Line 149:  one foot upon a mountain

The Bera Range, a two-hundred-mile-long chain of rugged mountains, not quite reaching the northern end of the Zemblan peninsula (cut off basally by an impassable canal from the mainland of madness), divides it into two parts, the flourishing eastern region of Onhava and other townships, such as Aros and Gredelwod, and the much narrower western strip with its quaint fishing hamlets and pleasant beach resorts.  The two coasts are connected by two asphalted highways:  the older one shirks difficulties by running first along the eastern slopes northward to Odevalla, Yeslove and Embla, and only then turning west at the northmost point of the peninsula; the new one, an elaborate, twisting, marvelously graded road, traverses the range westward from just north of Onhava to Bregberg, and is termed in tourist booklets a “scenic drive.”  Several trails cross the mountains at various points and lead to passes none of which exceeds an altitude of five thousand feet; a few peaks rise some two thousand feet higher and retain their snow in midsummer; and from one of them, the highest and hardest, Mr. Glitterntin, one can distinguish on clear days, far out to the east, beyond the Gulf of Surprise, a dim iridescence which some say is Russia.

After escaping from the theater, our friends planned to follow the old highway for twenty miles northward, and then turn left on an unfrequented dirt road that would have brought them eventually to the main hideout of the Karlists, a baronial castle in a fir wood on the eastern slope of the Bera Range.  But the vigilant stutterer had finally exploded in spasmodic speech; telephones had frantically worked; and the fugitives had hardly covered a dozen miles, when a confused blaze in the darkness before them, at the intersection of the old and new highways, revealed a roadblock that at least had the merit of canceling both routes at one stroke.

Odon spun the car around and at the first opportunity swerved westward into the mountains.  The narrow and bumpy lane that engulfed them passed by a woodshed, arrived at a torrent, crossed it with a great clacking of boards, and presently degenerated into a stump-cluttered cutting.  They were at the edge of Mandevil Forest.  Thunder was rumbling in the terrible brown sky.

For a few seconds both men stood looking upward.  The night and the trees concealed the acclivity.  From this point a good climber might reach Bregberg Pass by dawn—if he managed to hit a regular trail after pushing through the black wall of the forest.  It was decided to part, Charlie proceeding toward the remote treasure in the sea cave, and Odon remaining behind as a decoy.  He would, he said, lead them a merry chase, assume sensational disguises, and get into touch with the rest of the gang.  His mother was an American, from New Wye in New England.  She is said to have been the first woman in the world to shoot wolves, and, I believe, other animals, from an airplane.

A handshake, a flash of lightning.  As the King waded into the damp, dark bracken, its odor, its lacy resilience, and the mixture of soft growth and steep ground reminded him of the times he had picnicked hereabouts—in another part of the forest but on the same mountainside, and higher up, as a boy, on the boulderfield where Mr. Campbell had once twisted an ankle and had to be carried down, smoking his pipe, by two husky attendants.  Rather dull memories, on the whole.  Wasn’t there a hunting box nearby—just beyond Silfhar Falls?  Good capercaillie and woodcock shooting—a sport much enjoyed by his late mother, Queen Blenda, a tweedy and horsy queen.  Now as then, the rain seethed in the black trees, and if you paused you heard your heart thumping, and the distant roar of the torrent.  What is the time, kot or?  He pressed his repeater and, undismayed, it hissed and tinkled out ten twenty-one.

Anyone who has tried to struggle up a steep slope, on a dark night, through a tangle of inimical vegetation, knows what a formidable task our mountaineer had before him.  For more than two hours he kept at it, stumbling against stumps, falling into ravines, clutching at invisible bushes, fighting off an army of conifers.  He lost his cloak.  He wondered if he had not better curl up in the undergrowth and wait for daybreak.  All at once a pinhead light gleamed ahead and presently he found himself staggering up a slippery, recently mown meadow.  A dog barked.  A stone rolled underfoot.  He realized he was near a mountainside bore (farmhouse).  He also realized that he had toppled into a deep muddy ditch.

The gnarled farmer and his plump wife who, like personages in an old tedious tale offered the drenched fugitive a welcome shelter, mistook him for an eccentric camper who had got detached from his group.  He was allowed to dry himself in a warm kitchen where he was given a fairy-tale meal of bread and cheese, and a bowl of mountain mead.  His feelings (gratitude, exhaustion, pleasant warmth, drowsiness and so on) were too obvious to need description.  A fire of larch roots crackled in the stove, and all the shadows of his lost kingdom gathered to play around his rocking chair as he dozed off between that blaze and the tremulous light of a little earthenware cresset, a beaked affair rather like a roman lamp, handing above a shelf where poor beady baubles and bits of nacre became microscopic soldiers swarming in desperate battle.  He woke up with a crimp in the neck at the first full cobweb of dawn, found his host outside, in a damp corner consigned to the humble needs of nature, and bade the good grunter (mountain farmer) show him the shortest way to the pass.  “I’ll rouse lazy Garh,” said the farmer.

A rude staircase led up to a loft.  The farmer placed his gnarled hand on the gnarled balustrade and directed toward the upper darkness a guttural call:  “Garh!  Garh!”  Although given to both sexes, the name is, strictly speaking, a masculine one, and the King expected to see emerge from the loft a bare-kneed mountain lad like a tawny angel.  Instead there appeared a disheveled young hussy wearing only a man’s shirt that came down to her pink shins and an over-sized pair of brogues.  A moment later, as in a transformation act, she reappeared, her yellow hair still hanging lank and loose, but the dirty shirt replaced by a dirty pullover, and her legs sheathed in corduroy pants.  She was told to conduct the stranger to a spot from which he could easily reach the pass.  A sleepy and sullen expression blurred whatever appeal her snub-nosed round face might have had for the local shepherds; but she complied readily enough with her father’s wish.  His wife was crooning an ancient song as she busied herself with pot and pan.

Before leaving, the King asked his host, whose name was Griff, to accept an old gold piece he chanced to have in his pocket, the only money he possessed.  Griff vigorously refused and, still remonstrating, started the laborious business of unlocking and unbolting two or three heavy doors.  Then King glanced at the old woman, received a wink of approval, and put the muted ducat on the mantelpiece, next to a violet seashell against which was propped a color print representing an elegant guardsman with his bare-shouldered wife—Karl the Beloved, as he was twenty odd years before, and his young queen, an angry young virgin with coal-black hair and ice-blue eyes.

The stars had just faded.  He followed the girl and a happy sheepdog up the overgrown trail that glistened with the ruby dew in the theatrical light of an alpine dawn.  The very air seemed tented and glazed.  A sepulchral chill emanated from the sheer cliff along which the trail ascended; but on the opposite precipitous side, here and there between the tops of fir trees growing below, gossamer gleams of sunlight were beginning to weave patterns of warmth.  At the next turning this warmth enveloped the fugitive, and a black butterfly came dancing down a pebbly rake.  The path narrowed still more and gradually deteriorated amidst a jumble of boulders.  The girl pointed to the slopes beyond it.  He nodded.  “Now go home,” he said.  “I shall rest here and then continue alone.”

He sank down on the grass near a patch of matted elfinwood and inhaled the bright air.  The panting dog lay down at his feet.  Garh smiled for the first time.  Zemblan mountain girls are as a rule mere mechanisms of haphazard lust, and Garh was no exception.  As soon as she had settled beside him, she bent over and pulled over and off her tousled head the thick gray sweater, revealing her naked back and blancmangé breasts, and flooded her embarrassed companion with all the acridity of ungroomed womanhood.  She was about to proceed with her stripping but he stopped her with a gesture and got up.  He thanked her for all her kindness.  He patted the innocent dog; and without turning once, with a springy step, the King started to walk up the turfy incline.

He was still chuckling over the wench’s discomfiture when he came to the tremendous stones amassed around a small lake which he had reached once or twice from the rocky Kronberg side many years ago.  Now he glimpsed the flash of the pool through the aperture of a natural vault, a masterpiece of erosion.  The vault was low and he bent his head to step down toward the water.  In its limpid tintarron he saw his scarlet refection but, oddly enough, owing to what seemed to be at first blush an optical illusion, this reflection was not at his feet but much further; moreover, it was accompanied by the ripple-warped reflection of a ledge that jutted high above his present position.  And finally, the strain on the magic of the image caused it to snap as his red-sweatered, red-capped doubleganger turned and vanished, whereas he, the observer, remained immobile.  He now advanced to the very lip of the water and was met there by a genuine reflection, much larger and clearer than the one that had deceived him.  He skirted the pool.  High up in the deep-blue sky jutted the empty ledge whereon a counterfeit king had just stood.  A shiver of alfear (uncontrollable fear caused by elves) ran between his shoulder-blades.  He murmured a familiar prayer, crossed himself, and resolutely proceeded toward the pass.  At a high point upon an adjacent ridge a steinmann (a heap of stones erected as a memento of an ascent) had donned a cap of red wool in his honor.  He trudged on.  But his heart was a conical ache poking him from below in the throat, and after a while he stopped again to take stock of conditions and decide whether to scramble up the steep debris slope in front of him or to strike off to the right along a strip of grass, gay with gentians, that went winding between lichened rocks.  He elected the second route and in due course reached the pass.

Great fallen crags diversified the wayside.  The nippern (domed hills or “reeks”) to the south were broken by a rock and grass slope into light and shadow.  Northward melted the green, gray, bluish mountains—Falkberg with its hood of snow, Mutraberg with the fan of its avalanche, Paberg (Mt. Peacock), and others,--separated by narrow dim valleys with intercalated cotton-wool bits of cloud that seemed placed between the receding sets of ridges to prevent their flanks from scraping against one another.  Beyond them, in the final blue, loomed Mt. Glitterntin, a serrated edge of bright foil; and southward, a tender haze enveloped more distant ridges which lead to one another in an endless array, through ever grade of soft evanescence.

The pass had been reached, granite and gravity had been overcome; but the most dangerous stretch lay ahead.  Westward a succession of heathered slopes led down to the shining sea.  Up to this moment the mountain had stood between him and the gulf; now he was exposed to that arching blaze.  He began the descent.

Three hours later he trod level ground.  Two old women working in an orchard unbent in slow motion and stared after him.  He had passed the pine groves of Boscobel and was approaching the quay of Blawick, when a black police car turned out of a transverse road and pulled up next to him:  “The joke has gone too far,” said the driver.  “One hundred clowns are packed in Onhava jail, and the ex-King should be among them.  Our local prison is much too small for more kings.  The next masquerader will be shot at sight.  What’s your real name, Charlie?”  “I’m British.  I’m a tourist,” said the King.  “Well, anyway, take off that red fufa.  And the cap.  Give them here.”  He tossed the things in the back of the car and drove off.

The King walked on; the top of his blue pajamas tucked into his skiing pants might easily pass for a fancy shirt.  There was a pebble in his left shoe but he was too fagged out to do anything about it.

He recognized the seashore restaurant where many years earlier he had lunched incognito with two amusing, very amusing, sailors.  Several heavily armed Extremists were drinking beer on the geranium-lined veranda, among the routine vacationists, some of whom were busy writing to distant friends.  Through the geraniums, a gloved hand gave the King a picture postcard on which he found scribbled:  Proceed to R.C.  Bon voyage!  Feigning a casual stroll, he reached the end of the embankment.

It was a lovely breezy afternoon with a western horizon like a luminous vacuum that sucked in one’s eager heart.  The King, now at the most critical point of his journey, looked about him, scrutinizing the few promenaders and trying to decide which of them might be police agents in disguise, ready to pounce upon him as soon as he vaulted the parapet and made for the Rippleson Caves.  Only a single sail dyed a royal red marred with some human interest the marine expanse.  Nitra and Indra (meaning “inner” and “outer”), two black islets that seemed to address each other in cloaked parley, were being photographed from the parapet by a Russian tourist, thickset, many-chinned, with a general’s fleshy nape.  His faded wife, wrapped up floatingly in a flowery écharpe, remarked in singsong Moscovan “Every time I see that kind of frightful disfigurement I can’t help thinking of Nina’s boy.  War is an awful thing.”  “War?”  queried her consort.  “That must have been the explosion at the Glass Works in 1951—not war.”  They slowly walked past the King in the direction he had come from.  On a sidewalk bench, facing the sea, a man with his crutches beside him was reading the Onhava Post which featured on the first page Odon in an Extremist uniform and Odon in the part of the Merman.  Incredible as it may seem the palace guard had never realized that identity before.  Now a goodly sum was offered for his capture.  Rhythmically the waves lapped the shingle.  The newspaper reader’s face had been atrociously injured in the recently mentioned explosion, and all the art of plastic surgery had only resulted in a hideous tessellated texture with parts of pattern and parts of outline seeming to change, to fuse or to separate, like fluctuating cheeks and chins in a distortive mirror.

The short stretch of beach between the restaurant at the beginning of the promenade and the granite rocks at its end was almost empty:  far to the left three fishermen were loading a rowboat with kelp-brown nets, and directly under the sidewalk, an elderly woman wearing a polka-dotted dress and having for headgear a cocked newspaper (Ex-King Seen--) sat knitting on the shingle with her back to the street.  Her bandaged legs were stretched out on the sand; on one side of her lay a pair of carpet slippers and on the other a ball of red wool, the leading filament of which she would tug at ever now and then with the immemorial elbow jerk of a Zemblan knitter to give a turn to her yarn clew and slacken the thread.  Finally, on the sidewalk a little girl in a ballooning skirt was clumsily but energetically clattering about on roller skates.  Could a dwarf in the police force pose as a pigtailed child?

Waiting for the Russian couple to recede, the King stopped beside the bench.  The mosaic-faced man folded his newspaper, and one second before he spoke (in the neutral interval between smoke puff and detonation), the King knew it was Odon.  “All one could do at short notice,” said Odon, plucking at his cheek to display how the varicolored semi-transparent film adhered to his face, altering its contours according to stress.  “A polite person,” he added, “does not, normally, examine too closely a poor fellow’s disfigurement.”  “I was looking for shpiks (plainclothesmen)” said the King.  “All day,” said Odon, “they have been patrolling the quay.  They are dining at present.”  “I’m thirsty and hungry,” said the King.  “There’s stuff in the boat.  Let those Russians vanish.  The child we can ignore.”  “What about that woman on the beach?”  “That’s young Baron Mandevil—chap who had that duel last year.  Let’s go now.”  “Couldn’t we take him too?”  “Wouldn’t come—got a wife and a baby.  Come on Charlie, come on, Your Majesty.”  “He was my throne page on Coronation Day.”  Thus chatting, they reached the Rippleson Caves.  I trust the reader has enjoyed this note.