‘As you’ve said. The one that was slain. Little good it brought her then, and little good may it bring me also. Tell me why we stand here, Maven, and what your purpose is with me.’
‘My purpose? To make ’ee see, maister. To make ’ee see.’
‘I see well enough, hag.’
‘Do ’ee? The Stone sees more. The Stone sees what lives and what does not, what yet exists and what does not, and it’ll tell ’ee true. It can answer many questions for thee.’
‘What questions?’
‘Do ’ee mind the time, Maglin, when that winged horse were gone – lost among the Gorji? None knew whether he were dead or no. I told all of ’ee that the horse were still alive, and so he was. Do ’ee remember what happened that day?’
Maglin thought back. Aye. Pegs had flown to the Far Woods, on some foolish errand, and had failed to return. There was a Counsel held. The old Queen dropped her bauble – the Stone – and Maven picked it up . . .
‘I remember,’ he said. Maven had performed some piece of witchery, noted by him at the time, but then forgotten. ‘You asked the Stone a question, and made a mark upon it.’
‘No. I asked the Stone whether the horse did live, Maglin, and the Stone answered me. I made no mark.’
‘Then I saw wrong. What’s this to me?’
‘Wet your finger, maister. Like this.’ Maven stuck out her pink tongue, a livid sight against the coarse green of her face, and licked her skinny middle finger. Then she raised the blowpipe to her lips once more.
Maglin hesitated for a moment, but the end of the blowpipe jabbed threateningly towards him and he had no choice but to do as he was bidden. He licked the tip of his finger.
‘Now ask a question, maister. Take a name, from any that ’ee knows or did ever know, dead or alive, and ask “Do this one live?” Then lay thee finger upon the Stone.’
Maglin sighed. Without enthusiasm he said, ‘Ba-betts. Does she live?’ – and drew his wet finger across the surface of the Touchstone.
‘Do ’ee see anything?’
‘No.’ Maglin saw nothing but his own fingermark, a damp streak upon the red of the stone.
‘Ha! All to the good, then. For we shouldn’t want she back again.’ Maven gave a horrible cackle, and lowered the blowpipe a little. Maglin kept his eye on the thing, inwardly measuring its distance from him, judging the extent of his own reach.
‘Now wipe ’un clean and ask this time of one that lives, “Do this one yet exist?” ’
‘Maven, this be naught but foolishness . . .’
‘Ask!’ Again that threatening little jab with the pipe – closer now . . .
Maglin wiped the Touchstone upon the front of his jerkin, and licked his finger for a second time.
‘Fletcher Marten. Does he live?’ He drew his finger across the Stone and watched. Almost immediately a bluish streak appeared, a mottled imprint of where his touch had been. Maglin started backwards in surprise, glanced up at Maven, and then back at the Stone. The blue mark slowly faded, evaporating to nothing, so that the fiery jasper was once more unblemished.
‘How did ’ee . . .’ Maglin couldn’t see how Maven had managed this piece of witchi-pocus. She stood there grinning at him, her blackened teeth making her look more outlandish than ever.
‘’Tis naught to do wi’ I, maister. ’Twere all thee – for the Stone’ll only talk to they with eyes to see. And a heart to believe.’
‘Believe? I believe in no such tricksy. This be your doing, Maven.’
‘I tell ’ee it ain’t, then. Try ’un again. Ask again – and whichever might please thee – one that exists, or one that exists no more.’
Maglin growled in disbelief that he was tied up in such nonsense.
‘What a fool’s game this be.’ Nevertheless, he licked his finger, and touched it upon the Stone. ‘Maglin,’ he said. ‘Does Maglin exist? For I begin to wonder . . .’
Again the mottled blue streak was plain to see, and Maglin, for all his suspicion, was shaken. Could there be some strange power at work here? Then how did it happen? He watched as the misted blue mark faded away to nothingness.
‘Another,’ said Maven. ‘Dead or alive.’
‘Very well,’ Maglin growled. ‘Benzo. Does he live?’
He half hoped that the dark shadow might appear again, and show the Stone to be wrong – for Benzo had died at Maven’s own hand – but this time there was nothing. Just a faint damp mark where his finger had touched the jasper.
Maglin shook his head, still unconvinced.
‘’Tis a pretty trick,’ he said, ‘but ’twould be more a help to me to learn something I don’t already know. Aye, let it tell me what may come – now that would be a wond’rous thing.’
‘The Stone can only tell us what is, and what is not. It casn’t say what will be.’
‘Hmf. More’s the pity, then.’
‘Do ’ee reckon so? If we sees clear what is today, then we may better guess at what shall come tomorrow. And is all that exists alive? Thee’ve to find the right questions.’
‘Tell me then what I should ask.’
‘No. Maglin. You be Steward, not I. ’Tain’t for I to tell ’ee what thee should know, nor ask it for ’ee. But I’ll tell ’ee this: thee’ve seen naught yet of what the Stone can do. If the Orbis were joined wi’ the Stone again, then the hand as held both’d need fear no enemy, such a power it would have. And the Orbis will come to thee, Maglin, I vows it, if ’ee would but bide a little. To your hand it shall come, I can promise ’ee. Think on that. Be it your proper duty to leave such a thing behind, when it may not be so far off? Talk to the Stone, maister. ’Twill always answer thee true. Turn away from me, so that I casn’t see, and ask some question that I casn’t hear. Goo on.’
Maglin looked down at the Touchstone, and wondered at it. Perhaps he’d been wrong, after all – too quick to dismiss the old tales of the past, too stubborn to question how the tribes had ever come to be in this place. And perhaps others had been right . . . Pegs . . . and Maven. They surely knew more than he of the history of these things. But could there really be truth in the notion that their future was somehow tied to a bit of rock? Should he risk staying a while longer in the forest, to see if this Orbis did indeed come to him?
Ach! He scowled up at Maven-the-Green, and was irritated all over again at the way she kept the blowpipe pointed at him. Little enough chance he ever had of snatching the object away from her.
‘Very well.’ He turned away, so that Maven was unable to see the Touchstone, and stood in thought for a moment. This time he would find a question that neither he nor Maven could know the answer to. But what might that be? All who lived or died in the forest were known to him, and he could think of none in the world beyond . . .
. . . save Scurl. Aye, there was a name he had wondered about. Scurl and his archers, Flitch and Snerk and Dregg – they that had been banished for their treachery, doomed to wander the wetlands until they froze or starved. What of them now? Dead? Half choked and drowned they had already been when he had sent them away, and unlikely to last more than a night or two. Dregg! What a slack-jawed zawney that one had been. Maglin licked his finger, and drew it over the Stone. ‘Dregg,’ he whispered, ‘does he live?’ The Touchstone showed no mark. Dregg was dead, then, as he might have supposed.
But as Maglin wet the tip of his finger a second time, a shivery feeling stole about his neck and shoulders, a creeping sense that the mad hag at his back was up to something.
Perhaps she meant him harm in the end, and this had been all her purpose from the start. Perhaps even now she was about to bring him down, and take the Stone for herself.
Maglin spun round . . . and found that he was alone.
Maven had gone, disappeared into the falling night. But just in front of him, lightly resting on the coarse winter grass, was the blowpipe. Maglin turned this way and that, peering into the black shadows of the woods behind him, and then again across the deserted expanse of Royal Clearing. There was no
thing to see, no sign of any movement. Maglin stooped to pick up the blowpipe – just a simple hollowed-out reed, by the look of it. He raised it towards the darkening skies and looked along its tunnelled length. The pipe was empty.
At moon-wane, Little-Marten arose and crept towards the entranceway of the pod. He held his breath as he drew aside the heavy oilcloth – the thing was so stiff with frost that he was frightened that it might crackle and thus wake his father. The cold night air rushed in and Little-Marten made haste, lowering his bundle of belongings to the ground as quickly and gently as he could. Then he followed, hopping lightly over the lip of the entranceway and down onto the frozen patch of earth below. He remained crouching in the darkness for a few moments, his head turned up towards the looming bulk of the pod, listening for sounds from within. Nothing but the distant rhythm of his father’s snores, muffled through wicker-and-daub and thick winter coverlets. Good. He hoisted his bundle across his shoulder and hurried across Royal Clearing, wincing at the crunch of his footsteps on the frosty grass.
The clearing had been dark enough, but once Little-Marten entered the woodland he could see nothing. In total blackness he edged forward, relying more on memory than on sight, one arm cautiously extended in front of him. The pathways that led down to the caves, so simple and familiar by day, seemed to have twisted themselves into another arrangement altogether come nightfall, full of unexpected humps and hollows and protruding roots, all slippery with the frost. Little-Marten began to wonder whether he had lost his way entirely, and had perhaps strayed into a part of the forest completely unknown to him. More than once he stopped in fright, convinced that some great pit or ravine lay before him and that one more step would send him spinning to his doom. Almost worse were the sudden rustles from the undergrowth that surrounded him, the startled squeaks and low grunts of such dread creatures as would only be abroad at moon-wane. Brocks, perhaps . . . renards . . .
Little-Marten gulped and pressed on.
By the time he found himself to be close to the caves, his forehead was damp with perspiration despite the freezing night air. He peered upwards into the darkness, knowing by the shale beneath his feet that the entrance to the main cave was just above him. Was she there? Little-Marten cupped his hands together and gave a low owl-hoot, a breathy twoo-twoo that sounded far too loud in the frozen stillness. He waited, heart pounding, head cocked to one side as he strove to listen. Was that something? Yes! A tiny sound . . . that of a stone rolling down the bank of shale. And another, and another. Her footfall was light, but it was impossible to descend that slippery pile in total silence, and Little-Marten was in agonies lest someone else should hear. A final slither of shale and Henty was with him, grasping for his arm in the darkness, the smell of lavender in her hair.
There was no time to delay, and none for talk, but as Henty took his hand and began to hurry him away, Little-Marten had to pull back and whisper, ‘Henty, wait! I can’t see a hemmed thing . . .’
‘No? I can, though. I be used to the dark. Come.’
She led him away into the night, so sure-footed and confident that Little-Marten was happy to put all his trust in her, to give himself up to fate and blindly follow.
They didn’t speak until they were clear of the forest, standing beyond its bounds, high upon the cold hillside that looked down over the lands of the Gorji. A hint of light had crept into the sky. If they were to find a place of safety, then it would have to be soon.
‘Where shall us go?’ said Little-Marten. The vastness of what lay out there was overwhelming, and he hadn’t given the first thought to what they might do beyond the act of escaping.
‘Down to the Gorji settlement – where we were before. ’Tis dangerous, but ’tis the only place we know. We can sleep in one of the byres till night comes again. Then we can plan to find somewhere safer. And if the Gorji childer do find us, then I don’t reckon they’d bring us harm.’
Henty obviously had given the matter some thought, and Little-Marten nodded as he considered the idea. It was dangerous, but it couldn’t be any worse than the last time they’d been on Gorji territory together. At least they wouldn’t have Scurl to contend with – or that great felix. Little-Marten shuddered at the memory of the beast, and of how he and Henty had stood side by side in order to fend it off.
The Gorji byres . . . aye, perhaps they could stay there safe for a night or two. He put his arm about Henty’s shoulder, happy as long as she was happy, ready to face anything that might come if they could only face it as one. They were well used to danger – had lived each day of their lives in the shadow of it, and likely always would. And if they were now putting themselves in even greater danger, it seemed worth the risk. A single season together, if they could survive so long, would surely be better than a lifetime apart.
He could just see her face now, and so realized that dawn was beginning to break.
‘We’d best go down, then,’ he said.
‘Aye.’ Henty shivered and put her arm around his waist, tucking it beneath the bindle-wrap that he carried. ‘What did you bring? Anything to eat?’
‘Load o’ cobnuts,’ said Little-Marten. ‘Some flatbread. Bit o’ baked meat – squirrel . . .’ They began to make their way down the hillside. ‘Couple o’ tiddies I got from the Naiad – cooked. A smoked eel . . . dried crab-apple . . . some honey-root . . .’
Henty laughed. ‘We shan’t starve, then.’
‘No,’ said Little-Marten. ‘We shan’t starve. Not this day.’
Chapter Ten
‘WE MUST MAKE the effort, though,’ said Mum, ‘now that Midge has actually managed to find her. It’s only right that we go over and say hello. Oldest living relative and all that.’
But Katie didn’t want to go, and George couldn’t – he was off on a weekend school trip – so the planned family visit to meet Aunt Celandine was a bit depleted: just Uncle Brian, Midge and Mum.
Perhaps it was just as well. Carol Reeve, the manager at Mount Pleasant, had been enthusiastic about a get-together, but had warned that Miss Howard was uncomfortable amongst crowds of people – disliked the fuss of birthdays and social gatherings, or any situation where she was the centre of attention.
And so it turned out to be. Friday afternoon tea at the retirement home was a brief and awkward affair, Aunt Celandine so vague and distant that she seemed hardly to be there at all. She obviously remembered Midge, and was glad to see her again, but showed no more than polite interest in Uncle Brian and Christine, or in their inevitable talk of family history. She became a bit more engaged when questioned on her work at the Tone Valley clinic, but even so her replies were short. Dismissive almost. It was a relief when Elaine came to clear the teacups away and it was time to leave.
Midge had felt embarrassed throughout this non-event, and yet, just as they were saying goodbye, there was again that fierce squeeze of the hand, and the sense of something being communicated. She thought she understood, and when Aunt Celandine said, ‘You’ll come again?’ she said yes, she would try.
‘Amazing woman,’ said Uncle Brian, on the car journey home.
‘Wouldn’t want the job of looking after her, though,’ said Mum. ‘Did you see how she gave that Elaine the runaround? Still, she seems well cared for, and that’s a blessing. Must have money, I suppose. Places like that don’t come cheap. Anyway, at least we don’t have to worry about her. Not sure I’d bother going again.’
‘I wouldn’t mind going again.’ Midge spoke up from the back seat. ‘I think she’s really interesting. I like her.’
‘Do you? I thought she was a bit . . .’ Mum’s voice trailed off. ‘Well, we’ll see. I don’t know how you’d get over here, though. It’s a bit of a trek.’
There was a pause. Then Uncle Brian cleared his throat and said, ‘Er . . . I might be able to bring you across, if you like, Midge. I’m coming back over this way again on Sunday, and probably a couple more times during the next few weeks.’
It seemed like a loaded remark, and Mum said,
‘Oh? Why’s that then?’
‘Cliff Maybank,’ said Uncle Brian. ‘I’m doing a spot of business with him. He’s got this shop on ebay and he’s going to help me shift all the farm gear out of the Stick House. Should make something on it.’
‘What? Haven’t we got enough to do without messing around with auctions? And is this guy really a businessman, or just some old school chum?’ Mum wasn’t ready to let go of this yet.
‘No. He’s a friend of Pat’s – well, a former employer, really. She still does a bit of work for him here and there. Accounts and whatnot. In fact she sometimes pops across to the bookshop herself on a Sunday, so I gather. Just to keep the paperwork up to date. I shouldn’t be surprised if we bump into one another.’
‘Really? Pat knows him? Oh. Oh well. I suppose we do have to get rid of all that junk somehow . . .’
Midge heard the instant change of tone in her mum’s voice at the mention of Auntie Pat. If there was the slightest chance of Uncle Brian getting back together with sensible Auntie Pat, then Mum would be all for it. Most definitely. And so that meant that Uncle Brian would get his way. He’d be driving over to Almbury Mills on Sunday afternoons – he could drop her off and pick her up again. Good.
Midge tried to deflect any possible argument about this by going off on another tack.
‘Why do we call it the Stick House?’
The ramshackle lean-to that was tacked onto the back of the cider barn was hardly a ‘house’. Nor was it made of sticks.
Uncle Brian laughed. ‘It was where we used to store the winter kindling for the old stove. We kept sticks in it. So we called it the Stick House.’
‘Oh.’
‘This used to be the sixth-form study when I was a girl. They were allowed to make their own toast, on this very fire. It was a proper fire then, of course. I was very envious.’
Aunt Celandine seemed more relaxed this time, happy to chat as Midge wandered about the neat little apartment, looking at all her odds and ends. And it was nicer here than down in the day room. She liked the ticking clock on the mantelpiece, and the bamboo plant that stood in the corner. That was pretty.
Winter Wood Page 13
