The Language of Stones

by Robert Carter

  Then, quite suddenly, the sound stopped.

  The slope ahead of him fell steeply down to a sluggish stream. He followed it and saw it widen and slow into a broad, scum-covered reach. And there his eye halted. For a moment he thought he had glimpsed a figure, that of a woman floating just under the water. From the corner of his eye it seemed that white veils were rippling in a slow current, but when he looked again he saw that it had been no more than a trick of the light.

  At the other end of the reach a great dam of earth and timber blocked the stream’s flow. The water was held back in a long, stagnant pool that had crept up the sides of the valley and drowned many fine trees on the lower slopes. But the level had once been much higher, as if the feeder stream had not been strong enough to keep the pool up through the dry summer months. Then he discovered the reason the dam had been built – there was a mill.

  It had a big undershot wheel, twice the height of a man, that sat in a race to the side of the dam, and there were men standing by the sluices. More were in the clearing beyond, tending smouldering mounds of earth or walking to and fro.

  He watched them for a while, fingering his fish talisman and lying low. He wondered who the men were, but decided not to make himself known to them just in case word got back to Lord Strange. Then three men started to walk towards him – one wore a blue robe cinched with a broad belt, a shorter man was dressed in grey, and a tall, silent man in a belted shirt brought up the rear. Caution made Will hide himself behind a tree as they came along the path that ran below him. He crouched down as they stopped.

  ‘A thousand,’ the first man said. ‘That’s the order. We’re to begin cutting tomorrow. And this time I’ll choose them myself.’

  The smaller man simpered. ‘How many oaks in all, master?’

  ‘All the big trunks. Them’s to be saved. Ones so wide two men can’t hold hands around. I want them all, and the rest you can cut up as you like.’

  The smaller man seemed satisfied with that, but the tall man looked sadly around at the greenery. ‘There’s to be a lot of changes round here, then?’

  ‘It’s the times that are changing! Warships! That’s what the Realm needs now. Warships, not deer haunts and forgotten bramble patches. I want this lot cleared.’

  ‘What about the king’s hunting?’ the tall man said.

  The other turned to him. ‘Hunting? If we’re to be rich it’s trade we wants, not bloody deer-chasing. And to have trade we must have ships, see?’

  ‘You said warships.’

  ‘Aye!’ The man in blue gave him an impatient glance and turned away. ‘Trade, war – what does it matter? We’ll grow rich on either one, or both together if you like!’

  The man in blue continued to gesture broadly, showing off his plans for the Wychwoode, while the others trotted after him. Will looked up at the threadbare leaf canopy. The forest already looked sad and shabby where it had been drowned and cut back. Still, it seemed an enormous crime to chop down the biggest oaks, he thought, trees that had taken many human lifetimes to grow and made any place what it was. The Wise Woman had said that more creeping things took food and shelter from oaks than from any other kind of tree. ‘Beetles and butterflies make the oak their trysting place. Squirrels, jays and pigeons take his acorns, even badgers dig their sets among his roots. And after the rutting season, when stags eat little, the oak’s autumn bounty of acorns arrives at just the right time for deer to fatten themselves against the coming cold.’ If there are to be no oaks here, he thought desolately, what will the deer have to eat? And what about the unicorns?

  ‘Here! What’s your game?’ said a voice behind him.

  Will jumped up and almost knocked himself cold on an overhanging bough.

  ‘Listening in on other people’s business, I suppose?’

  When he looked round he saw a girl was watching him. She was lithe and trim in a boyish garb of dark green but she had a pretty, heart-shaped face framed by wisps of yellow hair. She seemed to be about his own age.

  ‘Oh, poor thing! Did I startle you?’

  ‘Just a bit,’ Will said, frowning and rubbing his head.

  ‘Good. I’m glad. It’s your fault for being here in the first place. What’s your name?’

  ‘Will. It’s short for Willand. What’s yours?’

  ‘Never you mind.’

  Will scowled. ‘Neveryoumind? That’s a stupid sort of a name.’

  ‘And you’re a stupid sort of a boy. What’re you doing here?’

  ‘Looking for unicorns.’

  ‘Unicorns?’ She laughed. ‘You won’t see any unicorns around here.’

  ‘I suppose not. They don’t often come this far south.’ He tried to sound knowledgeable. ‘They wouldn’t like it here much either. Not with that mill down there making such a thumping din half the time.’

  She gave him a hard look. ‘Where do you belong?’

  ‘I…I live at the tower.’ He wanted to point out his braids and tell her that he was not a boy any more but a man, but her face had taken on a look of deep disgust.

  ‘The tower? I didn’t know the Hogshead had a son.’

  ‘You mean Lord Strange.’

  ‘That’s what you call him. You’re his kin, more’s the pity for you. A proper warden would look after the forest, but this one brings men here to cut it down. You can tell your kinsman that he’s a pig, his purveyor’s a pig, and all the rest of them are pigs too!’

  She jumped down and ran from him, but he ran after her. ‘Hey!’ he called. ‘I’m no lordling! I’m a churl like you! Don’t be a fool! Wait for me!’

  But the girl would not wait. She was as fleet as a fawn and knew the ground well, dodging along the deer runs where she thought he could not follow. But he did, until she came to a slender fallen tree that bridged a ditch of muddy water and, stepping lightly across, reached the far side. Will attempted it, but as soon as he stepped onto it she pulled over a side branch and turned the trunk under him so that he fell off. He landed flat in the mud below, while she stood six feet above him laughing like a drain. ‘Who’s the fool now?’ she cried.

  ‘I’ll spank you for that!’ he shouted back.

  ‘No, you won’t. You’ll never catch me! Not here!’

  He stood up, slopping the mud from him. He was soaked all down one side in black, foul-smelling slime. ‘You know what? I think you’re right. Give me a hand up out of here instead.’

  She looked down at his outstretched hand, and shook her head. ‘Think I’m a fool? I’m not, you know. Anyway, look at your hand. It’s filthy.’

  ‘Listen, I’m not Lord Strange’s kin. I’m not a lordling. I’m nothing to do with the folk at the tower.’

  ‘You said you lived there. Were you lying then – or now?’

  ‘Neither. What I meant was I’m only lodging there. And I agree with you, the lord is a swine, and he’s wrong to have his best trees cut down. It’s just wickedness and greed, but he can’t help being a pig because there’s a spell of magic on his head.’

  She looked at him afresh. ‘You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here.’

  ‘The same as you, at a guess. Just walking about, listening to what the birds tell each other.’ He clasped his hand round a tree root and began to haul himself up. When he put his hand out to her again she stepped back and made ready to run.

  ‘Oh, come on. You can trust me.’

  ‘I’ll decide who I’m going to trust. And you look like trouble. I don’t expect you understand anything worth knowing. My father says your sort never do.’

  ‘I told you – I’m not any sort. I’m just me.’

  She sniffed. ‘Why’s your hair all done up like a girl’s?’

  ‘It’s…it’s a sign of manhood where I come from.’

  ‘Manhood?’ She laughed. ‘That’s girl hair. You look like a girl.’

  Just as he began to think she was not going to help him she made a grab for his wrist. She would not let him clasp her hand. She braced her foot and, with one f
inal effort, pulled him out of the hole.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You see? I’m not going to throw you down – even though I could.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Says me.’

  ‘Try it, then. If you think you can.’

  ‘Oh, this is baby talk,’ he said turning away. ‘And on the Midsummer of all days.’

  She seemed taken aback. ‘Do you respect the solstice, then?’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone?’

  ‘The Hogshead doesn’t. Lords don’t. You should know that.’

  ‘Lady Strange thinks it’d ruin her dignity to have any fun. She says only churlish folk go out on Midsummer’s Eve. I can’t see her standing under elder trees or dancing at fae rings.’

  ‘We do all kinds of things. We sing songs mainly.’

  ‘What do you sing?’

  ‘Mostly the old songs. My favourite’s the one about the prince who plants three apple trees that bear him gifts of silver, gold and diamonds. You must know it.’

  ‘Maybe. Sing it for me.’

  She hesitated, embarrassed, but then she relented. ‘All right. Just one verse.’

  But she sang all four, and when she had finished, he clapped his hands. ‘That was pretty. You have a sweet voice, you know.’ Then he backed away a pace.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Nowhere. But I’ll have to go back soon. I’m in trouble with the Hogshead for backchatting him.’ He glanced in the direction of the tower. ‘But first, I’d like to know your name.’

  She laughed. ‘I bet you would.’

  ‘No, really. I would.’

  ‘We live down by the river, so folk call me…Willow.’ She looked down at her feet. ‘I know it’s a stupid name.’

  ‘Don’t be embarrassed. It’s a lovely name. It’s beautiful, just like the tree. And it suits you.’

  They walked slowly back to the place where they had met, and sat down. She told him she lived in the village of Leigh. Her father, Stenn, was one of the verderers, men whose job it was to tend the forest. He was one of the men who were going to be made to fell the trees.

  ‘But that kind of work isn’t at all to his liking,’ she said. They crouched down together behind a fallen trunk and looked at the mill and the smouldering heaps nearby. ‘A man can’t look after a forest all his life as my father has and then be expected to lead a tree massacre. He says the law may say the forest belongs to the king, but there’s more to forests than just owning them.’

  ‘And more to trees than just the using of them for timber.’

  She looked at him and smiled. ‘You do understand, after all. Those big oaks are my father’s friends. He grew up with them and delights in each and every one of them. He says there’s been an oak grove here since long before the Slavers came. He doesn’t like what’s happening of late. He says it all stinks!’

  ‘There’s certainly something nasty in the air around here.’ He looked down at the wreaths of smoke that laced the air around the mill and gave it an acrid tang.

  ‘That’s the charcoal burners, stinking the place up with their heaps. They need charcoal to heat the iron and melt it. They cut down all of Grendon copse where that mill pond is now. My dad says there are three blacksmith’s hearths down there. Going all the time, they are, with big bellows and everything. And that thumping you can hear all over the forest – that’s what you call trip-hammers.’

  He looked at her. ‘What are they doing?’

  ‘I don’t know. Making things. We aren’t supposed to go near Grendon Mill, but I know it’s where they work iron into shapes. Waggons come up from the Old Road most days and take stuff away.’

  ‘What kind of stuff?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Whenever I go down there they chase me off. I don’t care. I don’t want to be down there anyway. It’s a dirty, stinky, smoky place now. Not at all the sort of place I like.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant about there being something in the air. It’s what that man said – the times are changing.’

  She nodded. ‘And far too quickly, I’d say.’

  ‘It all seems to fit in with what Master Gwydion told me.’

  She sat up and looked at him with sudden interest. ‘Who’s Master Gwydion?’

  Straight away Will regretted mentioning the wizard’s name. So much was important and secretive about Gwydion that it seemed almost like a betrayal. And yet when he looked at Willow he felt he could have done nothing very wrong. ‘He’s the one who brought me into Wychwoode. Can you keep a secret?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know, I’ve never tried.’

  He looked at her and remembered the look on her face as she hauled him out of the ditch, then decided he could trust her. ‘If you swear to keep it to yourself, I’ll tell you about Master Gwydion.’

  ‘I swear.’

  ‘Hand on heart?’

  ‘Hand on heart.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Master Gwydion is a wizard.’

  Her mouth opened wide and then her nose wrinkled. ‘No!’

  ‘It’s true. And I’m his apprentice.’

  ‘And do they all tell such whopping lies where you come from?’

  ‘I’m not telling lies! It’s true. I’ll swear to it if you like.’

  ‘Hand on heart?’

  ‘Hand on heart.’

  She looked at him sidelong, and Will could not be sure but he thought she had decided to believe him.

  ‘It must be very exciting being a wizard’s apprentice.’

  ‘It’s a little scary sometimes. You’d be amazed at the things I’ve seen.’

  She smiled a doubting smile. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Oh, all kinds of things. He makes owls fly so slowly that you can count their wingbeats. He makes falling rain stop, right in mid-air. He can whistle up a storm just like that—’ He clicked his fingers and leaned towards her confidentially. ‘And he even summons giants out of the earth. Giants as big as barns. They’re terrifying.’

  ‘Go on, then,’ she said, her eyes sparkling now. ‘Do a bit of magic for me.’

  That stopped him dead, and he wondered what his boasting had led him to, but then he put on his most serious expression. ‘I’d like to, but…’

  ‘But what?’

  He shook his head and sucked in a breath. ‘You must know that magic is dangerous?’

  ‘Surely not if you know what you’re doing.’

  He drew himself up. ‘Oh, no. It’s always dangerous. All magic is dangerous because, you see, it affects the harmony, the balance, the…the way things touch one another, and so on.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  She watched him, waiting for more, while he desperately tried to remember all the things the Wise Woman had told him.

  ‘It’s quite hard to give magical knowledge to someone who hasn’t had the proper grounding.’

  ‘So I see. But I don’t want you to give me any magical knowledge. I just want you to do some for me.’

  ‘I’ll…I’ll think on that.’ He nodded his head gravely. ‘Yes, I’ll think on it. And maybe I’ll show you some tomorrow.’

  Her glance slid away from him. ‘Oh, I see. And what makes you think you’ll be seeing me tomorrow?’

  ‘Well…I mean I’d like to. I really would.’ He felt his composure deserting him so that he couldn’t meet her eye now. ‘That is, if you’re able to…if you want to come back here. They say all things come full circle – that’s a rede, you know.’

  Just then, Will heard two piercing whistles and he looked down the slope. There stood a bearded man with his head tilted back and a couple of fingers stuck in his mouth.

  ‘That’s my father! He’s going back with the others to make ready for the celebrations. Can’t stay. I’m late.’

  She jumped up and without another word scampered down the slope.

  He was about to call after her, but her father was there and he thought better of it.

  ‘Willow…’ he said to himself. ‘But what about
tomorrow?’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE MARISH HAG

  For a while Will lay by himself on the fringe of the forest, knowing he ought to return to face Lord Strange’s wrath, and that the longer he delayed the worse it would be. But something defiant inside him resisted. He looked out at the still waters of the pool. When the thump-thump-thump had ended for the day it had been like the fading away of a toothache. Wisps of smoke still rose up from the charcoal burners’ mounds, but there was no other movement. Everyone, it seemed, had gone down to the village to prepare for the Midsummer.

  He sighed, feeling truly alone. At home in the Vale, folk would be dancing and feasting and playing festive games long into the evening, but all that seemed too far away now, and a chill touched him as he lay on his mat of mossy grass. He fell into a sombre mood as he watched the pool and saw the doomed trees reflected there.

  After listening to the silence for a while, curiosity roused him and drew him down the slope into a forbidden place. He was mindful of his promise to Gwydion to remain within the Wychwoode, but a desire to know the truth pushed him just a few steps beyond its bounds. Around him stood heaps of rubbish, piles of sawdust and the axe-hacked stumps of large trees. Sheds and shelters clustered round Grendon Mill. Piles of small logs were stacked up ready for charring. Where the sluice leaked there was the sound of water spilling down behind the stationary wheel and tumbling through the race.

  He looked inside the mill and saw a great square oaken shaft, toothed wheels, trundles bound in iron and bearings set in stone. There were empty anvils at each of the three trip-hammers and an idle bellows by the covered hearth. Long pincers and mallets hung on the walls. All around lay piles of metal that had been cut into different shapes. Most of it was rusty or fire-blackened, though some of it was burnished bright, but there was no mistaking what was being made here.