PANIC AND THE SILENT PEOPLE
The following morning Captain Mumchance rode off to search Miss
Primrose Crabapple's Academy for fairy fruit. And in his pocket was a
warrant for the arrest of that lady should his search prove successful.
But when he reached the Academy he found that the birds had flown. The
old rambling house was empty and silent. No light feet tripped down its
corridors, no light laughter wakened its echoes. Some fierce wind had
scattered the Crabapple Blossoms. Miss Primrose, too, had disappeared.
A nameless dread seized Captain Mumchance as he searched through the
empty silent rooms.
He found the bedrooms in disorder--drawers half opened, delicately
tinted clothing heaped on the floor--indicating that the flitting had
been a hurried one.
Beneath each bed, too, he found a little pair of shoes, very down at
heel, with almost worn-out soles, looking as if the feet that had worn
them must have been very busy.
He continued his search down to the kitchen premises, where he found
Mother Tibbs sitting smiling to herself, and crooning.
"Now, you cracked harlot," he cried roughly, "what have you been up
to, I'd like to know? I've had my eye on you, my beauty, for a very
long time. If I can't make you speak, perhaps the judges will. What's
happened to the young ladies? Just you tell me that!"
But Mother Tibbs was more crazy than usual that day, and her only
answer was to trip up and down the kitchen floor, singing snatches of
old songs about birds set free, and celestial flowers, and the white
fruits that grow on the Milky Way.
Mumchance was holding one of the little shoes, and catching sight of
it, she snatched it from him, and tenderly stroked it, as if it had
been a wounded dove.
"Dancing, dancing, dancing!" she muttered, "dancing day and night! It's
stony dancing on dreams."
And with an angry snort Mumchance realized, not for the first time in
his life, that it was a waste of time trying to get any sense out of
Mother Tibbs.
So he started again to search the house, this time for fairy fruit.
However, not a pip, not a scrap of peel could he find that looked
suspicious. But, finally, in the loft he discovered empty sacks with
great stains of juice on them, and it could have been no ordinary
juice, for some of the stains were colours he had never seen before.
The terrible news of the Crabapple Blossoms' disappearance spread like
wildfire through Lud-in-the-Mist. Business was at a standstill. Half
the Senators, and some of the richer tradesmen, had daughters in the
Academy, and poor Mumchance was besieged by frantic parents who seemed
to think that he was keeping their daughters concealed somewhere on his
person. They were all, too, calling down vengeance on the head of Miss
Primrose Crabapple, and demanding that she should be found and handed
over to justice.
It was Endymion Leer who got the credit for finding her. He brought
her, sobbing and screaming, to the guard-room of the Yeomanry. He said
he had discovered her wandering about, half frantic, on the wharf,
evidently hoping to take refuge in some outward bound vessel.
She denied all knowledge of what had happened to her pupils, and said
she had woken up that morning to find the birds flown.
She also denied, with passionate protestations, having given them fairy
fruit. In this, Endymion Leer supported her. The smugglers, he said,
were men of infinite resource and cunning, and what more likely than
that they should have inserted the stuff into a consignment of innocent
figs and grapes?
"And school girls being one quarter boy and three quarters bird," he
added with his dry chuckle, "they cannot help being orchard thieves ...
and if there isn't an orchard to rob, why, they'll rob the loft where
the apples are kept. And if the apples turn out not to be apples--why,
then, no one is to blame!" Nevertheless, Miss Primrose was locked up in
the room in the Guildhall reserved for prisoners of the better class,
pending her trial on a charge of receiving contraband goods in the form
of woven silk--the only charge, owing to the willful blindness of the
law, on which she could be tried.
In the meantime a couple of the Yeomen, who had been scouring the
country for Moonlove Honeysuckle, returned with the news that they
had chased her as far as the Debatable Hills, and had last seen her
scrambling like a goat up their sides. And no Dorimarite could be
expected to follow her further.
A couple of days later the Yeomen sent to search for the other
Crabapple Blossoms returned with similar news. All along the West Road
they had heard rumours of a band of melancholy maidens flitting past
to the sound of sad wild ditties. And, finally, they had come upon a
goatherd who had seen them disappearing, like Moonlove, among the folds
of the terrible hills.
So there was nothing further to be done. The Crabapple Blossoms had by
now surely perished in the Elfin Marches, or else vanished for ever
into Fairyland.
These were sad days in Lud-in-the-Mist--all the big houses with their
shutters down, the dancing halls and other places of amusement closed,
sad, frightened faces in the streets--and, as if in sympathy with human
things, the days shortening, the trees yellowing, and beginning to shed
their leaves.
Endymion Leer was much in request--especially in the houses that
had hitherto been closed to him. Now, he was in and out of them all
day long, exhorting, comforting, advising. And wherever he went he
managed to leave the impression that somehow or other Master Nathaniel
Chanticleer was to blame for the whole business.
There was no doubt about it, Master Nathaniel, these days, was the most
unpopular man in Lud-in-the-Mist.
In the Senate he got nothing but sour looks from his colleagues;
threats and insults were muttered behind him as he walked down the High
Street; and one day, pausing at a street corner where a puppet-show
was being exhibited, he found that he himself was the villain of the
piece. For when the time-honoured climax was reached and the hero was
belabouring the villain's wooden head with his cudgel, the falsetto
voice of the concealed showman punctuated the blows with such comments
as: "There, Nat Cock o' the Roost, is a black eye to you for small
loaves ... and there's another for sour wine ... and there's a bloody
nose to you for being too fond of papples and ares."
Here the showman changed his voice and said, "Please, sir, what are
papples and ares?" "Ask Nat Cock o' the Roost," came the falsetto,
"and he'll tell you they're apples and pears that come from across the
hills!"
Most significant of all, for the first time since Master Nathaniel had
been head of the family, Ebeneezor Prim did not come himself to wind
the clocks. Ebeneezor was a paragon of dignity and respectability, and
it was a joke in Lud society that you could not really be sure of your
social status till he came to wind your clocks himself, instead of
sending one of his apprentices.
However, the apprentice he sent to Master Nathaniel was almost as
respectable looking as he was himself. He wore a neat black wig, and
his expression was sanctimonious in the extreme, with the corners of
his mouth turned down, like one of his master's clocks that had stopped
at 7:25.
Certainly a very respectable young man, and one who was evidently fully
aware of the unsavoury rumours that were circulating concerning the
house of Chanticleer; for he looked with such horror at the silly
moon-face with its absurd revolving moustachios of Master Nathaniel's
grandfather clock, and opened its mahogany body so gingerly, and,
when he had adjusted its pendulum, wiped his fingers on his pocket
handkerchief with such an expression of disgust, that the innocent
timepiece might have been the wicked Mayor's familiar--a grotesque
hobgoblin tabby cat, purring, and licking her whiskers after an obscene
orgy of garbage.
But Master Nathaniel was indifferent to these manifestations of
unpopularity. Let mental suffering be intense enough, and it becomes a
sort of carminative.
When the news first reached him of the flight of the Crabapple Blossoms
he very nearly went off his head. Facts suddenly seemed to be becoming
real.
For the first time in his life his secret shadowy fears began to
solidify--to find a real focus; and the focus was Ranulph.
His first instinct was to fling municipal obligations to the winds
and ride post-haste to the farm. But what would that serve after all?
It would be merely playing into the hands of his enemies, and by his
flight giving the public reason to think that the things that were said
about him were true.
It would be madness, too, to bring Ranulph back to Lud. Surely there
was no place in Dorimare more fraught with danger for the boy these
days than was the fairy fruit-stained town of Lud. He felt like a rat
in a trap.
He continued to receive cheerful letters from Ranulph himself and good
accounts of him from Luke Hempen, and gradually his panic turned into
a sort of lethargic nightmare of fatalism, which seemed to free him
from the necessity of taking action. It was as if the future were a
treacly adhesive fluid that had been spilt all over the present, so
that everything he touched made his fingers too sticky to be of the
slightest use.
He found no comfort in his own home. Dame Marigold, who had always
cared for Prunella much more than for Ranulph, was in a condition of
nervous prostration.
Each time the realization swept over her that Prunella had eaten fairy
fruit and was either lost in the Elfin Marches or in Fairyland itself,
she would be seized by nausea and violent attacks of vomiting.
Indeed, the only moments of relief he knew were in pacing up and down
his own pleached alley, or wandering in the Fields of Grammary. For
the Fields of Grammary gave him a foretaste of death--the state that
will turn one into a sort of object of art (that is to say if one is
remembered by posterity) with all one's deeds and passions simplified,
frozen into beauty; an absolutely silent thing that people gaze at,
and that cannot in its turn gaze back at them.
And the pleached alley brought him the peace of still life--life that
neither moves nor suffers, but only grows in silence and slowly matures
in secret.
The Silent People! How he would have liked to be one of them!
But sometimes, as he wandered in the late afternoon about the streets
of the town, human beings themselves seemed to have found the secret
of still life. For at that hour all living things seemed to cease from
functioning. The tradesmen would stand at the doors of their shops
staring with vacant eyes down the street--as detached from business as
the flowers in the gardens, which looked as if they too were resting
after their day's work and peeping idly out from between their green
shutters.
And lads who were taking their sweethearts for a row on the Dapple
would look at them with unseeing eyes, while the maidens gazed into the
distance and trailed their hands absently in the water.
Even the smithy, with its group of loungers at its open door,
watching the swing and fall of the smith's hammer and the lurid red
light illuminating his face, might have been no more than a tent at
a fair where holiday makers were watching a lion tamer or the feats
of a professional strong man; for at that desultory hour the play of
muscles, the bending of resisting things to a human will, the taming
of fire, a creature more beautiful and dangerous than any lion, seemed
merely an entertaining spectacle that served no useful purpose.
The very noises of the street--the rattle of wheels, a lad whistling,
a pedlar crying his wares--seemed to come from far away, to be as
disembodied and remote from the activities of man as is the song of the
birds.
And if there was still some bustle in the High Street it was as
soothing as that of a farmyard. And the whole street--houses, cobbles,
and all--might almost have been fashioned out of growing things cut
by man into patterns, as is a formal garden. So that Master Nathaniel
would wander, at that hour, between its rows of shops and houses, as if
between the thick green walls of a double hedge of castellated box, or
down the golden tunnel of his own pleached alley.
If life in Lud-in-the-Mist could always be like that there would be no
need to die.