Winter Wood

by Steve Augarde

  ‘But I really can’t stay,’ she said. ‘Not for very long.’ She was dizzily aware that everyone in the room was looking in her direction, still curious at her presence.

  ‘Elaine, could we have some tea now, do you think?’ said the old lady. ‘And please’ – she turned back to Midge – ‘do take a seat, dear.’

  Her voice was quiet, and the words came out slowly and carefully. Yet her speech was clear – and she was clearly used to being in command of those around her.

  Elaine said, ‘Right you are, Miss Howard. I’ll just see to a couple of the others, then I’ll be back.’ She gave Midge a quick smile and moved off. Midge sat down at the little table once more, her hands in her lap. She found it hard to look directly into the wrinkled face opposite her. Such terrible old age was too scary, the shock of it too much to take in. Could that beautiful child really have turned into this?

  But then she had to look up, because the low voice said, ‘I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? We’ve already met.’

  ‘Have you? I mean, have we?’ Midge was taken aback, and answered without thinking. Yet there had been times, hadn’t there, when she had definitely sensed . . . what . . . a connection. A presence. But it had been the presence of another girl that she had been aware of, a girl of her own age, not this strange person. She could see the old lady’s eyes now, gypsy-dark beneath the sunken papery eyelids. And then came the first glimpse of something that she could recognize, something that began to convince her. It was that same faraway look she knew so well, that same gaze into the distance beyond her shoulder. This was Celandine. It really was. The truth of it caught at her heart and her throat, so that her voice shook as she tried to answer again.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I sometimes think we’ve sort of met before, too. I’ve . . . I’ve got a picture of you, in my room. A photo. Of when you were a girl. And sometimes it’s like . . . it’s like . . .’

  The dark dreamy eyes shifted slightly, so that they were looking directly at her, and Midge didn’t know how to finish the sentence. She took another breath and changed tack. ‘You’re sitting on a kind of wicker box thing. And there’s a clock in the background, and you’re holding a thing with bells on it. It looks like a toy bridle. And you’ve got really long hair.’

  But then she felt embarrassed as she said the words ‘really long hair’, because this was perhaps the most shocking thing of all about Celandine’s appearance. She was very nearly bald. Just a fuzzy sprinkling of thistledown, all wispy and thin, was the little that now remained of that amazing cloud of curls. You could see the shape of her head quite plainly, her scalp all mottled, pink and brown.

  ‘A bridle? A toy bridle? No, I don’t believe I ever— oh!’ Celandine stopped mid sentence. Her mouth remained in the shape of that little ‘oh’, and her eyes were again fixed somewhere beyond Midge’s shoulder, scanning the distance.

  ‘Yes, I do remember,’ she said at last. ‘Mr . . . Tilzey. The photographer. Boof! . . . it went. And there was a magpie . . .’

  Midge felt the hairs prickle at the back of her neck.

  ‘And then I was somewhere else. It was so very bright. And just for a moment I was . . .’ The old lady’s voice had become troubled, more frail and uncertain. ‘Who are you?’ she said. ‘What’s your name, dear?’

  Midge let out her breath, and took another before answering. It was so hot in here, and her tongue felt dry. ‘My real name’s Margaret Walters,’ she said. ‘But everybody calls me Midge. I live at Mill Farm – over at Withney. Where you used to live.’

  ‘Ah.’ A wrinkled hand reached across and brushed Midge’s arm. ‘I saw you there, you know, when I was little. You were up at my bedroom window, looking out over the paddock. And I saw you once from a train. And I saw you here, too, years and years ago, when this was my school. Yes, most definitely.’

  ‘Here? But I’ve never been here before. I’d have remembered . . .’

  ‘Well . . . I don’t think you were really here. Not then. I think I was seeing . . . what was to be. What would happen someday. Today.’

  Midge thought about that for a moment. ‘You mean like seeing into the future?’

  ‘Yes.’ Celandine leaned back in her chair for a moment, her voice seeming to express a sense of relief – either because she had been understood or because she had finally understood something herself. ‘Like seeing into the future. I knew what you would be wearing, my dear, and where you would be standing – just here by the window. Oh, I’ve waited so long, and wondered about it so often. Whether you’d come. And now here you are. Tell me’ – she shifted sideways onto one arm, and gently pushed herself into an upright position again – ‘could we be related in some way, do you think?’

  Midge laughed, despite the tension she felt.

  ‘Well, yes,’ she said. ‘Didn’t you know? You’re my great-great-aunt.’

  ‘Am I? How funny. A great-great-aunt. No, I never knew that. So are you one of Thos’s . . . no, that can’t be right. Oh dear. I’m afraid I can’t work this out. What’s your father’s name?’

  ‘His name was Walters. No, we’re related on my mum’s side, I think. Her dad was a Howard. Maybe it was . . .’ Midge struggled to picture what their family tree might look like. ‘Did you have children?’

  ‘No. No, I never had children. My elder brother had sons, though. Two, I believe. You must be descended from one of them.’ There was silence for a while, the old lady looking down into her lap, puzzling over the past perhaps, lost in her own thoughts.

  Eventually Midge said, ‘What should I call you? Would “Aunt Celandine” be all right? Only, “Great-great-aunt” seems a bit . . . you know. A bit much.’

  ‘You see, what I don’t understand’ – the old lady raised her head again; apparently she hadn’t heard Midge’s question – ‘is why. Why you’re here. And why I kept seeing you, when I was young. Those are dungarees you’re wearing, aren’t they? Green dungarees?’

  ‘What?’ Midge had lost the thread.

  ‘Because when I first saw you, I wouldn’t have known what such clothes were. Dungarees. Stripy T-shirts. There were never such things around then. I had no name for them. And yet I saw them.’ Celandine’s hand came up to her mouth as she talked, fingertips resting on the bottom edge of that dark empty circle, eyes searching the distance. Midge looked at the moving mouth, and then at the folds of skin across the knuckles . . . and at the wrist . . . and more folds of skin above the crisp white collar. Too big, the collar, so that the wrinkly neck looked like a tortoise’s neck, coming out of its shell. How weird to be so ancient, and to have so much extra skin. Maybe people shrank when they got old, but kept the same amount of skin they’d always had, and that’s why it got so creased.

  ‘Sorry?’ she said. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said, I don’t know why this is happening, dear. I’ve pictured you so often, and imagined this day so many times. And talked about it too. I knew you’d come, but I still don’t know why I knew, or how. I’m sure the staff here think I’m off with the fairies.’

  Celandine looked straight at her, as she said the word ‘fairies’. Was this a hint, Midge wondered, a cue that she should respond to? The dark-shadowed eyes were focused upon hers, waiting perhaps.

  She decided to take a chance. A quick glance around the room, and then she leaned a little closer, resting her fingers on the arm of the wheelchair.

  ‘Well . . . it’s all to do with the little people, isn’t it? The Various.’ There. It was out.

  ‘What? What was that you said?’

  Maybe she hadn’t heard properly.

  ‘The Various. I know you’ve seen them too.’

  ‘The various? The various what, dear?’

  Midge felt her heart begin to collapse in disappointment, but she tried one more time.

  ‘The tribes of little people that live in the woods . . . and the Touchstone . . . and the Orbis. You know all about it . . . all about them. I know you do. You remember, don’t you?’

/>   ‘Little people?’

  Celandine had leaned closer still, so that Midge caught the faint scent of her – something of soap and eucalyptus. But then the dark eyes turned away from her in puzzlement, and as they caught the light Midge saw that they were covered in a bluish film – like the eyes of Phoebe, Uncle Brian’s poor old spaniel. Yes, like Phoebe, who could scarcely see a yard in front of her nose nowadays. Aunt Celandine was probably almost as blind, Midge realized. She swallowed, as much shocked by this revelation as at the lack of response to her mention of the Various. The old lady could barely see, and it was plain that she had no idea what this conversation was about. Not the first clue.

  Midge didn’t know what else she could say.

  ‘Tea?’

  It was as though all the lights had been switched on anew. The room was hot and bright, and there stood Elaine, with a little aluminium trolley. Sandwiches on a plate, and a brown teapot, and some fairy cakes. Then Carol Reeve was crossing the room towards them, pointing to her watch as she approached.

  Midge looked at the sandwiches. ‘Um, no. I’d better not. I have to go. Sorry . . .’

  ‘Sorry.’ Carol’s voice echoed her own. ‘Got a bit caught up. We should make a move, Midge, if you want to get back to the Almbury centre before five. I’ll walk you over. How’ve you been getting on? Everything all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Midge. ‘Thanks.’ But everything wasn’t all right at all. She stood up and reached for her fleece.

  ‘What little people?’ Aunt Celandine was looking around her. Her voice sounded agitated now, and her hands were gripping the arms of the wheelchair.

  ‘Sh,’ said Elaine. ‘Look – I’ve made you sandwiches. Tuna mayonnaise. You like them.’

  ‘Where’s the girl? Is she there? Has she gone already?’

  ‘No, she’s still here. But now it’s time for her to go home.’ Elaine bent low and put an arm around the old lady’s shoulders. She looked up at Midge, over her spectacles. ‘Better say cheerio now, dear.’

  ‘Yes. All right, then.’ Midge moved over to the wheelchair, and hesitantly rested one of her hands on top of Celandine’s. ‘Goodbye, Aunt Celandine. It’s lovely to have met you.’ She could feel the tremor of the thin fingers beneath her palm, and worried then that perhaps she’d said too much too soon – had succeeded only in upsetting this poor old woman. The balding head lolled backwards, rocking awkwardly, as though out of control, and the filmy eyes looked up at her, blank.

  ‘Oh.’

  Again the mouth held the circular shape of the sound it had made, a neat little ‘o’ of surprise and bewilderment. But then Midge felt her own hand being covered by Celandine’s, a hesitant touch at first that became a great squeeze – as if of communication, recognition. The strength in that grip was really quite amazing. A curious tingly sensation ran through her, warm, and wonderfully uplifting. Her Aunt Celandine’s face crinkled into a thousand criss-cross patterns, the lines as intricate as leaf-prints or bees’ wings. A huge and delighted smile.

  ‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘Yes, lovely indeed, and I’m sorry you have to go so soon. But we shall talk some more. And you’re quite right – “Great-great-aunt” sounds perfectly ridiculous. You must simply call me Aunt Celandine from now on. You’ll come again, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Midge said. ‘Of course. I’ll ring next time, though.’

  Another warm squeeze of her hand, and then Midge withdrew, backing away and turning to follow Carol across the room. She heard her Aunt Celandine say, ‘That’s my great-great-niece, you know,’ a clear voice above the clink of teacups. Carol held the squeaky door open for her to pass through into the corridor, and then the sounds of the room faded away. It was over. As quickly and as bewilderingly as that.

  They hurried across the windy car park and Carol said, ‘I hope we haven’t got you into trouble. It’s just gone five.’

  ‘It’ll be OK.’

  ‘Do you want me to come and explain to your mum?’

  ‘No, it’ll be OK, thanks.’

  ‘Well, I’ll stay with you till I know you’re safe.’

  The shopping mall was less crowded now, and it didn’t take long for Midge to catch sight of her mother. Uncle Brian was still sitting at the café table with his friend, and Mum and Barry were standing next to them, chatting. Barry had his arm around her mum’s shoulders. That was a bit weird.

  ‘She’s just over there.’ Midge pointed towards the table, and looked up at Carol. ‘I’m OK now.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yes. Thanks for walking me back.’

  ‘You’re very welcome. Um . . . did you mean it when you said you’d visit Miss Howard again?’

  ‘Yes. I’d like to, anyway. Not sure when it’d be, though, or how I’d get here. I’ll ring first, like I said.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure that she’d always be delighted to see you. We’ll wait till we hear from you then.’

  ‘OK. Bye. And thanks.’

  ‘Bye, Midge. Keep safe.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Midge watched Carol walk away, her dark two-piece suit looking out-of-place smart somehow, amongst all the winter shoppers in their jackets and jeans. She turned to see that Mum had spotted her, and that there was already a questioning little frown on her face.

  Better be prepared, then. Midge put her hand in the pockets of her dungarees and walked towards the café. What was she going to say? Tell the truth, as far as she could. Usually the simplest thing. But everything had happened so quickly in the last hour that it was hard to accept that it was the truth. She had found Celandine. Could that really be right? It made her head spin.

  ‘Hallo – where have you been? I was just about to give you a call, missy. Brian says you’ve been gone almost an hour. Who was that woman you were talking to?’ Mum had disentangled herself from Barry’s arm, the better to get serious with her.

  Midge smiled. They were never going to believe this.

  ‘You’re never going to believe this,’ she said. ‘I’ve been having tea with Aunt Celandine. Not that I actually got any tea, though. There wasn’t enough time. Can I have another cake or something? I’m starving.’

  It was great to see their faces. She wished she had a camera.

  Her mum said, ‘Whaaat?’

  Chapter Nine

  MAGLIN HAD MADE his decision. He would gather together the Ickri tribe, along with any of the Wisp and Naiad who were willing to follow him, and quit the forest as soon as was possible. All others would be left to their fate.

  The Far Woods might provide a temporary haven. He would take his people and sit out the rest of the winter there. Then, when better weather came, he would move north, sending out scouts to search for lands that were less overrun with giants. There was no knowing whether such lands existed, but any chance was worth taking when the alternative was simply to sit here starving and waiting to be discovered.

  With his shoulders hunched against the cold, Maglin entered Royal Clearing and walked towards the Rowdy-Dow tree. How miserable the Woodpecker looked, crouching up there on the Perch, all huddled beneath his bindle-wrap. Little wonder that he seemed so wretched. With no permission to wed, the lad hadn’t even the comfort of his thoughts to keep him warm.

  Maglin tapped the shaft of his spear against the tree trunk.

  ‘Come, Woodpecker – rouse up. I’ve work for ’ee.’

  Little-Marten hastily pulled his bindle-wrap aside, looked down at Maglin, and fumbled for the clavensticks.

  ‘Aye, Maglin. I be ready.’

  ‘Then muster the tribes.’

  ‘All tribes?’

  ‘All tribes. ’Tis time we were gone from here. You’ll have heard the talk, I don’t doubt. Well now you hear it from me. The Ickri be leaving – along with any others that will. Sound the Muster, then.’

  ‘Don’t ’ee do it, Maglin!’

  Maglin stared up at Little-Marten in astonishment – then realized that it was not the Woodpecker who had spoken. He swung round, spear a
t the ready. From the back of the shattered beech tree stepped the fantastic figure of Maven-the-Green. By Elysse! Maglin jabbed his spear at the hag, quite prepared to run her through there and then for giving him such a shock.

  ‘You old witch! Do ’ee ever stop creeping about? Get back from me, if thee’ve a mind to live this day through!’

  Maven slowly raised her arms as a sign of peace, but Maglin just growled at her and thrust his spear further towards her skinny throat. The crone looked more outrageous than ever – the sight of her was enough to make a rock jump. Her face and arms were daubed in what looked to be rough green clay, so thick that it had cracked and split upon her skin like willow-bark. Her hair too was caked in clay, matted into great twisted hanks that snaked down over her forehead so that the peering red-rimmed eyes were hardly visible. A terrible creature she was, hump-backed and wreathed in winter ivy – ancient as the very woods she haunted. And mad as a nest of adders.

  Maglin cautiously withdrew his spear.

  ‘This be a dangerous amusement, hag, to creep up on one such as I. Eh? Now I warn ’ee: keep such japes for those with softer tempers and thee might breathe a while yet, but try ’em with me and I’ll have ’ee wriggling on the end of this spear like an eel. Too often I find ’ee lurking where thee’ve no business.’

  ‘’Tain’t such an easy thing, though, maister.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘To spear an eel.’ Maven’s voice was a creaky whisper. She lowered one of her arms, but kept the other one half raised and began moving it gently to and fro, in a lazy snaking motion. There was something graceful in her actions – the hypnotic movement of her arm so clearly imitating an eel, moving back and forth in a slow current. ‘’Tis plain enough to see ’un’ – Maven moved a little closer towards Maglin – ‘and so thee reckons thee shall have ’un.’ Her voice was lowered to a softly rhythmic croak. ‘Thee bides . . . and thee bides . . . and then – when ’ee has ’un just right – thee throws the spear . . .’

  In one startling movement Maven’s arm shot forward, grasped Maglin’s spear, and flung it to the heavens. The weapon flew straight up towards Little-Marten’s high Perch, hit the underside of the broken limb with a solid thunk, and hung there, quivering. Little-Marten’s squawk of fright drifted down from above.