This seemed to Gretel to be an unnecessarily complicated way of going about things. It also made her worry that she would end up being referred to as Sister of Drunken Simpleton. “Tell me,” she asked “how then do you address one another in person?”
“Oh, some friendly way or other. Helps if you add a little detail. Most people hail me with Friend Middling Tall, on account of my height, which is neither great nor completely insignificant. That old lady down there … see? Everyone hails her with Grandma How Old?! because of her great age.” He drained his tankard and peered blearily into the carousing throng. “And over there I can just see Friend One Too Many. He’s the one under the table.”
Hans laughed. “Marvelous system, isn’t it? And the absolute best thing about it is that you don’t have to remember anyone’s name. Isn’t that sensible? I mean to say, when there is so much merrymaking going on, who wants to be bothered with struggling to recall names, when you more or less just call people by what is most obvious about them? Dashed clever, ain’t it?”
Gretel was aware there were times during her brother’s drinking bouts when he was hard pressed to remember his own name. Given that the pixies seemed to share his love of intoxicating brews there was an element of good sense to their system. She wasn’t sure, however, she wanted to be called by the most obvious thing about her, given that she had slept in the open, had not so much as put a brush through her hair for days, was still dressed in her grubby nightgown and cape, and could only imagine the shiny, blotchy nature of her face after all she had been through of late.
“I do believe, sister mine, that I have found my soulmates here.”
“Hans,” she spoke in a whisper she hoped could not be overheard. “You are not in control of your senses.”
“But, Gretel, look about you.” Here he waved his tankard, sloshing pungent pixie ale over his bare feet. “What fun! What merriment! What a way to live!”
“A party is a party the world over.”
“Not for woodland pixies. They live like this every night. Days are just to be got through as gently as possible, doing the very bare minimum that must be done, finding food, brewing ale, and so forth. The remainder of the time they drink and share goodwill and let the rest of the world go by. I tell you I love these little fellows. They are my natural brethren. My people,” he insisted, somewhat tearily.
“Indeed, Hans? And this despite the fact that you weigh the same as a small bullock, while your diminutive friends could be fatally squashed by a carelessly sitting spaniel?”
“Must you always see the downside? Here,” he grabbed a beaker of ale from a nearby log stool, “what you need is a little of this. You’ll be amazed at how your cares just slip away, slip away, slip away …” And with that he twirled on his filthy feet and teetered back to join the dancing.
A passing female pixie took pity on Gretel and led her to a soft, mossy corner beneath some honeysuckle where she might rest. She provided her with a blanket knitted of thistledown, rabbit fur, and owl feathers, a beaker of what she promised was nothing more potent than spring water, and a plate of food. Gretel experienced a moment’s unease when she recalled how hospitable the witch had been, but she comforted herself with the thought that all she need do to protect herself from the elves was set Hans to roll among them. She sat and nibbled at the surprisingly tasty morsels, which were of necessity many, being so small. She detected nuts and berries and seeds, with a type of unleavened bread and pastry, and carefully avoided anything that resembled a mushroom. Her stomach full at last, she reclined beneath the woodland coverlet, closed her eyes, and, despite the continuing music and dancing, was soon asleep.
The next morning she woke up to a scene that put her in mind of the aftermath of some historic battle or other, although with the smell of barbecued food and sweet beverages rather than gunpowder. There were little bodies strewn hither and thither in attitudes of having collapsed in the middle of dancing or drinking or possibly both. Some pixies snored softly, others hiccupped, and a few more muttered in their presumably dream-filled sleep. Hans lay at the center of them, a beached whale to their sprats. Gretel sat up and pushed her flattened hair out of her face. Two young girl pixies came trotting up to her. She noticed that as they moved their tiny feet appeared to scarcely touch the ground at all. This lack of contact meant they could move in almost complete silence, and of course, they would leave no tracks. Gretel wondered if the sense of being watched that had been with her since entering the woods was because of the pixies after all. Could they have been following her and Hans and waiting their moment to make their presence known? She sought to identify what it was about Hans that had caused them to wish to reveal themselves to him. She was fairly certain it had to do with their recognizing a fellow drinker when they saw one. She would wait to see if they all continued to be so relentlessly cheerful when they were sharing the delights of a hangover.
One of the young pixies offered her some blackberries. “Are you hungry, New Friend Exceeding Large?” she asked sweetly.
Gretel did a quick mental maneuver that allowed her to accept this nomenclature with good grace. She was, after all, a new friend, and compared to even the biggest pixie thereabouts, she was undeniably large.
“Thank you.” She took the proffered fruit. As she did so she noticed a vivid scar running down the arm of the pixie. It began above the elbow, traveled over the joint, and halfway to the wrist. The young pixie self-consciously moved her arm back.
“An unfortunate accident?” Gretel asked.
The girl nodded. Her companion spoke up. “Sweetling Climber fell from a tree. Again.”
The two exchanged rueful glances.
“And sustained a bad break, by the look of it,” said Gretel.
“I did, New Friend Exceeding Large. Mother was furious.”
“People often are when they find they have narrowly but safely escaped their greatest fear,” said Gretel. “It must have been dreadfully painful.”
Sweetling Climber shook her head, “Oh, we have things to take away the pain,” she explained. “It was the healing that took so long. I wasn’t allowed to climb anything! Not even a bush!”
“May I see?” Gretel held out her hand and the pixie let her examine the injury more closely. “A serious break like that can heal badly, but this looks as strong as ever it was. It was expertly set. You must have a fine apothecary or bonesetter among you.”
“We do not,” said the girl.
Her friend agreed. “Old Elder Knit-bone does his best, but his eyes are not as sharp as they were.”
“I was so very fortunate. There was a stranger in the camp. Passing through. He stayed only a couple of nights. He was here when I had my fall, and it was he who set my arm. He was so clever, the stitches so neat, and the bone mended better than anyone had hoped it could.”
“That was indeed great good fortune,” said Gretel, her mind whirring into action, pulling together disparate facts, sketching hypotheses, drawing conclusions. “This stranger, he was not a pixie?”
“Oh no, he was from outside the forest, like yourself and your brother. Only … narrower.”
“Some are,” she conceded. “So he might well have had a name?”
The girls both laughed at this and Gretel instantly recognized her mistake. Not being a woodland pixie it was certain he did have a name, but it was equally certain none of them would have bothered to ask for it. She tried a different path toward the answer she sought.
“Someone who did you such a great service, you would of course remember very well. What can you tell me about this mysterious stranger?”
Sweetling Climber smiled at the memory of her savior. “He was tall. That is to say, not just next to me, but very tall, taller than you and your brother. He had a kind face, with soft eyes, and a nice way of speaking. Always pleasant. Cheerful in all he did and thought. He fit in here well. Apart from his clothes!” The pair giggled. “Long, flowing robes, deep purple they were, with a hat to match, all embroidered
with stars as if a piece of the night sky had come down to join our party!”
Now it was Gretel’s turn to smile. “Such a man would have been invited to visit often, I imagine.”
“Certainly! Friend Mends All is welcome any time. He likes to call on us to make merry, and to see how I am,” she added, an endearing blush coloring her tiny face.
Gretel felt excitement rising inside her and slapped it down. It was too early in the day for displays of triumphant joy, particularly without having properly breakfasted. “One more thing, when was the last time you saw this fine fellow?”
“Why he was here for the Berryblasted Feast. He stayed for the whole of the festival—three days and three nights—before moving on, and we were so happy to be able to treat him as our very special guest.”
“The Berryblasted Feast sounds quite an occasion. On what date does it fall?”
“It is a moveable feast,” the pixie told her, beginning to skip away, her interest in the visitor waning along with her patience for questions; such is the temper of youth. Already her friend was trotting off along the path.
“Wait!” Gretel called, scrambling to her feet. “When did it fall this year? When did you last see Friend Mends All?”
But three young male pixies chose that moment to spring from the undergrowth and chase the squealing girls away. The noise woke others in the camp, Hans among them, who came mumbling and stumbling into consciousness.
“Dash it all, Gretel, is there any need to shout?” he asked, rubbing his head. His silk pajamas had bits of moss and fern sticking to them. There were twigs in his hair, but rather than pluck them out he merely jammed his hat on top. Beside him Friend Middling Tall woke up, looking remarkably fresh and cheery. Indeed, Hans appeared to be the only partygoer who was suffering any ill effects after such a deal of drinking. Whatever their ale was brewed from, the pixies were clearly accustomed to it.
“Good morning, New Friend Exceeding Large,” chirped Hans’s drinking partner. Gretel tried to ignore the depressing fact that he had seen the same obvious thing about her the girls had seen. A point not helped by his turning to her brother and greeting him with, “Hail, New Friend Stout Hearted! What a bright, lovely day it is. Let us take breakfast and a stroll so that we are in fine fettle for more merrymaking tonight.”
Hans gave a little groan. “Highly decent of you, but I rather think I might sit the next one out. That ale of yours packs a punch. And even more so the morning after, have to say.”
Friend Middling Tall gave him a cheery slap on the back—having leaped on a fallen log to be able to reach—laughing away such an idea. “But to begin again is the best remedy! Why, soon you will be drinking like a true woodland pixie.”
Gretel butted in. “I fear we must depart before such a useful life skill can be honed.”
“Depart? But you’ve only just arrived!”
“We are not in these woods for our own entertainment, alas. If we were we would wish for nothing more than to stay here and be the guests of such excellent hosts.” At this flattery the pixie puffed himself up happily. Gretel pressed home her advantage. “We are searching for someone, and that search is urgent and of great importance on many counts, which sadly I am not able to discuss. However, you may be able to assist us …”
“In any way we can! Always delighted to help a fellow drinker.”
Gretel gave a nod of thanks. Hans looked as if he would have done the same if the action would not have been so painful. He was still rubbing his temples.
“I wonder,” Gretel asked, “could you tell me when Friend Mends All last dropped by?”
“Friend Mends All? Marvelous chap. You should see what he did for Sweetling Climber.”
“I have seen. Marvelous indeed.”
“Welcome here anytime he likes. Always happy to share a beaker of ale with him.”
“And you last did so … when, can you recall?”
The pixie frowned, evidently searching his memory.
“I understand he was here for the Berryblasted Festival.” Gretel attempted to help him.
“Was he? You’re probably right about that. Thing is, there are a lot of festivals. Hard to remember who was here and who was not.”
“Perhaps it would be easier just to tell me the date of the festival.”
“Ah, yes, I can do that. Always on a Tuesday.”
“Good …”
“Unless there’s been a late full moon, in which case it’s a Wednesday, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“Though I don’t think the moon was late this year. Or maybe it was. Ha, goodness! How the old memory lets a person down!”
Gretel could not help thinking that the old memory was not helped by being pickled every night of the year.
“Anyway,” their host continued, “I know it was after Summer Fayre, because it always is, and that’s in … May. June! Yes, definitely June. And …” He thought so hard beads of sweat formed on his tiny brow. Suddenly he smiled broadly. “And it was before you came! So there we are! Yes, there.” He nodded brightly, pleased with his own powers of recall.
Gretel was less impressed. “So you’re saying he visited sometime between June and now? Wonderful. You’ve been so very helpful. Come along, Hans, we have miles to go. Time to move along.”
Hans let out a whine. “But, Gretel, we still have no camping stuff. And no food, and do we really know where we are going? And my head hurts. And perhaps I should just have a little nap, and …”
“Hans! We don’t have time for your hangover. We still have the map, so yes, we do know where we are going, even if we are uncertain as to how we will get there. We also know the sorcerer was here …”
“We do?”
“Yes. While you have been partying and sleeping, I have been continuing with my investigations. Which, may I remind you, is the reason we are here. Helpfully, I have found out that he often visited and that he mended the broken arm of a young pixie. Unhelpfully, no one here can remember when they last saw him. Which is frustrating in the extreme.”
“It is?”
“Yes, of course it is! The date would give us definitive proof of Herr Arnold’s continued existence. As it is we have merely a strong possibility, or maybe a probability given the progress of healing on the arm, that his latest visit was recent. How recent, we cannot yet know.”
“Fixed a broken arm, eh? I thought you said he was rubbish at magic,” Hans pointed out.
“He was. Is. Whichever. But I’ve seen that arm and it is has been expertly mended, somehow. Now, come along, we will prevail upon these good pixies for some food and then be on our way.”
ELEVEN
The pixies did indeed furnish them with freshly baked breads, pastries, and fruit and nut cheeses, as well as another poultice for Hans to apply to his eye later on. Much to his amazement they also presented him with a speedily made pair of boots, constructed of plaited vines, bark and moss, which he declared most comfortable. They gave Gretel a present of the feather and thistledown blanket, for which she was exceedingly grateful. Friend Middling Tall consulted the map with her and made sure they were set back on the right path for the direction in which they wanted to travel. He explained that pixies were territorial beings, and liked to stick to their own region of the forest. This being the case he had never ventured more than a day’s walk from their home, so could shed no light on what the travelers might find beyond that distance.
Jynx reappeared from his night’s hunting and clutched onto the strap of Hans’s pack. The unlikely trio was waved off cheerily, with Hans giving a few wistful looks back, and a number of heartfelt sighs as he left his new merrymaking friends behind. Gretel promised him they could visit again one day, but she made sure he had not hidden any bottles of pixie ale in the rucksack.
The weather continued to be fair. A little too fair, in fact, for Gretel’s liking. There was a heaviness to the air that suggested the accumulating heat would soon spill over into a thunderstorm. They had no shelter
other than the trees, which she had a vague notion was a Bad Place To Be if there was lightning about. After two hours of walking they paused for a brief lunch, during which Gretel had the devil’s own job preventing Hans slumping into a snooze that could have consumed the rest of the day. They trudged on. The forest closed in tighter and tighter around them as they walked.
After a further two hours Gretel called another halt so that she might put on her wig. She had not forgotten that it needed more “breaking in,” and when Hans commented on how ridiculous she looked, given the rest of her ensemble and their current location, she argued that it boosted her morale to think of the concert, and dressing up in finery, and doing something sophisticated and not mud-based. Jynx clearly agreed, leaving his perch on the backpack and choosing instead to settle upon Gretel’s wig. The effort of arguing had defeated Hans completely. He sank to the ground, declared himself unable to take another step without a restorative nap in which to sleep off the rest of his hangover, and pointedly lay flat with his hat placed firmly over his face. Gretel recognized the signs of a man who would not be pushed another inch. In truth, she too longed for respite from all the marching around and the privations. Not the least of which was the absence of a water closet. She left Hans snoring tunefully and went in search of a small, private place where she might do what had to be done and could be put off no longer.
Despite the denseness of the forest and the abundance of cover, Gretel found it hard to settle on a spot that felt secure. This was due in no small part to the fact that she still was dogged by the notion that they were being watched. This idea was even more disturbing now than it had been before, as now she could not reasonably imagine the pixies might be following and observing then. So then, who? Or indeed, what? In the end she had no choice but to lift her nightdress and squat inelegantly among the pine needles and brambles. No sooner had she lowered her posterior than an incongruous sound reached her ears. It appeared to be music. Not of the woodland merrymaking variety, rather something almost orchestral. A brass instrument, she decided. A horn. A hunting horn!
The Sorcerer's Appendix Page 10
