Guardian of the Green Hill Page 5

“I think it’s nice,” Meg said honestly. “You did the slime on the antennae perfectly. I came to ask, do you have any paint we can use, or brushes, or pencils? The artist has some, but not enough for everyone.”

  “I think I do. Yes, it’s been years, but they should be in the third room on the left from the stairs, on the top floor. I had a studio of sorts for a few months. The late afternoon light there is just right. Like mirrors in very good boutiques, it makes everything look much better than it really is. Perhaps I should live up there.” She said this last to herself.

  Meg was turning to go after the paints when Phyllida called her back. “Meg dear, I wanted to talk with you about something. Whenever you have a moment. Yes, go, go learn to paint. You’ll enjoy that. But when you’re done, come find me, there’s a good girl. Oh, wait, one more thing.” She rose and went to a wardrobe. After pulling the hangers back and forth, she came out with a large linen shirt. It was the weathered white of many washings, but so finely made it had only just begun to fray at the cuffs. It was soft as dandelion fluff and crinkled into fine wrinkles in Meg’s damp palm. As she laid it over her arm, it caught the light, and she saw that the tiny, precise stitches were wrought in silver thread instead of white, a subtle glint at the seams and collar. Little splashes of color dotted the shirtfront—cyan, cinnabar, rose madder.

  “You don’t want to get that pretty shirt all covered with paint,” Phyllida said. Meg looked down at her own gauzy blouse, a bright, blotchy print that was supposed to be reminiscent of India, in green and fuchsia and orange (which are more harmonious than you might think). She thought it was nice, but it was mass-produced in a factory, and when she compared it to Phyllida’s shirt, which had been woven on a nearby cottager’s loom from flax locally grown, and cut and sewed by skilled hands, not machine, her own seemed a paltry, cheap thing.

  “I wore this as a smock when I was painting,” Phyllida went on. “It’s big enough to cover you to your knees, so you don’t have to worry about paint splashing on you. The most entertaining things are so often the messiest, at your age anyway.”

  Meg scurried away, promising to return after her art lesson. She found the others grouped on the croquet lawn in various poses. Rowan had a proper easel, borrowed from Gwidion, and Meg brought another from Phyllida’s studio. Finn and Dickie had folding tea tables. Silly had commandeered the milking stool and sat on the ground cross-legged with her paper hanging over the round edges.

  Gwidion walked among them. “Today you will draw by instinct, without detailed instruction, so that I may gauge your natural talent.” He had never given a lesson in his life and had learned his trade in a haphazard way from his father, so he really didn’t know where to begin. Still, he looked impressive as he wandered from student to student, looking over their shoulders, giving them tips on shadow and perspective, speaking in his rather grandiose way with words like cinquecento and chiaroscuro. They didn’t understand half of what he said, which was exactly what he intended.

  He told them to draw what they saw. Meg chose a vista of the sheep meadow beyond the ha-ha, following Phyllida’s theory that, like flowers, it would look pretty and be recognizable even if poorly executed. Her sheep were nebulous balls, and her field nothing more than the white unmarked paper. Gwidion looked over her shoulder, made a noise like he had just stepped in something unpleasant, and walked away without further comment.

  Silly, working with her tongue poking out and head bent so far over to the side she was almost lying on the paper, drafted an ambitious battle scene with croquet mallets as weapons and balls flying willy-nilly. When Gwidion reminded her rather sharply that she was supposed to be drawing what she saw, she replied that she did see it, in her head, and after that he mostly left her alone.

  Dickie, with whispered advice from the Wyrm curled invisibly on his shoulder, was drawing an amazingly accurate representation of a cooperative snail who crawled slowly across his table. “If you decide to eat him afterward,” the Wyrm said, “soak him in milk first. It will plump him up and take away any taste of mud. Unpalatable little beasts at best, but the Gauls always had strange tastes. Garlic and butter, that’s the ticket. Hmm, an odd phrase, that. What ticket, I wonder? A train ticket? A carnival ticket? A lottery ticket? I knew once, but thank goodness I have forgotten.” Dickie’s pencil traced the lines with a draughtsman’s precision and a naturalist’s eye for detail.

  “The snail to surpass all snails!” Gwidion said, making Dickie bow his head to hide his pleasure.

  He went to Finn. “Ah, what have we here? A still life of a melon? A dirigible?” He made a show of looking around for either of these objects. “No, a face. I see it now. Who can it be?”

  Finn mumbled something.

  “Speak up, lad! Art knows no shame, talent no modesty.”

  “It’s her,” he said, indicating Meg with a jerk of his head. Meg looked up, and her face instantly reddened, which she fervently hoped no one would notice.

  Her hopes were dashed. “Not a melon, then, but a beet!” Gwidion said, looking over at her with a laugh. He took the page from Finn and handed him a fresh sheet. “No people yet, lad. Look about for a better subject.” He tore the paper into bits and flung them up over his head so they scattered in the gentle breeze. One landed at Meg’s feet. When no one was looking, she picked it up. It appeared to be her nose, though as Gwidion said, it looked more vegetable than animal, bulbous and spotted like a rotting potato.

  Is that what I look like? she wondered. Is that how he sees me, a misshapen thing covered in freckles? She pressed her lips together and felt angry tears come to her eyes, a strange kind of anger that was so many other things too.

  You might as well know, though Meg didn’t, that wasn’t how Finn thought of her. He simply didn’t have a drop of artistic skill. He was trying for something entirely unlike a rotting potato.

  Meg furiously scribbled her sheep’s wool as Gwidion wandered to Rowan’s side.

  “The masterpiece!” she heard him say.

  Rowan really did have a talent for drawing, though he had never ventured into any medium other than pencils, pens, crayons, and sidewalk chalk. Knowing his limitations, he did not try to do a face from the front like Finn, but chose instead a rear view. On his sheet of paper were a set of shoulders and a head of sleek hair done in black ink with faint streaks of blue. Just at the nape perched a fat, dusty black and gold bumblebee, its pollen sacs full, cleaning its antennae. Over the shoulder, just beginning to be sketched out, came a hand apparently ready to smack the bee. It was abundantly evident what would happen next.

  Gwidion leaned forward with real interest. Though this was certainly not the masterpiece he called it, there was evident skill in the boy’s fingers, a facility for translating thought to paper, idea to form. He had glanced discreetly over at Finn, who was absorbed in starting a new drawing. Yes, this Rowan had drawn the Finn boy. His brother? He had assumed all the children were relatives and descendants of Phyllida in one way or another, but he had gotten the impression from Finn’s choice of subject that he wasn’t Meg’s brother, after all.

  Gwidion traced back his family history. These must be descendants of Chlorinda, Phyllida’s elder sister, who had fled to the States rather than inherit the Guardianship. Gwidion’s own lineage traced from Phyllida and Chlorinda’s mother’s brother, their uncle, Llewellwn Thomas. He tried to figure out exactly how he was related to these children, but the litany of greats and removeds was too daunting. No matter, he thought. The inheritance is rightfully mine, not theirs. When I have done what I came to do, they may go back safely to their dull little homes and forget all about me. Safely, that is, so long as they don’t cross me.

  All the same, he found himself considering this young Rowan chap. He was in the same position Gwidion’s grandfather had been in—eldest male, by all traditions of every land destined to inherit everything, yet being usurped by that little chit of a girl, Meg. It might have been self-interest that motivated Gwidion, but he felt a sympathy for t
hese other males who were swindled out of their inheritance. While he was here, perhaps he would cultivate the friendship of these boys, these distant relatives of his. If he gained their allegiance, they might be of some help, and in any event it would cause more disruption and unrest in Phyllida’s line.

  But what was the relationship between Rowan and Finn? There must be some malice there, because Rowan had put his heart and soul into this drawing of Finn about to experience a terrible pain. He drew with conviction, and he drew with relish. He evidently wanted Finn to be hurt, and with more than mere boyish mischief. Still, he didn’t quite want it enough to make it come true.

  Gwidion was loud in his praise of the boys (utterly ignoring the girls), telling them that, as members of such a proud and noble family, was it any wonder they should have such prodigious talent? He buttered them up, and all the while, he studied them. At last he settled behind Rowan again and took up his pencil.

  “Here, my boy, let me help,” he said, and settled himself into the trancelike state required to draw a picture so compelling it forced one to do his bidding. This one was tricky, partially because it had been begun by another hand than his, partly because there were two subjects to control, the bee and the boy. With a stroke or two of the lead, he added agitation to the bee, a sense of danger and insulted pride that made the bee ready for attack. Turning to the boy (all the more difficult because he must give will to a hand, not a face), he made the fingers seem to twitch in irritability, created an almost palpable sensation of tickle and itch in the skin of his nape. He focused all his energy on this scene, picturing it on the page, in his mind, in life, thinking, Let this come to pass.

  Then he watched.

  It took no more than a minute for a bee to appear. Had it already been there, irritated by some inner vexation? Or was it a creation that had not existed before it was brought to life with pencil and paper and skill? In any event, it buzzed angrily and made a beeline for Finn. It circled him tauntingly and then settled at the back of his neck. Gwidion watched, trembling in anticipation, and Rowan, noticing his interest, followed his gaze in time to see his picture come true.

  The bee landed, Finn swatted, and the inevitable conclusion was heralded with a howling wail of agony and anguish. (No one but the bee paid any mind to the bee’s anguish, for of course a honeybee dies after stinging.)

  Finn ran around in circles, screaming, and even Meg, who rushed to him in consternation and figured he must have cut a finger off at least, to judge by the noise, thought he was overdoing it a bit. He grabbed and clawed at the stinger, breaking the poison sac and making the pain much worse as a new surge of toxin made its way into his flesh. Finally Meg calmed him down enough to look at the wound, and she used a flat, dull paint knife to scrape away the remains of the stinger. He rubbed and scratched the wound with one hand and scrubbed at his face with the other.

  Everyone but Meg erupted in laughter. Finn, eye bright with wiped-away tears, turned on them with fury.

  Gwidion chuckled. “Oh ho, don’t take it so hard, little man! What is a tiny prick compared with the tribulations life throws at us? Would your ancestor Llyr make such a bellow, or his father before him, Llewellwn?” Mentioning the names was risky, but there was little chance these children had heard tales of their family’s black sheep. He clapped Rowan on the shoulder. “Why, I bet your brother, or cousin, or whatever it is here, wouldn’t hardly flinch if a dozen bees stung him. I thought this family was made of sterner stuff.”

  Finn found his voice at last. “I’m not a member of this stupid family! Rowan’s not related to me. I’d jump off a cliff if he were! I hate all of you!”

  Gwidion’s face hardened and, quick as a shot, he crossed the distance to Finn and boxed his ears smartly.

  “Impudent, lying imp, how dare you try to trick me? Get out! Not part of the family? Why waste my time?”

  Meg tried to tell him that Finn had never said he was related to them, that Gwidion had never asked. She was stunned. She’d never seen an adult strike a child before, and though she’d read about children getting spanked or whipped or slapped, it was the stuff of novels, not real life.

  Dickie gave a gasp, but Rowan, almost as shocked as Meg, shushed him with a meaningful look. I’ll keep your secret, Dickie, the look said. You are more one of us than Finn is. It was one thing for the hated Finn to be struck, quite another for friendly, shy, innocuous little Dickie.

  Finn’s face was all shades of red—his cheeks flushed with anger and mortification, his eye scarlet with tears, his ears the brightest of all, crimson from the blow. He stood stock-still for a moment, his breath coming in pants. Then his jaw tightened and he looked at Gwidion with a fixed concentration that nearly made the man quail, for it was the same focused look he knew he had when he willed one of his paintings to come true.

  “You’ll pay for that,” Finn said, evenly and coldly. He looked like he was going to hit Gwidion back. He took a step forward, but as he did so, the great goat who had been kneeling nearby rose. His bleat was like a roar, and he lowered his massive curved horns at Finn.

  Finn looked from goat to master and didn’t like the odds. “You’ll pay,” he whispered again, stern and resolute like a man. Then his strength collapsed and he ran away like a boy. Meg could tell he was crying as he ran.

  She wanted to go after Finn. She wanted to run for Phyllida and tell her that they had made a mistake letting this violent man teach them. She wanted to cry herself. Then all at once, her resolution vanished. The children gathered around Gwidion with trusting little faces as his pencil flew. He drew, and the faces became even more trusting.

  “What a foolish boy,” Gwidion said condescendingly. “He thinks I hit him—how silly! Don’t you agree?”

  “Oh yes,” they all said.

  “I could never hit anyone, could I?”

  “Oh no,” came the chorus.

  “Finn is a liar, isn’t he?”

  That one was easy, even without Gwidion’s picture of them all credulously clustered around him.

  “Yes, Finn is a liar,” they echoed.

  Gwidion nodded and tucked the pictures into his vest. His controlling spell over the children didn’t have to be very powerful. You don’t have to get someone to believe something forever—you only have to convince them of it once. After that, however strong the evidence to the contrary, most people will cling to a belief out of sheer stubbornness.

  Meg was left with the idea that something unpleasant had happened, but she couldn’t quite recall what. They resumed drawing, but the joy of her art lesson was gone. Gwidion was all charm and praise once again, but it was evident he was only interested in the boys’ work. Any compliments to her drawing were barbed, and her confidence fell ever lower. When they took a break for lunch, she handed Rowan her smock.

  “Here, take this. You’re getting charcoal smudges all over your clothes.”

  “Don’t you need it?” he asked as he slipped the lightweight long-sleeved shirt over his arms.

  “No … I don’t think I feel like drawing anymore. I’m not very good at it.”

  This was Rowan’s cue to say she was good and to ask her to stay, but he was too full of Gwidion’s praise and thoughts of his own talent to pay her any mind.

  * * *

  Meg finished her treacle tart and headed morosely upstairs to find Phyllida, a little guilty she hadn’t gone sooner. When she was halfway up, a large cat scampered down to meet her, coiling its sinuous body around her ankles so she tripped and caught herself on all fours. She sat on the steps and had started to scold the cat when she realized it wasn’t one of the Rookery felines. There was Old Tom, the fat kitchen tabby who kept the mice in constant terror, and several dairy cats, but she could tell at a glance this wasn’t any of them. For one thing, it had two tails.

  For another, it spoke to her.

  “I do like a nap,” he said, licking his paw and looking away from her, as cats will when they are really interested in you. “But even I think four
centuries is a bit much. Thank you for waking me from my long slumber, pink one.”

  He stopped licking his paw just long enough to touch her knee with his nose.

  “Who are you?”

  He looked at her, surprised. “You did the great magic, did you not? Surely that was all for me, lovely me? I imagine you heard of my great beauty and unsurpassed softness and decided you must stop at nothing to do me this favor. And I, in return, allow you a glimpse of me.”

  “I’m ever so sorry, and you are certainly beautiful, but I don’t know who you are, and I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

  The cat squinted his moon eyes at her. “Truly? Then you are indeed a barbarian, as my people have long averred. I am Bake-Neko, and I come from the land where the sun is daily born. Nippon, it is called.”

  “Do you mean Japan?”

  “Perhaps you call it that, but I do not, or I would have said so.” He looked away again and licked a part of himself that made Meg look away too. His double tails twitched and coiled together like a caduceus. When he had forgiven her, he lifted his front paw and revealed what looked like a dead mouse.

  Meg recoiled and said, “Ewwww.”

  Bake-Neko took this for a sound of awe and praise, which only goes to show that good things can sometimes come of cultural misunderstandings.

  “You won’t throw it away, will you? Or bury it?”

  “Um, no, of course not,” she said, though she intended to do just that.

  “I will tell you something, since you freely confess that you are an ignorant savage. Do not dispose of this mouse. We cats, even demon cats of heavenly beauty such as myself, wrap all our presents in dead rodents. Or dead birds, depending on the season. You cannot get to the present inside unless you let the wrapping rot and decompose. Inside will be a treasure beyond value. If you attempt a dissection, it will vanish, and of course if you throw it on the dustheap, someone else—probably a burying beetle or stray cur—will make off with your gift.”

  “I never knew,” Meg said wonderingly, recalling how many dead lizards and mice and pigeons her own cat back in Arcadia had left for her. Had they all contained presents?