‘Who’s that singing?’ asked Uncle Ambrose. They stopped and listened. It was Moses’ song, but it was not Moses who was singing. Moses had a deep voice like rolling thunder, but this man sang like a tenor bell, every note ringing out clearly above the sweeping rhythm of some strange musical accompaniment. Nan began to run and Uncle Ambrose strode after her, and in a moment or two they saw a tall bearded man sawing and singing as he worked. ‘It’s Daft Davie,’ gasped Nan. ‘Davie! Davie!’ she cried.
He put down his saw, shaded his eyes against the sun and then saw who it was. He strode a few steps down the valley and held out his arms. Nan jumped into them and he lifted her as though she weighed nothing at all, holding her up at arm’s length and laughing at her round eyes of astonishment. He’s not old as I thought he was, Nan thought, he’s quite young. And how can he sing? Is it a miracle? She had heard of miracles, but she had not met one before, and when Davie set her down on the grass again her knees nearly gave way. But it steadied her to hear Uncle Ambrose saying, ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ and to see him raising his hat and holding out his hand just as though this were a perfectly ordinary afternoon call.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said Daft Davie in a clear voice. ‘Will you come up into the house?’
‘Thank you,’ said Uncle Ambrose. ‘But first I must offer my apologies for having been so long in calling upon you. The fact is, sir, that I have only lately become aware that you are resident here.’
‘I have been something of a recluse,’ explained Daft Davie courteously. ‘Shall I lead the way?’
‘Lead on, sir,’ said Uncle Ambrose.
Daft Davie led on and Nan whispered to Uncle Ambrose, as they climbed up the steps at some little distance behind him, ‘He isn’t dumb any more.’
‘So I perceive,’ said Uncle Ambrose.
The cave, when they reached it, seemed full of light, for the westering sun shone straight into it. It was also full of colour, for there was a pot of foxgloves and honeysuckle on the table and a wooden dish of red cherries, and, best of all, the sun shone straight on to the painting on the wall. Nan saw Uncle Ambrose look at it attentively, but he did not yet speak of it, for Daft Davie was delightedly doing the honours of his home. Uncle Ambrose and Nan were already full up with Lady Alicia’s cakes and sandwiches, but they could not refuse the spring water and cherries he offered them, or the thin biscuits baked on a red-hot stone, because he was so happy that he had them to offer. They sat on wooden stools and ate and drank, and the painting on the wall grew brighter and brighter as the sun’s light upon it grew more deeply golden.
‘That was a charming song, sir,’ said Uncle Ambrose politely.
‘I learnt it from an African servant who used to play with me as a child,’ said Daft Davie.
‘Indeed?’ asked Uncle Ambrose calmly. ‘You were born in these parts?’
‘I do not know,’ said Daft Davie. ‘You see, sir, I have two sets of childhood memories, divided by a pit of darkness, and the first belonged to a place and time of which I have no knowledge.’
‘I see,’ said Uncle Ambrose. ‘Can you tell me of the time when your memories became consecutive?’ And then, as Daft Davie seemed puzzled by the long word, he added, ‘When they ran together like beads on a thread.’
‘When living with foster parents at the forge at Pizzleton,’ said Daft Davie. ‘They told me they had rescued me from gypsies who were ill-treating me. But I only remember the gypsies as a vague nightmare.’
‘And the black pit of which you spoke?”
‘It was an illness which I suffered while living with the gypsies. I remember nothing of it except fever and distress and trying to speak and finding I could not. My illness, they told me, was the cause of the dumbness from which I have suffered for a number of years.’ His intensely blue eyes suddenly blazed like lamps. ‘But not now,’ he said with joy. ‘Now I speak as easily as though I had always spoken.’
‘And the first set of memories?’ asked Uncle Ambrose.
‘I remember the African servant who played with me and taught me to sing,’ said Daft Davie. ‘I remember my father and mother, and my mother’s room is as bright as a picture in my mind, and the picture in my mother’s room is a picture within a picture. I remember, I think, what I loved, but nothing else. I should have thought those memories to be a dream but for that love, and for the song. Can you carry love and music away with you from a mere dream?’
‘Hardly,’ said Uncle Ambrose, ‘nor so vivid a memory of a picture as you have painted on that wall. For I imagine that that is the picture you loved?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Daft Davie.
‘I fear you must think my questions impertinent,’ said Uncle Ambrose.
‘I am glad to answer them,’ said Daft Davie, ‘for words taste like honey on a tongue that once was bound and now is free.’
‘Their sound too has sweetness,’ said Uncle Ambrose. ‘They come to you, I think, from the time of your early memories, not from the forge at Pizzleton. Sir, I am deeply interested in your history and that must be my excuse for asking you one more question. Was your tongue bound for long?’
‘It was freed, sir, only last night. I was sitting by my fire at evening. It was a dying fire, but suddenly the flames leapt up like the fires of spring and they were all the colours of the rainbow. The sight was of such marvellous beauty that I cried aloud, “Glory glory alleluja!”’
‘You might well do so,’ said Uncle Ambrose, ‘for your recovery is remarkable. May I look more closely at the pictures round your walls?’
He got up, adjusted his spectacles and walked round the cave with Daft Davie, giving Nan time to recover from her dizziness. For she had felt like an acrobat at a circus all the time Uncle Ambrose and Davie had been talking. Sometimes the ceiling of the cave had seemed over her head and sometimes it had seemed under her feet. But she had come right way up again when Daft Davie had spoken of the rainbow flames leaping up and his speech coming back, for it had been at the time when they had been sitting round the fire and Ezra had been pulling the pins out of the little boy’s tongue. The little boy and Daft Davie were the same person, Lady Alicia’s son Francis, who hadn’t been drowned in the Weeping Marsh after all. Nan wondered why she had not known they were the same when she first saw that the picture in Lady Alicia’s boudoir was like the picture on the wall of the cave. Uncle Ambrose, she realised now, had had his suspicions just from hearing about the two pictures, let alone seeing them. But then Uncle Ambrose was very clever. She got up and joined the two men and slipped her hand into Daft Davie’s, and he looked down at her as though she were Helen of Troy and the Sleeping Beauty rolled into one.
‘Nan, you are the most wonderful little girl in the world,’ he said.
‘She will not remain so if you cause her head to swell,’ said Uncle Ambrose severely. ‘Your drawings of birds and animals are excellent. You have, I see, a great love for them.’
‘I love all creatures,’ said Daft Davie simply. ‘I go round the woods destroying the traps and snares set for them.’ Then his voice became thick with anger and his face crimson. ‘If I could catch the man who snares my rabbits and pheasants I’d fling him over the roof of the Manor.’
He looked so tall and strong and angry as he spoke that Nan believed he could and would do just what he said, but Uncle Ambrose, looking suddenly just as tall and strong and angry, eyed him with beetling brows and said severely, ‘Vengeance, sir, is cruel, stupid, useless, and vulgar. Remember that when you return to the world. Well, Nan and I must bid you farewell. I will, if I may, do myself the honour of waiting upon you again tomorrow morning.’
‘May I come down to the woods with you, sir?’ asked Daft Davie, as meek now as a scolded child. ‘Then I can go on talking,’ he added happily.
So the three of them went down the valley together, climbed over the Lion’s paw and stood looking down at the rustling sea of green leaves below them, and up into the unendingness of the golden sky above, where invisible larks wer
e singing, and suddenly Daft Davie began to sing again, his song ringing out over the tree tops. When the song ceased echo answered from down below the green leaves, a deep echo like a voice singing under the sea. Uncle Ambrose and Daft Davie listened in amazement, but Nan said, ‘It’s not echo, it’s Moses singing in the yard by the back door.’
‘Moses?’ asked Daft Davie. ‘Moses?’ and he looked so bewildered that Uncle Ambrose changed the conversation by saying, ‘Sir, you must be attached to these woods.’
‘They are mine,’ said Daft Davie simply, ‘and all the creatures in them.’
Uncle Ambrose hastily led the way down the rocks. They were nearly at the bottom before Nan said, ‘Look!’ They stopped and looked and down in the wood below was William Lawson, bending down and doing something at the foot of a tree. He was setting snares. Daft Davie flung back his head and roared like a lion. He looked like a lion too, with his tangled mane of hair, a terrible infuriated beast whose roaring turned to a spate of furious words that made William Lawson look up and then stare as though turned to stone, terror and amazement on his face.
Uncle Ambrose had hold of Daft Davie by his lion’s mane. ‘Stop that!’ he commanded. ‘Don’t swear. Sing!’
With a tremendous struggle Daft Davie strangled his roars and sang. And from below came the deep rumble of Moses’ singing, and from the woods the voices of children.
Down with all hard-hearted naughty scoundrels,
Their traps and snares.
Down with those who plot the death of squirrels,
Rabbits and hares.
Shame on those who harm the stripy badger
And hunt the fox.
Shame on all ill-wishing jealous witches
And black warlocks.
Run from our green lanes and hills and meadows,
From moor and wood,
Or else speak truth, be affable and kindly,
Harmless and good.
Glory for the fleeing of the shadows,
The rising sun.
Glory, children, glory alleluja,
For night is done.
Glory, glory seemed to ring from every corner of the wood and William Lawson turned and ran. And from hidden places in the woods came Emma and Frederick, Eliza and the bulldog, and they too were running for their lives. Yet not one of the unseen singers had moved, or did move until the woods were free. Then they appeared through the trunks of the trees, Moses, Abednego, Ezra, Robert, Absolom, Timothy, and Betsy.
‘I said these children were to stay at home,’ said Uncle Ambrose severely to Ezra.
‘I be sorry, sir,’ said Ezra. ‘I feared some ’arm might come to you. An’ the children ’ad the right to be ’ere.’ Then he looked up at Daft Davie. ‘Glad to ’ear your voice, sir,’ he said.
But Daft Davie was not listening to him or even looking at him. He was looking first at Moses and then at Abednego and his face was working strangely, as though he were trying to remember something. Uncle Ambrose put his hand on his shoulder. ‘Go back to your house, sir,’ he commanded. ‘Go back to the cave and possess your soul in patience. Tomorrow morning I will come to you and all that now seems strange will be made plain.’ Daft Davie turned round and went slowly back, for when Uncle Ambrose commanded everyone always obeyed. Then Uncle Ambrose turned to Moses, who was staring at Daft Davie’s retreating back with as much bewilderment as Daft Davie had stared at him. ‘Moses, take me back to Lady Alicia. I have a great deal to tell her, and to tell you also. Ezra, take the children home. Confusion is at present great, but undoubtedly it is a happy hour.’
They all tramped joyously down through the woods, parting at the stableyard. Uncle Ambrose, Moses, and Abednego went into the house and Ezra, the children, and Absolom went singing through the garden and the shrubbery. They did not stop singing until they reached the green.
‘My stars!’ ejaculated Ezra.
‘What is it?’ asked Nan.
‘Look there,’ said Ezra. ‘An’ stand back. Keep out o’ sight.’
They obeyed him and looked in the direction of his pointing finger. The Bulldog sign outside the inn had disappeared and the bar from which it had hung was empty, with an equally empty stepladder standing beneath it. As they gazed in stupefaction, William Lawson came out of the inn carrying a brightly coloured picture, followed by Emma and Frederick the cat. It was Emma who nimbly mounted the ladder and William handed the picture up to her and she hung it where the Bulldog had been. Then she came down the ladder again and William carried it back inside the inn. Emma and Frederick remained where they were, looking up at the new sign.
It represented a magnificent peregrine falcon with a creamy speckled breast, night-dark wings, and curved scimitar beak. Behind him was a sky of brilliant blue and the hand that held him up into the sunshine was gloved in scarlet.
‘’Tis the old Falcon!’ whispered Ezra in fierce tones. ‘The sign that was there afore Squire Valerian went away. William Lawson took it down, blast ’im! ’Tis the old sign come back.’
Emma turned round and saw Ezra and the children standing by the gate. She looked at them with a most charming expression on her face, smiled sweetly and curtsied to them. Then she walked slowly and serenely to her shop with Frederick, a very meek little cat, trotting at her heels, went in and closed the door quietly behind her.
Ezra breathed a great sigh of relief and said, ‘’Tis gone!’
‘What’s gone?’ asked Timothy.
‘The wickedness,’ said Ezra. ‘All the badness that’s been in this village for many a long year. An’ sorrow an’ partin’ with it. ’Tis gone.’
‘Emma’s still here,’ Nan reminded him.
‘She won’t do no more ’arm,’ said Ezra. ‘’Er spells be burnt an’ she won’t do no more ’arm. ’Angin’ up that falcon was ’er sign to us that she knows she’s beaten. She won’t do no more ’arm. Glory glory alleluja!’
They went singing down the hill to the Vicarage and then straight up the garden to the beehives where they stood in a row and bowed and curtsied. The marvellous light was now so brilliant that they all turned gold while they did it. ‘Madam queens an’ noble bees,’ said Ezra, ‘we offer ee our ’umble thanks for all your ’elp in drivin’ badness an’ sorrow away from our village. An’ I, old Ezra, in your presence, bless the day that brought these troublesome varmints to live at the Vicarage. Varmints they may be, but with your ’elp they’ve done a good work that won’t never be forgotten. Clothed in gold, they be, gold as yellow as your ’oney. Golden be their future an’ gold be in their ’earts for ever.’
The children, at this magnificent tribute, grew rosy and shyly ducked their heads and bobbed their curtsies once more, while behind the church the sky began to unroll the first bright banner of a sunset that was the most magnificent of any ever seen in those parts, a sunset that was spoken of for years to come.
Deep inside the hives the bees could be heard singing.
chapter fourteen
happy ever after
Uncle Ambrose arrived home very late that night, after spending a long time telling Lady Alicia that she had a son, and he went off very early the next morning and spent an even longer time telling Daft Davie that he had a mother. And then he took him to the Manor and left him there, with Lady Alicia and Moses and Abednego, and no one knew what happened within the Manor during the following week. All they knew was that Moses and Abednego were very busy in the overgrown shrubbery with hatchets and saws, the old driveway, and also that Moses went out shopping several times, looking very pleased with himself, and that on the second occasion he bought two dapple-grey horses.
Then at the end of the week, the village had the surprise of its life, for Lady Alicia and her son Francis Valerian went out for a drive. It was the milkman, taking the morning’s milk to the Manor, who saw the ancient carriage, all polished and furbished up, issuing out of the stableyard with Moses and Abednego and Gertrude on the box. Moses and Abednego too were very much furbished up, and there was a large rosett
e of scarlet ribbon on the whip which Moses was brandishing over the backs of the two dapple-grey horses. The milkman did not wait to see any more. He dumped the milk behind a bush and he ran as though for his life, though actually he was not afraid, he was merely running to rouse the village and bring it to its doors.
They were all at their doors when the gates were opened by Abednego and the Valerian carriage rolled through. It paused for a moment on the green to allow Abednego to jump back on his perch, and a great cheer went up from the villagers, and louder and louder cheers as more and more people came running up the hill to the green. Uncle Ambrose and Ezra and the children and Absolom came racing from the Vicarage; or rather the children and Absolom raced, while Uncle Ambrose and Ezra strode and stumped as fast as was compatible with adult dignity, and Hector flapped his wings and heated with joy on Uncle Ambrose’s broad shoulder.
Men came running from the fields and the women from their wash-tubs. The village school broke up in confusion and all the children came tumbling out. For only the older people in the village had ever seen Lady Alicia or her carriage, and though a few had seen the recluse who had lived in the Lion’s cave, they did not know what he would look like transformed into Francis Valerian.
He looked magnificent in a suit of fine cloth that had once belonged to his father, with his father’s cloak about his shoulders and his father’s tall hat on his head. His beard and his lion’s mane of hair had been trimmed and cut and he looked now a man in the prime of life. And Lady Alicia, in a beautiful lavender silk dress and a bonnet trimmed with violets, looked no longer old, but merely elderly. She was smiling and happy and so was her son, and Moses and Abednego, very fine in their green velvet livery, were grinning from ear to ear. The old carriage, with the Valerian crest painted on the panels of the doors, shone almost as brightly in the sunshine as the coach of glass in which Cinderella drove to the ball.