lane glittered.

  At the gate of the Round Table Camp it was as light as day; but inside the camp it was brighter than any day; all things seemed so soaked with light that they glowed.

  “I see that King Arthur is over there, hearing petitions with Merlin,” Sir Lancelot said, as he dismounted. “But in the meantime, Kay, you come along with me and see the camp.”

  First, they put the horses into the stable which ran down one rampart. There were seven hundred horses, all white, cream-coloured, grey or piebald (none darker than that). They were picketed in long lines, eating grass from the Holy Meadow, which is always green; each one of the seven hundred was so gentle that Kay could feed him by hand, or slip between his legs, without any fear of a kick
. Many of the horses knew Lancelot, for he had the gift of drawing beasts and birds to him. When he came into the lines, there was a general whinny of welcome.

  “Oh, I wish that horses would whinny to me,” Kay said.

  “But they do,” Lancelot said. “They’re saying Wh-wh-wh-whelcome Kay.”

  “Please, what do you do here?” Kay asked.

  “This is King Arthur’s court, where all people come who care. Many come, as you can see. It’s hard work here all the time. Ah, there is the Queen . . .”

  They were standing near a little covered well or trough of bright running water. A chariot drawn by two white, small, very fiery stallions, with harness of red enamel, drove rapidly up. There were two ladies in the chariot, one of them a sweet-faced, sad woman in a black dress. “That’s Brangwen,” Lancelot whispered. “The Queen is driving.”

  Queen Guinevere was standing to drive and urging her lovely horses like energy itself. She was a somewhat fierce-looking and splendid beauty, with the marvellous red-gold hair that gave light in the darkness. The fierceness of the drive had brought colour to her cheeks and made her eyes glow like violets. Her mouth was of an exquisite beauty, a little parted now from excitement.

  Guinevere’s beauty has had peers

  But none has matched her mouth and ears.

  Her hair was plaited, then heaped on her head and held there by what looked like a twisted strand of gold leaf. She wore a dress of rough green linen with a crystal neck-clasp.

  “So you’ve brought Kay to us,” she cried, half reining in. “I welcome you, Kay. Arthur and Merlin could see him now, Lancelot, if you would take him there. And someday will you drive with me, Kay?”

  “Oh, I would love to,” Kay said.

  She looked at him very earnestly and smiled. “We will drive,” she said; “we will drive the Holy Road next Midsummer Night, against Uther’s Spirit Horses. He drives there against any who come, eleven miles on the grass. You must not forget that you have promised the Queen.”

  “Indeed I will not forget,” he said.

  She smiled and drove on towards the end of the horse lines. Lancelot led him away towards the King. “She is the queen of all horsewomen,” he said. “She is the daughter of an old King in Shropshire. Now we are re-making what we undid.”

  Indeed all the Court seemed happy as though re-made. All the people who had brought petitions were going joyfully away, some of them with parties of Knights who were going to see their grievances set right. All the troubled people had been comforted, and all the friendless little children were receiving the loveliest toys from the Lady Vivien; there were horses and chariots; but the little tiny horses were real; then there were tame bullfinches and linnets which perched on the children’s fingers and sang to them; but the most beautiful of all were the Bird-Kites made by Merlin. These were like real big birds, which flew; on their backs were little boxes with seats in them in which the children sat as they flew. Some of these birds sang like skylarks when they were high in the air. Then near the gates of the camp, Kay saw parties of Knights returning from quests, with prisoners whom they had set free, or with evil Kings and tyrants whom they were bringing to judgment. Then in one place, there were most lovely people all shining with light and colours, some of them singing and all happy. “Those are the best people of all,” Lancelot said. “Remember, that if you call them ever, they will come to you.”

  “Will they, really?” Kay said.

  “They have promised that to the King. All those lovely people will come to you whenever you call.”

  They were now drawing near to the central space of the camp where the King sat with his counsellor Merlin. The King was unlike anybody Kay had ever seen; he could not see Merlin so well, because he was bent over a map which a very muddy traveller was showing to him. Something in the shape of the muddy traveller, or his attitude, seemed familiar to Kay. He was pointing out places on a map and asking Merlin about them. Merlin looked up suddenly and said something to the King. Kay saw Merlin clearly as he looked up; he had a strange, troubled, happy face as though he were always having very difficult puzzles set to him and always finding the answers. The King turned, spoke to the traveller and then told a couple of Knights: “Go with him, will you, to see if you can find this treasure? It ought to be restored.”

  He nodded (and Merlin smiled) to the traveller, who at once rolled up his map and turned away with the Knights to his horse, which was being held at a little distance.

  “Now, Kay,” Lancelot said, “it’s your turn. Come along and speak to the King.”

  He drew Kay forward through the crowd, and the body-guardsmen cleared a path for them. He saw King Arthur look at him with a smile of welcome . . . then, suddenly he heard his name called:

  “Kay . . . Kay . . .”

  Looking to the caller he saw that it was the muddy traveller who had now mounted his horse. The muddy traveller was Edward, his beloved Edward, Eduardo da Vinci, as he was called . . . and his horse was Petter Horse, the best of all horses . . . and with him was Robin Pointnose, on Horse . . . and they were all waving and calling and whinnying to him.

  “Edward,” he cried, “Edward . . . how are you?”

  “Why, Master Kay,” Ellen said, rolling him awake. “Don’t you know my name’s not Edward yet? Do wake up, there’s a good boy: it’s almost breakfast-time.”

  “So that was only a dream, too,” he said, “just as I made sure that it was Edward. But now it’s real . . .

  “And now I shall be simply frightfully punished, because of Old Blinky last night.” He went down to breakfast, with his heart in his boots.

  Presently the governess came down, glowered at him to show that she had not forgotten, said an awful grace in Latin, and . . . Instead of speaking or eating, she became deeply interested in a letter which had come for her. It was a very queer letter written in green ink on yellow paper with very untidy writing: the governess read it through three times. She never ate much breakfast, today she ate none, though she sipped away three big cups of strong China tea, each with four lumps of sugar and a third of the cream. She said no word about Blinky. She never noticed when Kay ate the third egg. She never gave him his coffee.

  Then, just before lessons, a very smart carriage came to the door. She was evidently expecting it, for there she was in the hall, all dressed for going out. “There’ll be no lessons today, Kay,” she said. “And I shall be out for lunch. Mind I hear no bad reports of you when I come back.” Then out she sailed to the carriage, where a footman opened the door, and a lady who dangled and glittered (Kay could not see her face) welcomed her. Away they drove, with two very shiny grey horses, and the footman sticking out his elbows.

  Blackmalkin came purring along the hall after Kay. “Yes,” Kay thought, “you’re to give reports of me when she comes back, aren’t you? You shall go into the stable, my son, and do an honest day’s mousing for once.” So he popped Blackmalkin through the stable window into the harness-room and left him there with the mice and a saucer of rainwater. “He is the sneak,” he thought. “All the sneaking has been done by him.”

  “And now” he thought, “I’ll look at the book in the drawing-room which Sir Piney shook so hard.”

  The book was on the table just as it had been when Sir Piney had shaken it. It was a fat, drawing-room sort of a book in a worn binding of imitation green leather. It was called Aunt Susan’s Compendium of Pleasant Knowledge, 1841–2. He looked at page 275; it seemed very dull, being directions how to make a pretty and useful pen-wiper out of scarlet flannel and a merrythought bone. “It was only a dream,” he said. He left the book on the hearthrug.

  “What I really want to know,” he thought, “is what she has to do with the witches. I’ll bet she is in with them. Of course she is in with them, she uses Blackmalkin as a spy. And of course she invites them here to supper.”

  “Hoity toity, child,” said Grandmamma Harker’s portrait on the wall above him. “If you think that, you should deal with her: search he
r room, bless us and save us. You must be the master in your own house. Don’t let a witch take charge of Seekings. This is a house where upright people have lived. Let’s have no Endorings nor Jezebellings in Seekings. Bell her, Kay; Book her, boy; candle her, grandson; and lose no time: for time lost’s done with, but must be paid for.”

  He looked up at her portrait, which was that of a very shrewd old lady in a black silk dress. She was nodding her head at him so that her ringlets and earrings shook. “Search the wicked creature’s room,” she said, “and if she is, send word to the Bishop at once. It’s more than a Rector’s work to deal with an Endor.”

  “All right,” Kay said, “I’ll go. I will search.”

  To the west of Kay’s room, up a small flight of stairs, there was a corridor, into which he never ventured, it was so dark and awful.

  On both walls were dark old portraits and the doors of the rooms where their originals had lived and died. When these doors were shut, the corridor was as dark as the cellar. He knew that the doors to the right and left, at the farther end of the corridor, were the doors of her rooms; her bedroom to the left, her study opposite. His heart thumped and his mouth became very dry as he went up the flight of stairs, past the large scale old yellow chart of the Port and Bay of Santa Barbara, towards what might be a kind of dragon’s den.

  To his great joy, the corridor was light. Her study door was swinging open, with a bunch of keys dangling from the keyhole. And this was strange (and even awful), because he knew that Ellen had never seen the inside of the study since the governess had taken charge: it was always locked. Why was it open now? Could she have crept back unknown, unheard? Was she inside the room, like a spider in her web, waiting for him to appear? Would Greymalkin, that mysterious cat, who was so seldom seen, be on guard there, ready to fly at him? Would there be worse guards; fiery dogs, or a python? Or would there be secret guards, who would watch him through portraits, say nothing to him, but report all his doings on her return?