Part 9 (1/2)
back to his seat, he refilled both cups. ”Beautiful, is it no? Aye, beautiful!”
Since the translation had necessarily involved phrases like ”the young yachi rider,” the present Charles Edward Stuart felt doubts about that. Mishka didn't. ”Beautiful.” The guardsman wiped a tear from an eye. ”Reminds me-you listen now.” He began to chant rather than sing: Woe is the world, when for Talyina's weal Reigns no true ruler, but only a rascal.
Sorrow and sadness make sour the shmiriz.
Weary are Westfolk who wobble 'neath burdens-
”Wobble? I dinna ken the trope, lad,” Bertram said, or the native equivalent thereof.
”Shut up,” Mishka grunted. ”You listen. This is the Holy Prophecy. Hun'erds o' years old.”
He went on at some length, describing a period during which a murrain was on the yachis and eggfowl, cooking pots stood empty everywhere, and the hearts of warriors were grieved, for a false king had brought down the anger of the G.o.ds upon the realm. But then-his ba.s.so rose in volume, causing a few of the sleepers to stir and mutter-then came hope.
When all feel forsaken, and fell is the hour, Wildly and welcome from out of the west, Royally red-haired, and riding in leaps, The Prince of the people comes pounding to save them-
”Red hair, aye, aye!” shouted Bertram. ”Like my ain young Chevalier yonder!”
Charlie shook his head in bewilderment. The entire scene had taken on an eerie, dreamlike character.
Mishka chanted relentlessly: Five are the Feats that his followers wait for.
Many will meet then to marvel and join him, The wonders he worked having proven him worthy.
Hear, under heaven, the hero's five doings!
It took concentration to sort out, from interminable verses loaded with elaborate figures of speech, just what was supposed to happen. But Charlie gathered that this prince would establish his ident.i.ty by accomplis.h.i.+ng five things impossible for anybody else.
First, with a crossbow, in a fog and at fifty paces, he would shoot a bellfruit off the head of his best friend. Next, he would slay something unspecified but dreadful known as the Sorrow of Avilyogh. Thereafter he would sail (”Singing and swigging while other lie seasick”) to Belogh, where he would fight and overcome three invincible warriors, brothers, whom that town maintained. His fourth deed, on the island of Lyovka, was of a more intellectual type. It seemed that three Priests of a certain G.o.d dwelled there, who challenged all comers to answer three riddles. Those who tried and failed, as everyone did, were cast into a fiery furnace. But the prince gave the correct replies with scornful ease. His last feat was to enter the Grotto of Kroshch, wait out the high tide which completely submerged it, and emerge unharmed-even playing his horpil, whatever that might be.
When he had thus proved himself, warriors would flock to his standard. Mishka concluded triumphantly: In terror, the tyrant who caused all the trouble, The false king, goes fleeing, unfollowed, in shame.
Tall over Talyina towers the mighty.
Righteous, the red-haired one rules us forever!
He slammed his flagon back down on the table. It broke, while a fountain of shmiriz leaped up over him.
He didn't notice. The landlord did and made a notation on his score.
”There!” Mishka exclaimed, thick-voiced. ”Wha'd 'you say to that, hai?”
The equally befuddled Hoka leaped to the floor and struck a pose, right arm flung outward, left hand clutching breast. ”I say rise for the Young Prince!” he piped. ”Ride, mon! Ride, and carry the wor-r-rd that Bonnie Prince Charlie has come back to his ain!”
With a whoop that shook the rafters, Mishka also sprang erect. ”I go! Take rowboat . . . cross channel . . . rouse m'Lord Dzenko-for freedom!” He s.n.a.t.c.hed his helmet off the table. The padded lining was still within the outer coif of mail, and he clapped the whole unit over his head. Unfortunately, he clapped it on backwards and spent a minute choking and blundering about until he got it right.
Enthusiasm undimmed, he grabbed a sword from the checkroom and staggered off into the night. His
war calls echoed among the darkened houses.
Bertram was not much steadier on his feet as he approached Charlie. ”Hoot, mon,” he said in English, ”are ye awake the noo?”
”I-gosh, I don't know,” Charlie faltered.
”Aweel, 'tis time ye waur abed.” The Hoka scooped him up in strong but gentle arms and bore him away, while crooning: Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing.
”Onward!” the sailors cry.
Carry the lad who is born to be king Over the sea to Skye. . . .
t.i.tle: Hokas Pokas Author: Poul Anderson & Gordon R. d.i.c.kson ISBN: 0-671-57858-8 1983 by Poul Anderson & Gordon R.
Copyright: d.i.c.kson Publisher: Baen Books
4.
Kidnapped
Charlie woke late and alone. Having donned undergarments, tunic, trousers, and stout shoes, he went downstairs in search of breakfast. Toreg sat brooding over the remnants of his. ”Good morning,” the human said in Talyinan. ”I'm sorry I overslept.”
”Oversleep all you want,” mumbled his guide. ”Oo-ooh, my head! Worst is, that fuzzy demon was up at dawn-cheerful.””Where is Bertram?” As Charlie seated himself, a wife of the landlord brought him a dish of scrambled native eggs (they had green yolks) and a cup of hot herb tea.
”I know not,” Toreg answered. ”He asked me where to find a tailor and a swordsmith and bounced off.
Never did I get back to sleep.”
”That's too bad,” Charlie said. ”Uh, we will go for that ride you mentioned yesterday, won't we?” Toreg had promised a trip into the hills behind town, to see their forests and wildlife.