In the morning I had to deal with an increasingly impatient Toby, forced by his lack of clothing to stay indoors, but Mrs. Early had given me an idea. I asked her to look out all the clothing my uncle had left, and she produced woolen shirts and sweaters, tweed jackets, caps and leggings, mufflers, gloves, shoes, a double set of underwear still in its tissue paper, handkerchiefs (ditto), and a lined cloak.
"I gave all the well-used materials worn next to the body—socks and underwear and such—to the Church for the poor, after I'd washed them," said Mrs. Early.
"You did right," I told her. "And you may do the same with those shoes and gloves, but I think we can make something of the rest for the lad." And after a tape-measure and a list for Mr. Early, he set off for the village and returned before luncheon with boots and felt slippers, socks and mittens for Toby, plus the village seamstress. She spent the afternoon, with Mrs. Early's help, cutting and snipping and sewing and altering. Although Toby was two or three inches shorter than my uncle, width-wise they were about the same, so it was only a case, for the most part, of shortening sleeves and hems and lifting waistlines. They also made a good job of altering the caps to fit, so that by dark Toby had a full set of clothes. The seamstress took the rest back with her to alter at home, promising to return them by Monday.
Toby was as pleased as Mr. Punch, and strutted around in his finery, trying to catch glimpses of himself in any mirror he could find, but insisted on wearing his caps back-to-front, with the brims at the nape of his neck.
"All the fashion in Lunnon," he said. "Wish me mates could see me now!" He wanted to rush out straightaway and parade himself but luckily it started to rain.
He ate like a horse at all meals, but was reluctant when reminded about his daily bath.
"I had the scrub to end all scrubs yesterday! Why, I'll bet I lost most of my skin as well, see, I'm a diff'rent colour! Me—my Ma didn't believe in baths. Laundering, yes; bathing, no. Why, I might even shrink! Clothes do, sometimes . . ."
I had to smile. "Toby, people don't shrink from bathing! Don't you see, if you hadn't had a good scrub you would have dirtied the sheets on your bed and the nice clothes you're wearing? Just like you ruined the laundry in the hamper . . . I can't tell you how happy I am to at last have the stink of London out of my nostrils, and don't have to look for fleas or lice anymore. And you look and smell so much nicer now!"
He looked at me, then grinned, a smile that was both cheeky and endearing at the same time.
"Just testing . . ." He thought for a moment, then added: "Thanks for the clothes, and for letting me stay," and gave me a quick, embarrassed hug. Which was enough to forgive him everything—for the time being.
The following day being Sunday I was in two minds about taking Toby to church with us, guessing that the only previous religious teaching he had received were the prayers and Bible readings we had had at the school, but he seemed to think it was natural to accompany us. I told him he must sit quiet, listen to the sermon and behave reverently through the prayers and lessons.
"Din' I sit quiet for five years in that school? Din' I listen to every—well, nearly every—word that was said? Did I ever not behave myself?"
He was right. Many of the children that had a spark of life left in them, apart from eating enough to keep them alive and wearing enough to keep them warm, became bored and restless. Toby had been less trouble than most, because we had all given him books to look at and extra work to do; the others wanted to be entertained, rather than providing their own amusement.
In any event he behaved himself perfectly in church, absorbing the ritual bowings and scrapings only a half-second behind, following the prayers and lessons in the prayer-book I lent him, and singing the one hymn he knew lustily. This week the snobbish families weren't present—perhaps they had satisfied their curiosity the previous Sunday—so we were greeted with friendliness untainted with condescension.
Toby and I decided to walk back to the Hall and, freed from the restrictions of the service, he reverted to pure boy. He kicked at the heaps of leaves, whistle-copied the song of a robin, hunted the hedgerows for old nests, while I picked some more bright foliage and lingered here and there to find some more hazelnuts for Ky-Lin. I hoped it would be sooner rather than later that he revealed himself to the boy, because it was becoming increasingly difficult for us to find time on our own to plan our journey.
After luncheon it started to rain again, so I took Toby on a tour of the rest of the Hall to keep him occupied. Now all the rest of my uncle's artifacts had been removed it was possible to appreciate just how much space there was. Our feet echoed on the bare wooden floors, on marble tiles, clattered up and down endless stairways. We went, on Toby's insistence, from cellar to attic and back again. Not that the place was entirely empty; ordinary, plain tables and chairs, a few bedsteads, cupboards, wardrobes and chests had been left behind, as were some threadbare rugs and runners and a pile of mothballed blankets.
He was enchanted with everything. Watching him dash about I realised what little space he had had in London, just tramping the same streets day after day. To be sure there were parks and grassy spaces in town, but he had never been encouraged to use them, except when he rarely accompanied me on a picnic, and in the large buildings like museums he had to behave sedately. Here he romped on the way back from church and was now behaving as if he were attending a party. Although the place was as clean as Mrs. Early and her girls had been able to get it, he still managed to end up happily grubby.
As we went back to the door leading into the Temple and tea, he slipped his hand into mine.
"You know what, miss? I reckon as this place would make a wonderful holiday home for poor children—or even an orphanage . . ."
After tea I pretended my eyes were tired, and had him practice his reading by telling me a couple of stories from my Fairy-Tales by the Brothers Grimm. He seemed to enjoy "Rumpelstiltskin" best. After supper we had a hand or two of cards and I sent him to bed at half-past nine, with a length of string, to practice some cat's cradles I had shown him.
I settled down with Ky-Lin, tracing-paper and one of the more detailed maps to plot the first part of our journey. We decided to take the railway to the coast, first ascertaining where we would get a ferry across to Holland, travelling on deck as it was cheaper, and then to the mouth of the Rhine where it debouched into the sea and on by barge or boat to southern Bavaria and then cross overland to the Danube in order to continue our journey eastward.
I had the tracing-paper in place, cut into strips like the old-fashioned ones, where you only concentrated on the bit you wanted to travel, with Ky-Lin holding down the farthest end with his hooves, when there was a light tap at the door and Toby entered.
"Couldn't get to sleep, miss: reckon it was those apple dumplings we had for supper. Can I come in for a bit?"
I glanced at Ky-Lin, expecting him to have changed into a figurine; instead he was just the same, except that he was perfectly still. He winked at me.
"You can come in for a few minutes," I said. "Kindly shut the door."
He sat down opposite me, and I could see he was about to ask about the maps, but then he caught sight of Ky-Lin.
"Gosh, miss, you've got a cuddly toy! Where'd you get him from? Never seen one like that before . . ."
"And you aren't likely to. This—this is a representation of a creature who comes from China. In the mythical past he and his brethren were guards and guides for a holy person called the Buddha. Part of his teaching was that you could be reborn again, depending on the way you lived this life, and that every living thing was trying to do the same. In other words even the smallest living thing is trying to better itself, and you must never destroy anything alive, plant or animal. A fly can be reborn as a bird, from there to a rabbit, and thence to a man . . . But if you are bad, then you regress."
"So you don't stamp on an ant in case it's on its way up . . . I see." He leant forward. "Can I touch it?"
I glanced at Ky-Lin: another wink.
"Yes, but gently. He's fragile."
Toby reached out his right index finger and stroked it down Ky-Lin's spine. He drew it back, a look of surprise on his face. "Why, he's quite warm!"
"Yes."
"But toys aren't warm . . ."
"Well, he's not exactly a toy—"
As if in answer Ky-Lin winked at me again, then proceeded to act exactly like a mechanical toy. He made a whirring noise, then rose on his haunches to all four hooves, swung his head from side to side, then stepped slowly and jerkily round to face Toby, this time nodding his head, then sat down on his haunches again.
Toby's eyes were as round as the saucer-eyes of the first dog who guarded the treasure in the fairy tale, and he must have been holding his breath, for he let it out in a great sigh and a low whistle.
"Woweee! He's like those mechanical toys we saw in that museum once . . . Must be worth a bundle!"
"Irreplaceable," I agreed, trying not to giggle. "As far as I know, he's the only one left in the world."
"Did your uncle bring him back from his travels?"
"Yes, together with a couple of other things that I have inherited. Tell you about those in a minute."
He nodded towards Ky-Lin. "Does he do other things too?"
"Loads!" I was enjoying this and, from the look of it, so was Ky-Lin. "What would you like him to do?"
"Er—turn a somersault?" He put out his hand. "Hadn't you better wind him up again?"
"No. He goes for quite a long time without—without any external influences, don't you, Ky-Lin?"
The little creature nodded, obliged by starting his whirring noise again, and turned a grave and well-controlled somersault. Then he executed a pirouette and fluffed out his tail to its fullest glory.
Toby clapped his hands, then frowned. "But how do you tell him to do these things? How did he know to do a somersault next?"
"Ah, that's part of his magic!" Ky-Lin sank back on his haunches, making a noise like a coiled spring running down.
Toby said: "You were going to tell me about the other things your uncle left? Are they toys as well?"
"No, definitely not." I looked across at Ky-Lin who gave me an almost imperceptible nod. "Listen, and I'll tell you a story." I fetched the manuscript out of the cabinet, where I had kept everything since Toby arrived, and gave him a potted version of Summer's story, explained about my uncle's will and told him of the choice I had made. He didn't seem at all surprised.
"Just what I would have decided, miss. Where's the egg then that we're taking back to Chiney—er, China?"
"The Eg I am taking back to China . . ." I brought it out of the cabinet and laid it on my shawl on the table.
"Does that do tricks as well?"
"Not as such, but it is growing larger every day, it's warm, and my uncle believed it holds something living. He also couldn't smash or crack it, so it is somewhat unusual. Pick it up . . ."
He did, although it was heavy, and examined it carefully, rolling it around in his hands.
"It is warm . . . So that's what a dragon's egg looks like." He turned a puzzled face towards me. "But there aren't any dragons, are there, miss, so how can that be a dragon's egg?"
"Most people would say there wasn't such a thing as a Ky-Lin, but there he is on the table." I took pity on him. "No, I didn't believe in dragons or Ky-Lins or magic either when I first came here, but I have a more open mind now. Circumstances have forced me to reconsider, put it that way. My uncle didn't believe either, but he changed his mind."
Toby continued to examine the Eg, shaking it, scratching it with a bitten nail, even touching it with his tongue. He held it to his ear, and suddenly his face lit up.
"You're right! It is alive!"
"What do you mean—alive?"
"I can hear something inside. A soft, kind of fluttery sound. Listen!" He handed it to me, but I could hear nothing. "Can't you hear it?" I shook my head. "Well, I can! It may not be a baby dragon, but there's something in there, sure as—sure as eggs is eggs!" And he laughed at his own joke.
"That settles it," said Ky-Lin unexpectedly. "He comes with us."
Toby stopped laughing and looked at me. "What did you say?"
I shook my head. "Nothing. Not a word."
"Somebody said something . . ." He picked up the Eg, listened. "Not this." He looked at Ky-Lin. "Does he talk as well?"
"Sometimes . . ."
"Can you make him speak?"
"He speaks when he wants to—but only to me."
"Why?"
"Because I have a magic translator."
He was silent for a moment. "Where's the key?"
"What key?"
"The one to wind him up."
"There isn't one."
He frowned. "Then how do you make him work?"
"I don't. He does . . . Watch . . . Now you see him—" I covered Ky-Lin with my hands and willed him to change back to his ivory shape, which he did in about ten seconds: "—and now you don't." I parted my hands and there was the figurine.
Toby picked it up, looked at my hands, under the table and examined my sleeves.
"All right: where's he gone?"
"He's there." I pointed to the ivory.
"You're joshing me! It looks a bit like him, but it ain't him. That's not alive like he was. That can't move."
I sat back. "Don't be too sure! All right, Ky-Lin, show him!"
And in front of Toby's astonished gaze the ivory turned back to the "live" Ky-Lin, slowly and carefully, like a conjurer explaining a trick.
For a moment or two Toby was dumb, then: "If'n I hadn't seen it with my own eyes . . . Guess I'll believe anyfink now." He rose to his feet and bowed reverently as if he were in church.
"Tell him not to be an idiot," said Ky-Lin. "Tell him also that we are taking him with us."
I translated, and Toby's face lit up like an instant lamp. "I'm going with you? Gee-golly-gosh-an'-green Gorgonzola!" He jumped to his feet and did a little jig round the room. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
"Tell him the terms and conditions," said Ky-Lin, and I translated as he told me.
"Ky-Lin says I have to tell you that we have a long and difficult journey ahead of us. There will be two other companions with us, as yet unknown, and you will have to fit in with them. It will be well over a year before we return, if we're lucky. There will be dangers to face and it is not a task to be undertaken lightly. If you wish to change your mind about coming, no-one will blame you . . ."
"No way! I'm coming! I'll do anything, just anything! I'll carry the egg all the way to Chiney—China! I'll . . . I'll . . ."
"All right, that'll do! Come here and sit down." This was me talking. "Now, you said you would do exactly as you were told?"
"Yes, miss! Whatever you say . . ."
"And I say bed. Now. Immediately!"
"A little help," said Ky-Lin,and he bent forward and blew gently into the boy's face. "A little Sleepy-Dust . . ."
Within seconds Toby's eyes were drooping, and three minutes later he was in bed and sleeping soundly.
"Another of your tricks," I remarked to Ky-Lin as I fished a handful of hazelnuts out of my pocket.
"Thank you. Nothing special," he remarked modestly. "The Sleepy-Dust I mean, not these excellent nuts . . . I didn't want the lad to get over-excited."
"I hope you know what you are doing, taking him with us."
"So do I," he said. "So do I . . ."
The following morning Toby, clean, fed and shining, came and asked me if he could take Ky-Lin for a walk.
"Oh, I don't think that's a very good idea . . ."
His face crumpled. "But he asked me!"
"He did?"
I fetched the figurine out of the cabinet.
"But he hasn't been out of here today. How could he?"
"He asked me—sort of in my mind. Out loud in my mind. Honest!"
"He's right," said Ky-Lin, coming to life again. "I didn't know, however, whether he had understood."
"But what do you want to do?" I asked, the tiniest stab of jealousy prickling. After all, he had never asked me to take him out.
Toby answered for him. "He wants to practise," he said, frowning to himself. "He wants—he wants . . ." and he held his hands out in front of him like a fisherman demonstrating his catch. "He wants to practise growing big."
Ky-Lin nodded at me. "The boy's a natural. If we go up Bracken Hill, then perhaps I can get rid of this stiffness. I'm afraid I'm a little rusty, as you would put it. And if you would ask the boy to look out for a few nuts or berries?"
"Right, Toby." I described where he was to go, and the search for food for Ky-Lin. "Blackberries—you know what they look like—and haws and hips. Dark red smaller ones, and large orangey ones." I had a good idea. "As it's a fine day, how about me asking Mrs. Early to make up a picnic basket, and I'll join you at lunch-time?"
So, later in the day, after a morning mending, sewing and making lists, I walked up through the bracken with a basket filled with cold egg and ham pie, Russian salad, cheese and onion pasties and Conference pears, with a flagon of ginger beer.
When I reached the top of the hill however, there was no-one to be seen. I was sure, however, that I had heard a giggle from Toby as I climbed up, so I sat down and let the breeze cool my cheeks and ruffle my uncovered hair, content to await whatever surprise was in store. I didn't have to wait long. There was a sudden war-whoop and onto the rocks over my head sailed a pony-sized Ky-Lin with Toby on his back.
They teetered for a moment on the summit, then Ky-Lin gained his balance.
"Great, ain't it?" said Toby, slipping off Ky-Lin's back. "What's in the basket, then?"
Ky-Lin folded himself down to a reasonable size, and we all tucked in, Toby and I with the hamper, Ky-Lin with an assortment of nuts, fruit and berries Toby had provided. I was just packing the hamper with the empties when Toby said: "I wonder who came in the carrier's cart . . ."
"When?"
"When you was climbing the hill. Came down the drive with a couple of people in it, and now there's smoke coming out of another chimney. Look down: you can see it from here . . ."
"Could be our fellow-travellers," said Ky-Lin to me.
"I'd better go see," I said. "Toby, bring back the picnic basket," and gathering up my skirts, I ran back down the hill, to find a flustered Mrs. Early in the kitchen, her mouth drawn down, brewing a large pot of tea.
She didn't wait for my questions.
"Two of them. Says they're the ones what's going with you. Their luggage is in the hall. Shall I make up the other two bedrooms?"
"I'd better have a word with them first . . ."
"Doubt whether you'll be best pleased," she said, looking more disapproving than ever. "Not what I'd have chose myself . . . I lit a fire in the morning-room. You want me to bring the tea in there?"
"Yes, please . . ." I couldn't understand her ill-humour, until I tidied my hair, changed into slippers and walked down to the morning-room and opened the door.
Then I understood part of her temper immediately.