by Toby Forward
“I’m not hungry,” he said.
“But you need to eat,” said Tadpole.
Smith spooned some more eggs on to Tadpole’s plate.
“Eat up,” he encouraged him. “Bedtime soon.”
“But we’ve got lots to do,” said Tadpole. He watched Jackbones push his plate away.
“First, we sleep,” said Smith.
Tadpole and Tamrin argued most, but it was soon clear that the older ones were as tired as they were. There was a neat bedroom upstairs, where Tamrin and Tadpole took a small bed and a couch. Smith managed to get comfortable in an armchair. The last thing Tadpole remembered before falling asleep was the rain running down the window as he looked, unsuccessfully, for stars through the cloud. When he woke, the night had fled and a clear, blue sky promised a better day.
Tadpole was first down in the morning. December was asleep on the bed and Cabbage had started to make breakfast. He opened his arms and let Tadpole crash into him.
“I thought you would die,” he said.
“Not this time,” said Cabbage. “Thank you for helping me.”
“It was Tamrin.”
“And you, I think. Here, do you like bacon?”
“Does a dog sing acorns when the sun is green?” asked Tadpole.
They laughed.
“That’s a yes, I suppose,” said Cabbage, tipping bacon and mushrooms on to a plate, which he put before the roffle. “Make a start. The others can catch up.”
Between mouthfuls, Tadpole tried to get the wizard to talk.
“Why do wizards have so many names?”
“Well, I’ve only got three. A nickname. A proper name, and Vengeabil, a name for hiding in the college. That’s not so many, is it? You’ve got two.”
Tadpole had to admit that this was so.
“And, please, tell me all about what happened after I left the house.”
“Eat your breakfast. Time for that when we’re all gathered.”
“Do I smell bacon?” asked Smith, coming down the stairs.
The sunshine outside, the food, the company, the breakfast table filling up, and December and Waterburn both recovered, all raised Tadpole’s spirits, and he was happy as the meal drew to its close. Up Top was turning out to be more exciting than he had expected. Now that he felt part of it, he began to enjoy himself, even the sharp, seasoned tang of danger.
He watched Jackbones carefully. The man played with his food again, and again he pushed his plate away without eating.
The table cleared, December and Waterburn and Tamrin told their story.
“The fight was terrible,” said December. “There was no end to the kravvins. It’s easy to kill them, but they keep on pouring in. In the end, tiredness and the battle against pain defeat you.”
“And Smedge,” said Waterburn. “His magic is like a sickness that lives inside you. He probes and pierces. He finds weaknesses you never knew you had, and then he strikes.”
“But how could he kill Flaxfold?” asked Smith. “She’s…” He struggled for words. “She’s the most … I mean, she is magic.”
There was silence.
“It was Flaxfield,” said December, at last. “Without him, she’s weakened. We never noticed. She hid it well. But it was there. It was Flaxfield’s death that opened the door for Ash and Smedge. Smedge knew that. I think that’s why they attacked her there.”
“Where she seemed strongest,” said Cabbage.
“Exactly. In her own home. In Flaxfield’s old house. His absence is greater there than anywhere else.”
“So the kravvins made her weak and Smedge struck home,” said Cabbage.
Tamrin banged her fist on the table. “And we’ll strike back,” she said.
“All in good time,” said Smith. “What happened next?”
“There is no ‘next’, really. It all seemed to happen at once,” said Cabbage. “Axestone fell. Killed the same way.”
“Eloise fought bravely,” said December. “But they picked her off.”
“It was Starback,” said Tamrin. “Starback turned the struggle our way. Once I’d got Tadpole out of the way, Starback drove them back.”
“I was badly hurt,” said December. “I escaped, with Cabbage.”
“You saved my life,” said Cabbage. “If you hadn’t got me away, they were killing me.”
December shook her head. “I saved myself,” she said. “And brought you with me. I ran away.”
“I chased Smedge,” said Tamrin. “I was going to kill him. I will kill him.”
“But he got away?” said Smith.
There was no need for an answer to this.
“Where’s Sam?” asked Tadpole. “What happened to him?”
The others all looked at Tamrin. “I don’t know. I can’t hear him.” She dragged her sleeve over her face. “I’m alone,” she said. “Completely.”
Smith seemed too big
for December’s small room. He paced as much as he could while the table was being cleared. He lifted the curtain and looked out into the street. He put his ear to the front door and listened.
Tadpole could see that Tamrin was getting annoyed. Smith kept walking too close to her and she had to move her feet out of the way every time he passed. Not that she could complain. If she’d helped to do the dishes she wouldn’t have been in his way.
Jackbones sat on the edge of the small bed in the corner.
Tadpole sat on his barrel and watched. He waited until the clatter of washing-up had finished and then he asked, “What are we going to do now?”
No one spoke. Smith stopped pacing.
Tadpole looked at them in turn. “Well?” he asked.
They stared back at him.
“Are we just going to sit here?”
“We’re waiting,” said December.
“What for?”
“I’m not waiting,” said Smith. “I’m going out soon. It’s why I came here.”
“Where are you going?” asked Tadpole. “And what are you waiting for?” he asked December.
“I’m going down the mines,” said Smith.
“And we’re waiting to be told what to do next,” said December.
And there was silence again.
Tamrin behaved as though she had never seen Tadpole before. She didn’t look at him or pay him any attention. Cabbage gave him an encouraging smile. December sat and stared into the fire.
“Jackbones,” said Tadpole.
The old wizard started, as though he had not been paying attention. Tadpole noticed that the wall behind Jackbones, hung with a tapestry, was visible through the man’s body. Jackbones gathered himself and was solid again.
“What is it?”
“You brought me here. What should we do now?”
“I don’t know. I was just looking for Cabbage.”
Tadpole crossed and shook the man’s shoulder.
“What’s happened to you? You were better yesterday. Now you’re like you were in the library.”
“It’s all right,” said Cabbage. He took Tadpole’s hand and led him away. “It’s been a long time, Tadpole. He’ll be all right.”
“I’ll get going, then,” said Smith. “Will you wait here?”
“We’ll see what happens,” said December. “Take care.”
“Come on, then, lad,” said Smith, and he laid his hand on Tadpole’s shoulder.
“What?”
“We’re off down the mines.”
Tadpole sprang to his feet, pulled his roffle pack away from Smith and hoisted it on to his back.
“I’m not going there,” he said.
“You have to. I need a roffle. It’s the mines.”
“No. I can’t.” He looked to December for support. “I don’t have to, do I?”
She didn’t answer.
Tamrin snorted. Tadpole glared at her.
“What’s the matter with you?” he said.
“You may as well go now. It’ll save time,” said Tamrin.
“I don�
��t understand,” he said. “If it’s up to me, then I’m not going.”
Tamrin turned to the others for help. “Doesn’t he know anything?” she asked.
Cabbage’s face was stern. “Be kinder, Tam. Remember how hard it is to learn.” He relaxed and smiled. “Gentle teachers are best. Remember?”
Tamrin blushed. She spoke to Tadpole with a softer manner. “It’s your choice,” she said. “But it’s not for you to choose. Sometimes, things choose you, you don’t choose them.”
December, who had been uncovered the whole time that Tadpole had been in her house, drew her shawl around her face and looked deeper into the fire.
“What happens if I accept it?” he asked.
Tamrin began to answer and he interrupted her. “I’m asking December,” he said.
December tightened her shawl at her neck. “If you accept what has chosen you, then you accept whatever it brings,” she said.
“And if I don’t accept it?”
Her reply was a long time coming.
“Then you’re just another roffle,” she said. “And you could have stayed at home, in the Deep World.”
Tadpole felt sick.
“No,” said Cabbage. “No. You’re not just that. You’re our friend. You’re my old friend’s family. You’ll never just be another roffle.”
“I can’t go there. I’m not a mine roffle,” Tadpole said to Smith. “They were special.”
“You’re a roffle,” he replied. “And in an emergency, you’ll do. Anyway, I’m off. I have to go. If I can’t have your help, I’ll have to make do without it.”
He swung the door open and walked out.
Tadpole didn’t know what to do. He shuffled his roffle pack on his shoulders, straightening it.
“Are you going?” asked Tamrin.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know where the mine entrance is?”
“No. Will you come with me if I go?”
“No.”
“Please.”
“No. It hasn’t chosen me.”
Tadpole looked to the others for help. December kept her shawl tight around her face. Cabbage shrugged.
“Jackbones,” he said. “Will you come, please?”
“Of course.” He stood, took a moment to steady himself, and started to move.
“No,” said Cabbage. “I’m sorry, Tadpole. You’ll go with Smith or not at all.” He gently helped Jackbones to sit again and put his arm around his shoulders.
“If you wait, you’ll never find the way,” said Tamrin.
Tadpole left, closing the door behind him. The road was empty, save for the figure of Smith, walking with purpose and long strides. The houses stretched in both directions, all the same, small, neat and silent.
“Wait for me,” Tadpole called.
He raced after Smith and caught him up just after the man had turned to the left.
“I’m coming with you,” he said, trying to catch his breath.
“Yes.”
Tadpole wasn’t happy with this answer. He would have liked a thank you, or a word of approval.
They made their way in silence. The mine lay a little way beyond the village boundary.
“Will there be kravvins?” Tadpole asked as they reached open ground.
“Tell me if you see any,” said Smith, which wasn’t the sort of answer Tadpole wanted, either.
He trotted alongside. There was a mingled manner in the big man. Tadpole found him daunting, a person who might be dangerous. But that was also a comfort to the roffle. He felt the danger would be to other people.
They reached the mine entrance all too soon. Tadpole stopped and looked at it, preparing himself for the darkness. Smith made no pause at all. His strides carried him into the black space framed by the rough wooden props.
“Please,” Tadpole called. “Give me a moment to get ready.” He waited. Nothing happened. “Please?”
Smith reappeared.
“It’s best just to go in,” he said. “Don’t think about it.”
“But why? Why are you going in? It’s dangerous. What do you need to go there for? And why do you need me?”
Smith came out again and stood next to Tadpole. Together they looked into the darkness.
“I need iron,” he said. “For my work. This is where it’s mined.”
Tadpole shook his head.
“I’m a roffle,” he said. “Remember? I know all about slippery answers and riddles. Tell me why you’re really here.”
“For iron.”
“There’s iron at the forge, waiting to be worked. I saw it.”
“There is. But there’s iron and iron. It’s different from different parts of the mine. And I need a different sort of iron.”
Tadpole took a moment before he answered. It seemed an honest reply.
“What do you need it for?”
Smith started to move again. “Are you coming in with me or not?”
“I suppose so.”
“Lead on, then.”
“What?”
“I don’t know where to find it. Only the roffles know that.”
Tadpole could have stood on his barrel and pummelled the man’s head.
“But I’m not a mine roffle. I don’t know what to do, where to go, where to look.”
“Off you go,” said Smith. “I’ll follow.”
For a reason he didn’t understand, Tadpole did as he was told and walked into the gaping entrance.
Wooden rails led into the mine,
to carry the trucks bringing out the ore. Tadpole followed the lines until the light died and it was no longer possible to see. The walls seemed to press in on him, the roof to lower. He stopped.
“I can’t go any further.”
“Why not?”
“Why not? Because I can’t see, that’s why not. It’s dark.”
His voice bounced back at him.
“What did you expect?” asked Smith.
“We can’t go any further.”
“We must. I need the iron.”
Tadpole slammed his roffle pack to the floor and sat on it and folded his arms.
“Well, you lead, then. I can’t. I can’t even see you.”
He waited for Smith to reply. And waited.
“I said, ‘You lead’,” he said again.
The roof timbers creaked. The air whispered past his face. A sound like rats, or cockroaches, scratched along the floor. He lifted his feet, just in case.
“Are you still there?” Tadpole called.
His voice bounced back again, distorted, now.
“This isn’t funny,” he said. “I’m going back out.”
He moved his feet, feeling for rats. Getting down from his barrel, he pushed his toes around, looking for the rails. Now that he had left them, they were hard to find again. He reached out for a wall, to get his bearings. His hand found a corner. He stooped, followed the floor away from the wall with his hands and got hold of a rail. It was a cross-piece. The track divided here.
“Which way?” he said.
A rat ran over his hand. Tadpole jumped up and tripped over his pack. His shin banged against a rock and he shouted out. He grabbed his pack, hoisted it up and pressed against the wall. More noises now. Murmuring. Kravvins? Some creature of mine magic?
“Please,” he whispered. “Please, Smith. Are you there?”
Tadpole’s head was against the rough stone of the wall. He heard rustling. And voices? Or was it laughter? He wrapped his cloak around him.
For long minutes nothing happened. He was too fearful to speak, too frightened to move, too anxious to stay still. He tried to work out whether the breeze had come from deeper in or from the entrance. It must be from the entrance. And the voices? If they were voices. Which way were they? He had to move away from them, towards the breeze.
Feeling his way along the wall with his hands, he began to move. At least it was dry.
His confidence began to return. He moved with more certainty. The breeze gre
w stronger. Perhaps it was a trick of his eyes, but he thought there was a little light. He stopped, turned his head. A shape to his left, brawny and tall.
“Smith,” he said. He kept the anger out of his voice, stopped himself from shouting at the man. “What are you doing? That’s a mean trick. Why didn’t you answer?”
The light grew, and Tadpole saw that it was coming from him. His cloak was glowing. With every breath he took it glowed brighter. The mine had opened up. He wasn’t in a tunnel any more, but a cavern, wide and high. He was pressed against just one wall. The light was not strong enough to pick out the roof or the further wall.
But it did show that the man was not Smith.
He was as tall as Smith, and as menacing. A shirt with sleeves rolled up showed thick arms, strong wrists. The skin was patterned with black lines. He held a short pick in his left hand.
“Roffle.” The voices Tadpole had heard whispered out a gathered sigh.
Tadpole secretly put his hand to his belt and grasped his knife under his cloak.
“Knife,” they whispered. The voices had faces. Rows and rows of them. All men. They gathered behind the man who towered over Tadpole. The roffle and the big man stood alone in a space at the entrance to the cavern. The crowd formed a semi-circle, facing them. Tadpole could turn and run, into the darkness. He stepped back, and bumped into Smith, who was concealed round the corner.
Smith placed his hand on Tadpole’s back and sent him staggering into the cavern. He stopped himself hardly a foot away from the man.
The voices laughed, and Tadpole remembered the throng that gathered in the galleries high above him in the library. Like them, these figures held back. They shimmered, and their faces came and went. Only the man at the front was clear, solid. Too solid. Too clear. Too big. And with a short pick, the handle in his left hand, the head weighed in his right.
“Roffle,” the voices said again.
Tadpole looked up at the big man.
“Does a squirrel make a meal of a seven-stoned peach?” he asked him.
“Does a roffle bring a Smith to the Finished Mine for a joke?” said the man.
“Smith. Smith. Smith,” sang the soft voices.
“Come in, Smith. Stand by your roffle,” said the man.
Smith emerged from the shadow. They faced each other, level height, level gaze, Smith’s hammer and the miner’s pick in opposite hands.
