Free Is by Joan Aiken Page A

Father Lancelot, ‘and she was asking for you.’
    Is recovered her voice.
    ‘I’m a-searching for my cousin – Arun Twite,’ she explained. ‘His dad – that’s my Uncle Hose – he ast me to see if I could find the boy. I’m from down south, I ain’t never been in these parts before. But my Uncle Hose, he said that we got another uncle what lives hereabouts, and he’d a notion the boy might ’a run this-away. That’s why I come.’
    She stared hopefully at the aged Mr Twite, and he stared back at her, slowly taking this in.
    ‘Your name, my child?’
    ‘Is.’
    Old Mr Twite thoughtfully nodded his head up and down several times.
    ‘Is. Indeed that name brings back memories. Is. Isabett. You were named after your great-grandmother, then. A Breton name. Isabett was from Brittany. My cousin, in fact. Yes, indeed . . .’
    ‘But,’ said Is, thunderstruck, ‘then – who the plague are you , mister? You surely ain’t my Uncle Twite?’
    ‘No, child; I am your great-grandfather. At least, I conclude that you are the daughter of my grandson Abednego – a gifted but worthless fellow. Where, by the way, is he ?’
    ‘He’s dead,’ said Is shortly.
    ‘And his brother Hosiah?’
    ‘Dead too. The wolves got ’em.’
    ‘An ill-fated pair,’ commented their grandfather calmly.
    He seemed prepared to stand discussing the affairs of the Twite family indefinitely in the passageway, but Father Lancelot suggested,
    ‘Shall we remove to the kitchen, sir? I daresay your great-grandchild would not be averse to a warm drink.’ His tone was hopeful, as if he would not be averse to one himself.
    Old Mr Twite slowly nodded his head again.
    ‘The kitchen. Yes, indeed . . .’ He turned and led the way back along the passage. Is and Father Lancelot followed.
    The room he ushered them into plainly combined various functions. A fire burned in one corner, and shelves around the fireplace held pots and plates. A desk, littered with papers, occupied another corner. An easel supported a half-finished painting; a fantastic map, with figures and buildings in it. An untidy unmade bed was heaped with books, which had also spilled on to the floor. Strings of onions hung from a hook in the ceiling. A saucer of milk near the fire suggested the presence of a cat somewhere. The room was L-shaped, with two windows commanding an extensive view down a snowy valley full of derelict buildings.
    Mr Twite gestured vaguely towards a chair which was loaded with books; removing these to the bed, Father Lancelot sat down. Is squatted on the floor, which was covered by a thin, torn rug; this made her grin, recalling last night’s escape. She watched her great-grandfather, who moved slowly to a shelf from which he took a saucepan; then he reached up for a jar which stood on a higher shelf. As he did so, he trod on the edge of the milk saucer on the floor, which tipped up and splashed its contents over his foot. This startled him so that his hand, reaching for the jar, struck a basket hanging on the wall and knocked it down; the falling basket dislodged a pile of tin plates balanced on a shelf below, which fell, and in their turn toppled over a colander full of walnuts, which, together with the plates, all cascaded on to Mr Twite’s foot.
    He gazed at them mildly, seeming neither perturbed nor surprised. Is helped him pick up the plates and the walnuts, then she wiped away the spilt milk with a hideous old rag which she found hanging from a nail, while Mr Twite poured more milk from a can into his saucepan, mixed it with grey powder from the jar, and set the mixture on the hob to heat. As he did this, he murmured to himself:
    ‘Is, yes. The name of a drowned city. Off Finisterre; which, of course, means World’s End. Can this be a portent? And Twite, too, is a Breton name; origin obscure. Thouet , possibly some kind of bird? Or a towline? We have kinsfolk, of course, in the region of Finistèrre, and it is undoubtedly from the Breton line