Oy Yew (The Waifs of Duldred Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  Her eyes were big and liquid in the dark. ‘Tell me then, tell me quick.’

  ‘Owin never left. He’s still here.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Rook’s Parlour.’

  ‘Locked in? A prisoner?’

  ‘He’s in the chimney. His bones are in the chimney.’

  ‘Oh,’ Lucinda breathed into her hand. ‘Oh,’ she said, as she twisted the cloth of her dress. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I see’d it. Master sent me up there. He knows I been nosing around, and he’s signing what will happen to me if I carry on. Are you with me now?’

  ‘He wanted you to see it, him, Owin?’

  ‘He don’t care what we see; he’s so sure nothing we can do or say can touch him.’

  ‘You were right then.’ Lucinda pressed her hands to her cheeks and closed her eyes.

  The bell jangled on the wall. They both started.

  ‘Stairs – he wants you again.’

  ‘What for? At this hour? I can’t.’

  Alas pressed her shaking hands between his. ‘Go on, don’t let him see that you know, and don’t show fear. He enjoys it too much.’

  She stood up and sat down again. ‘My legs feel like somebody else’s.’

  The bell rang again.

  Jeopardine watched Lucinda closely as she climbed the Huntsman’s stair. She stopped in front of him without raising her eyes.

  ‘Sir?’

  He pointed to a spot near his slipper.

  ‘What is that?’

  Lucinda stooped. ‘Looks like one thread of a cobweb, sir.’

  ‘One thread. Is its oneness in any way significant? No, oneness signifies existence and existence, in the case of cobwebs, damns.’

  Long words, short wit, thought Lucinda. Her mother’s saying made her tilt her chin in defiance.

  Jeopardine missed the tiny movement. ‘Where do you suppose the most webs are in Duldred?’

  Lucinda guessed what was coming. ‘The barns, sir.’

  ‘Yes, it’s time they had a dust. Start on them tomorrow.’

  Lucinda lifted the cobweb. It melted into her duster. She turned and her eyes sliced through the dark to the Master’s back. Only a slight girl, but such a look.

  11 Unique

  Raymun stood in the Boot Room and tugged on the cord which was linked to the eleven bells in the bottomest basement. The bells all had different tones; the result of all eleven ringing together was a splintery, clattering, brassy, cacophonous jangle. It was a violent way to be woken. Raymun ran lightly down the half spiral stair with the morning lamp and hung it from the chain in the centre of the bottomest basement.

  They were galvanized by bells but they were not awake. Roused upright, arms were pushed into sleeves, breeches and boots were stepped into, pinnies were slipped over heads. They tied and buttoned and laced themselves and each other, but they were not awake. Faces were creased, eyes squinted. Raymun chattered brightly. Eyes full of morning blear were shaded from the lamp and from the tireless cheer of Raymun.

  ‘I swear Raymun don’t sleep,’ muttered Billam, ‘he just closes his eyes for a bit and then opens them again; whereas I never wakes up, I just open my eyes for a bit then I closes them again.’

  ‘Don’t cross Master today if you can help it,’ Raymun was saying, ‘there’s a rumour that Skinnitar’s got hold of a shebok skull with cone bone.’

  ‘So?’ said Jakes.

  ‘Can you eat it?’ said Blinda. ‘If not I ain’t interested.’

  ‘The shebok and the otterine together make Skinnitar hard to beat. Master’s got to do some big spending now. Not only that, Skinnitar’s dinner went very well. Mr Odol had three helpings of the pie. So Master’s bordering on tantrums this morning.’

  As Raymun handed out the schedules, three of the waifs moved differently from the rest. Alas was heavy with his secret. Lucinda’s face was tight and she moved with short, staccato movements. Oy was on his hands and knees. Every time he tried to get up he ended by moving sideways like a crab.

  ‘Sorry, can’t get up,’ he said knocking into the back of Elyut’s legs.

  Elyut and Lizbuth took an arm each and stood him up, but he simply fell down again and lay on his back, his legs turning slowly in the air.

  ‘Cinda,’ said Lizbuth, ‘looks like Oy’s got run a’bed.’

  ‘That’s what it is alright,’ said Raymun, ‘I’ll go and tell Master.’

  Dr Sandy ordered that Oy be moved somewhere bright and dry, so he was put in the lodge with Raymun. He lay sleeping on a straw mattress under the window which looked out onto the woodyard.

  ‘Is he in there?’ said Jeopardine. The Doctor assured him that the slight bumps in the blanket were in fact, Oy. ‘I’ve never known such a sickly waif,’ Jeopardine said almost sulkily. ‘I was under the impression that Porians were immune to our diseases.’

  ‘Most are, but there’s some doubt about this one. He doesn’t look Porian and I understand he was found without a pyxid.’

  ‘Ah yes, I recall now. Can’t he tell you where he’s from?’

  ‘His mental development is unusual. Little memory formation. Also his bone structure is unique as far as I can tell: only eight ribs, curiously mobile scapula and three joints in the thumb.’

  Jeopardine stepped swiftly to Oy’s bedside and plucked at the blanket uncovering his hand. ‘Unique you say?’

  ‘In my experience.’ The Doctor looked from Oy’s hand to Jeopardine’s face and back again. ‘But I might be wrong – probably am.’ He pulled the covers tight around Oy and tucked them in. ‘It’s best if the draughts are kept out.’

  ‘Of course. How soon can you get him back to work?’

  ‘In a few days with wholesome, regular food. On waif rations – weeks.’

  Jeopardine winced. ‘There’s one thing to be said for the Porians: they are exceptionally hardy. This one – well it would hardly be surprising if he just faded away.’

  ‘The best course would be to encourage growth and release him quickly.’ Dr Sandy spoke firmly, trying to hold Jeopardine’s gaze. But Jeopardine’s eyes were drawn back to the line of Oy’s hand under the covers. ‘Or send him back to the factory where the work is lighter.’

  ‘No, I wish to keep him – I mean, we can look after him better here. Dose him up, Doctor, and I’ll be needing something myself. I’ve a grating in my hips ever since this wretched illness.’

  ‘A common complication,’ said Dr Sandy.

  ‘And none of your blasted firewater.’

  ‘Yes, that particular remedy is rather kill or cure.’

  ‘Kill or cure,’ repeated Jeopardine thoughtfully as Dr Sandy walked away.

  Raymun was in the yard of the lodge. His axe arced and thwacked. Splinters flew. He attacked again and there were eight more logs to throw on the wood mountain beside him. And all done with zealous glee.

  ‘Poetry,’ said Jeopardine wistfully.

  Raymun glimpsed the Master watching him, and just to show that he had ways of working even harder, he jumped and thwacked, jumped and thwacked, clearing the ground and throwing his whole body into each blow.

  ‘Raymun,’ said Jeopardine, thoughtfully. Raymun walked over, panting and wiping sweat on his sleeve. ‘Of all the tasks you do for me, which would you say is the hardest work?’

  ‘This one, sir, no question. It’s enough to break anyone softer’n me. That’s why I likes it so much. It stretches me proper. I sleeps like a baby after a day’s chopping.’

  Later, in the drawing room, his long legs stretched in front of the fire, Jeopardine flicked through the Exotic & Extinct Skeletons catalogue.

  ‘Where is that chimp’s finger? Here we are: ape metacarpal with Fome’s disorder, colloquial: screw bone. Note the spiral ridged effect. Unique – certificate pending. Offers in the region of six hundred gildans. For so small a thing, six hundred gildans!’

  He noted the dealer’s name and then began to write President Jeremiah Jeopardine repeatedly across the page. At last he
threw the pen aside, lay the open catalogue on his chest, put his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling.

  12 All Thumbs

  Everyone knew, but no one ever mentioned, that Jeopardine did not trust the upservants at all. It was Raymun’s job to lock up everything that could be locked up and to count what could be counted. The upservants in turn, spied on the waifs; and so they all hated each other.

  The upservants staggered out of the stores, their arms full of supplies. Birkin handed the logbook to Raymun. Raymun ushered the waifs into the dim, shelf-lined room. He looked from the book to the shelves and tutted. ‘Very poor record-keeping,’ he said. ‘Birkin’s put down for two jars of Macey’s. Does this say Macey’s?’

  Lucinda looked over his shoulder. ‘Macey’s unguent,’ she said, taking pleasure in her new reading skill.

  ‘There’s more than that gone, I’m sure,’ Raymun noted. He pretended to count what was left under his breath. ‘Just check for me, Lucinda,’ he said. ‘Make sure I’m right.’

  ‘Fourteen,’ said Lucinda. She was used to covering up for Raymun. He feared losing his position if it was known that he could barely count. ‘Same as you got I expect.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And there should be…’

  ‘Sixteen,’ said Lucinda.

  ‘So there’s…’

  ‘Two unaccounted for,’ she said. ‘Anything else you want to check?’ She hated that the upservants took advantage of his difficulty.

  ‘Funny smell in here,’ said Oy.

  It was hard to pick out a single aroma among all the waxes, soaps, oils and scrubs. Brooms, mops and long feather dusters stood in ranks against one wall. The lanes of shelves were stacked with dusters, beeswax, metal polish, vinegar, borax, brushes, buckets and bowls of every size. A giant block of green soap stood on a board with its wire-cutter. There were pine cones steeping in oil, a crate of lemons, white jars of alum and black jars of plumbago. The heavy dust bellows machine took up half the room.

  ‘Show your empties before you refill ’em,’ said Raymun.

  ‘I forgot mine,’ said Lizbuth.

  ‘Just potwash you’re after?’ said Raymun.

  ‘And sheet spray,’ said Lizbuth.

  ‘Wait and I’ll fetch your bottles,’ said Raymun. ‘I’ll be quicker round the runs.’

  Blinda cut slabs of soap. Oy went to look for starch. ‘Blinda,’ he called, ‘come here.’ Blinda found him in the semi-darkness between suds and waxes. ‘Try this on your hands,’ he said, rubbing cream into Blinda’s cracked fingers. ‘It’s got a good, healing smell. How does that feel?’

  ‘Nice,’ said Blinda. ‘Feels like sun creeping into my skin.’

  The tubs of wax on the shelf next to them parted. There was a brief red glow. A nasty puff of weed-green smoke streamed through the gap. ‘Stealing!’ said Inch. She came round the shelves, waving her pipe. ‘Stealing from the stores.’ Blinda put her hand behind her back and wiped it on her skirt. Inch grabbed her wrist. ‘No good trying to hide it. Master knows my word is good and he hates a thief. Let’s see what forfeit this gets you.’

  Raymun returned with the bottles. Blinda told him what had happened. ‘It weren’t proper stealing,’ she protested. ‘The littlest bit of lotion, when upservants help themselves to potfuls.’

  ‘None of that counts,’ said Raymun. ‘We’ve got our own rules. I’ve told and told you, stick to the rules and there’s no bother. I shouldn’t have left you.’

  ‘Tell Master it was me, not Blinda,’ pleaded Oy. ‘He listens to you.’

  When they had all taken what they needed, Raymun locked up and went to plead Oy’s case with Jeopardine. At the same time he reported the missing jars of Macey’s.

  At the day’s end Alas and Oy converged on the edge of the courtyard. There was a walled area by the tradesman’s entrance which was not overlooked by the hall. It was a favoured spot for the upservants to lounge and gossip and smoke. Scuffling sounds came from beyond the wall, and voices:

  ‘Got him.’

  ‘Throw him to me.’

  ‘Missed.’

  ‘Boot him over here then.’

  ‘Sounds like they got Raymun again,’ said Alas.

  ‘Who?’ said Oy.

  ‘The upservants, they hate him. He must have reported Birkin. There ain’t nothing we can do but… I got to go and see. You stay back.’

  ‘I want to come.’

  As they got nearer there were thuds and grunts of pain. Then Raymun staggered out. His brows were drawn together but he greeted them with a wincing smile.

  ‘Raymun, you got to tell Master,’ Alas urged him.

  He waved his hand at Alas’s face. ‘It’s nothing.’ He forced himself upright and pulled his sleeves down to cover his bruises. ‘You ain’t got too bad a punishment for this morning, Oy. A week on logs – my favourite job. I’d get you started but I’ve to go to Crust on a herrand. See Master first thing in the lumber yard.’

  A felled forest surrounded Oy. Tree tops and conifer fronds were brought to eye level; hulking trunks lay down like sleeping bullibeasts. Oy felt tiny as an ant. Next to him was the chopping block and a rack of axes, tall as himself, their edges honed and gleaming silver. The felled trees bled resin, clearing his head with a sharp forest smell.

  The Master came striding from the house. Excitement fired his walk. He wore no jacket, he had nicked himself shaving and his hair was very slightly ruffled. Oy had a longing to hide in the cracks and crannies of the wood piles, but Jeopardine had seen him.

  ‘Drains is a job which is light on labour,’ he said as he stood over Oy. ‘Your illness tells me that you need to build some stamina. Notice how the harder Raymun works, the tougher he becomes. These trees,’ he waved his hand airily at the wall of wood, ‘need making into logs. Let me see you make a start.’

  Oy swallowed and looked into Jeopardine’s eyes questioningly. Then he looked deeper. Jeopardine flinched as though he had been jabbed by a pin.

  ‘Well, get on with it.’

  Oy walked across to the wood pile where a wheel of trunk lay on a trolley. He rolled it across the yard and found the levers which tipped it onto the block like Raymun had shown him; then he took the smallest axe from the rack. With failing wrists and swaying legs he swung it back and down. The weight of the axe and its wicked edge made a small V in the wood. He tried again and the axe fell in a different place.

  ‘You’re as much use as the tenth part of Raymun’s finger. Try chopping a log into sticks.’

  Oy fetched a log. This time he missed it altogether.

  Jeopardine stared at Oy’s hands where his thumbs crossed on the handle of the axe.

  ‘Give the axe to me,’ he said abruptly. ‘Now hold the log while I show you.’

  Oy knelt by the log and steadied it.

  ‘No, hold it more firmly.’ Jeopardine arranged Oy’s hands so that his thumbs spread on top of the log. ‘That’s better.’

  Jeopardine looked quickly around and behind him then he swung the axe awkwardly.

  Oy closed his eyes. He felt the whisk of the axe past his face, the shudder of the log between his hands, heard the chock of the blade and the Master’s grunt. He thought of tarts, warm jam tarts with runny jam. The sounds of the woodyard faded to dull taps.

  Jeopardine flailed twenty or thirty times until he tired. When Oy opened his eyes he saw that the log was criss-crossed with gashes and blood, and that the tip of his thumb was gone. ‘It’s nothing,’ said Jeopardine. ‘Don’t fuss, hold the log again. I’m not done.’

  ‘Master, you’ve gone and hurt yourself.’ Raymun came bustling up beside them. ‘Look at your shirt. Let me see.’

  ‘It isn’t me, it’s Drains. It’s just a scratch.’

  Raymun picked up Oy’s hand. Blood welled from the raw flesh, dribbling and splashing all over the wood. ‘It’s a bit more than that, sir, if you don’t mind me saying. I think I’d better bind it before he carries on.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Jeopardine, leanin
g on his axe and studying the sky while Raymun trotted to his lodge.

  Raymun ran back quickly and bandaged Oy’s thumb into a fat, white egg.

  ‘Now keep that arm in the air,’ he said, ‘while I show you a bit of technique.’

  Raymun took the axe and quickly reduced the log to a perfectly uniform heap of sticks.

  ‘Raymun, shouldn’t you be in Crust?’ Jeopardine asked as he finished.

  ‘That I should, sir. Fool that I am, I forgot to remind you to give me the papers for the herrand, sir.’

  ‘Never mind now.’ Jeopardine sighed. ‘Show Drains how things are done here would you. He can try again tomorrow.’

  The bandage egg was already soaked red. Oy lifted it and sucked at his thumb, blood swamping the memory of tarts.

  ‘Had an accident, Oy?’ Gertie asked as Oy came down the stairs into the basement.

  At the word ‘accident’ Alas ran swiftly up the stairs questioning Oy as he walked him down. ‘Sounds like a set up,’ said Alas. ‘Work like that’s enough to finish you off, weak as you are. Then he takes the axe himself you say. Did it seem like he was aiming to do you a mortal injury?’

  Oy shook his head. ‘I think he’s not used to axes.’

  ‘You’re rare you are,’ said Gertie.

  ‘Wished I weren’t,’ said Oy, but nobody heard him.

  13 A Spanner in the Works

  After the third day of chopping, Oy looked as crushed and crumpled as an empty bag. Alas watched him with increasing concern. Raymun said he’d like to help but he had work to do across the park.

  On the fourth day dusk was fading into night and still Oy was not done. In the morning the impossible mass of wood had faced him and in the evening, there it was, barely changed by his efforts.

  ‘Better knock off now,’ Raymun shouted across the yard. ‘I’ll have a word later.’

  Oy dropped the axe in the wood chips and all his strength went with it. It wasn’t far to the hall. A rough path edged the Mammus Grove, crossed the stableyard and you were there, but it seemed such a long way. He felt as though a tide was withdrawing inside him leaving him hollow and floaty. The hall, the trees, everything was distant. The old chimneys were like steps up into the sky and then the ascent into stars. He fell down in the long grass and watched the moon shrink away and go out.