by Toby Forward
As quickly as she had appeared, Ash became Slowin again. Slowin glared at Tadpole. He looked around at the others.
“No,” he shouted. “No.”
He raced for the gate.
“You’ll destroy yourself,” said Tadpole. “Don’t run.”
Each step, each splash, each spray of silver pierced him more and more. His legs, corroded away, snapped. He fell on his face.
“Stop now,” called Tadpole. “I’ll help you.”
Slowin snarled and choked. “I don’t need help from a roffle.”
He tried again to stand and, looking down at his ruined legs, began to shout out a spell. The words turned to ash as they left his mouth and scattered in front of him. He choked again and tried to spit, but only more ash sprayed out.
Using his arms to crawl on, he neared the edge of the courtyard, until, raising himself up one last time, he made a strangled howl, then, all power spent, fell forward and exploded in a shower of stars.
Tamrin had never felt more alone.
All those years at the college, hiding away, pretending to belong and not to belong, pretending not to belong and belonging. All those times alone, waiting for Sam, waiting for friendship. All the days and nights on the roof of the college, looking out, waiting, wanting. Even in all that loneliness, she had never felt so alone as she did now.
She backed away from the others, her feet leaving ripples of light in the silver lake.
She moved with stealth and silence, until she felt the broken stones of the wall on her back. She leaned against it, letting her knees bend until she squatted on her haunches, watching Tadpole confront Slowin.
She saw the wizard resist Tadpole’s help. Saw him run for the gate. Saw him destroy himself in the silver. She watched Sam walk across to Tadpole and put his hand on the roffle’s shoulder. She watched Dorwin comfort Tadpole as he melted into tears at what he had done. She watched Flaxfold take Flaxfield across to Jackbones and Cabbage, clasping hands and reflecting on the end of their enemy. She watched December and Mattie walk aside together, hand in hand, heads close, whispering. She watched the dragon, Starborn, try his wings and, new-made, take to the air, spinning round overhead, never letting Tadpole out of her sight.
So, it was over.
The war with Slowin was over.
Boolat was over.
Smedge was over.
“Canterstock,” she said. “What’s happened to that?”
What if the college should be over, too?
She looked at Sam.
Sam was over as well. As far as she was concerned. The other half of who she was. Over. She had to be complete to herself now.
She had never felt so alone.
Tamrin put her head into the folds of her cloak and let silent tears soak into it.
“They forgot me as well.”
Tamrin wiped her face and looked up.
“What?” she said.
“They forgot me as well.”
She looked to her left, at the remains of a doorway to the cellars. A dark face, and kind, looked back at her. Khazib moved out and sat next to her, his legs straight.
“They all seem happy,” he said.
Tamrin followed his gaze. Sam and Tadpole were testing magic together. Tadpole, comforted now, sent sprays of coloured stars high into the air, where they burst and showered down flowers and butterflies and bright ribbons.
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
“Who are you?”
The man put out his hand to greet her. “Khazib,” he said. “Apprentice to Flaxfield. Wizard. Prisoner of Ash. Locked here for longer than I know. Released at last. Good to meet you.”
Tamrin ignored the hand. He withdrew it.
“Wizard?” she said.
“Wizard,” he agreed.
“Not any more.”
Khazib’s face became solemn. “I think that’s right,” he agreed.
“You’ve tried?”
“Yes.”
“So what are you going to do?”
Khazib laughed. “Question for question,” he said. “The magic’s gone, but the wizard ways are still here.”
He stood up. “I’ll remind them I’m here,” he said.
Tamrin watched Khazib greet Flaxfield. Her tears began to flow again as she saw them embrace, watched them smile, and talk, and hug Flaxfold. It wasn’t long before she saw Khazib lean forward and whisper something to Flaxfold. The woman nodded, looked across the courtyard and saw Tamrin. She moved away from Khazib and started towards her.
Tamrin didn’t wait. She slid round the broken wall, into the open space. She ran a zigzag path, avoiding the beetles, and found the cover of the wood.
“Back to Canterstock,” she said. “See what’s there.”
The stars looked back at them,
Tadpole and Sam, lying side by side on their backs, staring up.
“Are they always this noisy?” asked Tadpole.
Sam screwed up his eyes and pretended not to care.
“I thought they were points of light,” said Tadpole. “No one told me about the sounds.”
“They don’t know,” said Sam.
Tadpole propped himself up on his elbow so he could look at Sam. “What?”
“They don’t know about the sounds. Only wizards hear them.” Tadpole saw the sadness in Sam. “And not all wizards,” he added.
Tadpole decided not to embarrass Sam by looking at him any longer. He lay back and put his hands behind his head.
“Can you understand what they’re saying?” asked Sam.
“Can you hear them?”
“No.”
Silence covered them. Tadpole waited.
The stars whispered to Tadpole. He listened with care and some difficulty. He picked out one voice and tried to fade out the others. It wasn’t easy, like listening to someone in a busy inn parlour. At last he managed it. It was time to trust the silence.
“Could you hear them, before?” he asked.
“Yes. I could. Not now.”
“Do they tell the truth?”
He had to wait for an answer. The stars laughed.
“You’ll have to get to know them,” said Sam. “Listen and watch. Make up your own mind.”
They looked up again in a long silence.
Starborn sliced through the night sky, crossing overhead.
Tadpole propped himself up again to look at what was happening.
The wizards and the others had fallen into pairs and groups. Some slept. Some talked in low voices. Smith had left the courtyard. He walked round the perimeter, stopping now and then to exchange a word with one of the Finished Miners, who formed an outward-facing circle, protecting the castle and those inside.
Kravvins and takkabakks were still, only a few of them making a confused effort to walk.
Tadpole stood up and walked over to Smith. He climbed the low mound of stones that were all that remained of the walls. Smith saw him approaching and waited for him.
“Soon be dawn,” he said.
Tadpole gave the sky a regretful look.
“The stars will be back again tonight,” said Smith. “They’re always there.”
They walked slowly together, within the cordon of miners.
“You’ll be going back home, soon,” said Smith. “To the Deep World.”
“I suppose so.”
The sky began to catch a small suggestion of blue at the edge of the horizon. One by one, then in thousands, the stars withdrew behind the cloak of dawn. Tadpole kept his head turned up, trying to write the memory of the stars in his mind, until only one was left, gleaming alongside the fading moon.
“Look at that,” said Flaxfold.
Tadpole hadn’t heard her approach. Her sleeve brushed his cheek as she stretched her arm out and pointed to the hillside.
In the early sunlight the takkabakks and the kravvins started into action. They darted about, bumping into each other. The Finished Miners brandished their spades and picks, ready for battle.<
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“Things are righting themselves,” said Flaxfold. “See.”
The monstrous beetles shrank and splintered. They reshaped themselves and changed colour. Some had wings and took flight. Some grew horns and scuttled away. Greens and blues and reds. Stripes and spots. They buzzed and bumbled along. A cloud of jewels hanging in the sunlight. A stream of ripe fruits pouring down the hillside.
“They’re beautiful,” said Tadpole.
A great, flying stag beetle, half the size of the roffle’s palm, flew towards him. It circled and landed on the shoulder of his cloak, folded its wings into the hard carapace like an elderly roffle tucking herself up in bed. Now it was the size of his thumb.
They watched it run down the cloak, pause at the hem, spread its wings again and fly off.
In minutes the beetles had dispersed, into the woods and long grass, under dead logs, up among the leaves, flying away, scurrying for cover.
“I’ve always liked beetles,” said Flaxfield. The whole company was together now, assembled to watch the transformation. “Lovely little chaps,” he said.
He put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he said.
“What for?”
“Are you ready?” Flaxfield asked.
Flaxfold came and took his hand. “I’m ready,” she said. “Say goodbye to Tam for me,” she told Sam. “When you see her.”
“You tell her,” he shouted. “Tell her yourself.”
“Tadpole,” said Flaxfield. “Look after Sam.”
“Yes,” said Tadpole.
“And you, Sam. Look after Tadpole. There’s a lot to do.”
“Shut up,” shouted Sam. He pushed himself at Flaxfield and grabbed the old wizard’s cloak. He buried his face in it and hugged him. Flaxfield put his arms around the boy and they held each other.
“The last and the best,” said Flaxfield. “Thank you.”
Flaxfold helped Sam to move away. She hugged him and kissed his cheek.
“Thank you,” said Sam. “Both of you.”
“There was only ever one,” she reminded him.
He nodded.
“Say it, please, Sam,” said Flaxfield.
“No.”
“Please,” said Flaxfield. “You have to.”
“No.”
The two old wizards walked away. Five paces. Ten. They stopped. They put their staffs on to the ground, side by side, and clasped them together with their hands.
“Say it now, Sam.”
Sam took one pace towards them. He stood upright, hands clasping his staff.
“You have done all things well,” he said, quietly. “Go where you must.”
“Thank you.”
They drew close to each other. Their cloaks wrapped together, blended, became one. The staffs grew, rose up, thickened and spread over their heads. The cloaks melted into the upright trunk of a tall willow, its leaves silver green in the morning sunlight.
Sam sat down and wept until his throat hurt.
He was thirteen years old.
The sun was hot, beating down
on the ruins of Boolat. Sam, hunched inside his cloak, grew uncomfortable.
He pushed it aside.
He said one of the words that Flaxfield had told him never to use.
“That’s no language for a wizard,” said Dorwin.
Looking up, Sam saw that all the others had moved away from him. Only she remained.
“I’m hot,” said Sam.
He pushed the cloak right away and leaned back with the palms of his hands against the grass.
“Why wouldn’t you be?” she asked. “It’s a hot day. You’re out in the sun.”
Sam shook his head. Dorwin sat next to him. She touched the hem of his cloak with her fingertips.
“It’s a Cloude cloak,” she said. “And a wizard’s cloak.”
Sam looked away.
“It won’t keep you cool in the sun any more,” she said. “Nor protect you in the cold, any more than a good cloak would. Remember?”
Sam didn’t turn his head to face her.
Tadpole was talking to Jackbones. Sam felt a surge of anger again. They had their heads close, as though exchanging secrets, as though they were old friends.
“You have to help him,” said Dorwin. “No matter how difficult it gets for you.”
“I know.”
“Why don’t you sit in the shade? Cool down.”
The willow was full-grown, almost. Sam shook his head.
“Why not?”
“I don’t mind the sun.”
She squeezed his shoulder and left him there.
Sam watched the activity. The Finished Miners had left their guard posts and were gathered around Smith. Tadpole and Jackbones still spoke. Mattie and Cabbage and December seemed to be arguing. Khazib stood apart. Sam couldn’t be bothered with any of them. He edged along the grass until he found himself in the shade of the willow boughs. He rested there for a while, in the cool grass. Standing up, he made his way to the tree. The trunk was a swirl of movement from root to branch, as though twisted in its growth. Not quite two strands, like a plaited loaf, but somehow conjoined, embraced. Sam leaned his face against the bark, enjoying the roughness against his cheek. He stepped closer and pressed against it.
It was hard to move away, but he managed it, without looking back.
“We’re going,” shouted Smith, waving to Sam.
Sam made his way towards them.
“Where to?” he asked.
“We don’t have to go, yet,” said a miner. “We can rebuild this.”
“What?” asked Sam.
“As it was,” he said. “We remember it. We’re from long ago. Some of us worked the iron for the door hinges and the sconces. We mined the metal for the nails, the locks, the chains. We can rebuild it.”
Sam laughed. “Never,” he said. “Not this place.”
The miner glared at him. “You think we couldn’t?”
Smith stepped between them.
“It was a place of great beauty, once,” he said to Sam. “It would be wonderful to have it back.” He turned his attention to the miner. “And, of course you could, Bearrock,” he said. “Before the sun sets tonight, you could do it. You’re the Finished Miners. There’s nothing you couldn’t build.”
Sam and the miner still stared at each other.
“Bearrock?” he said.
The miner held out his hand. Sam shook it. “Best you don’t rebuild,” he said.
“See,” said Smith. “The others have made up their minds.”
The Finished Miners had started to swing their picks. They prised up the flagstones and lifted them away. They pushed their spades into the earth and flung the soil aside. Like beetles, they scrambled below the earth, climbing down and disappearing.
“Back to the Finished Mine,” said Smith. “They’re going back.”
Bearrock took his hand from Sam’s.
“Goodbye, Sam,” he said.
“Yes. Thank you.”
Bearrock shook hands with Smith and walked away, joining his friends. In minutes they had all gone.
“Everything is finishing,” said Sam. “Everything.”
“Changing,” said Smith. “As iron changes in the furnace.”
“What now?” asked Sam.
“For me? Back to my forge. Farmers still need billhooks and ploughs. Kitchens need pots and pans. Plenty for me to do. And Dorwin.”
She came and stood next to Smith.
“We’ll see you again?” she said to Sam. “You’ll always be welcome at the forge.”
“We’ll see him again,” said Smith, interrupting Sam. “With that roffle, I expect.”
They took their leave of the others and walked away.
Sam, Khazib, Cabbage, December, Mattie, Jackbones and Tadpole stood together and watched until they disappeared into the trees.
Even as they were watching Smith and Dorwin depart, Sam couldn’t stop himself from stealing glances at December. Her face, smoot
h and lovely, still glowed from the renewing fire. Sam tried to think what sort of age she looked. Twelve or twenty? One hundred or older? It was no good. She was the only one of them who still carried the muddling imprint of magic.
It was December who spoke first.
“I’m going, now,” she said. “Back home. To the mines.”
“What for?” Mattie demanded.
Sam saw that there was trouble between them.
Cabbage spoke softly to the boy. “She may go where she pleases.”
“What’s it to do with you?”
“I can still heal,” said December. “I know herbs and infusions. I can set a broken leg. I can cool a fever and deliver a baby. These are things that overlap with magic. They remain.”
“What about me?”
December touched Mattie’s cheek.
“You can come with me, if you like,” she said. “I’ll teach you.”
“I don’t want to go to the mines.”
“But I must.”
“I waited hundreds of years for you.”
“Was it that long?”
“It seemed that long,” he said. “Longer, perhaps. Or not quite as long. I wasted away.”
“And now you’re back,” she said. “But I’m not the person you waited for.”
“Of course you are, Bee,” said Mattie. “You’re just the same.”
“No. Not at all. Not the same person at all.” She put her hand to her own cheek. Her face grew sad as she stroked the perfect skin. “I have one more little magic in me,” she said. She lifted her shawl from her shoulder and wrapped it around her face and over her head.
Sam felt a wave of panic as he started to know what she was doing.
December shuddered and her breath came out in a deep sigh.
She unwrapped the shawl and settled it back on her shoulders. Her face was as it had been when Sam had first met her. Ravaged and ruined by fire. Skin puckered and pulled. Her hair burned away so that it grew only in patches on the shiny scalp.
“This is me,” she said. “Time and magic have done this to me. I’m not the Bee you met. I’m December.”
Mattie looked down and walked away. Khazib caught him by the arm.
“Mattie,” he said. “I’m going as well.”
Mattie stared away from him.
