Cake-cake-cake . . .
‘Righty-ho, then. I think we’re all ready now. Miss Howard? Are you awake? We’d best get a wriggle on, or it’ll be bedtime before we know it.’
Celandine opened her eyes to see the blurred and bespectacled face of Elaine before her. A different face entirely from the one she’d just pictured so clearly, staring down at her from the trees . . .
Chapter Eleven
BY THE TIME they reached the Gorji settlement, Henty and Little-Marten were able to see more clearly than felt good for their safety. The sky had turned from black to grey, and the shapes of the dwellings loomed before them. They crept among the thistles and peered through the bars of the metal gate that led into the giants’ enclosure. Something had changed. The very atmosphere was different. A smell of raw timber hung about the place . . . and fresh stone dust . . . and other less recognizable scents, sharp and oily.
Little-Marten whispered, ‘Bide here, whilst I take a glim.’ But Henty shook her head. They were in this together. She made the first move, slipping easily beneath the lower bars of the gate and looking about her as she waited for Little-Marten.
The mossy stones that had once paved the enclosure were gone, and the whole area was now covered with a smooth black substance, strange to feel beneath the rabbit-skin soles of their boots. Piles of stone blocks were stacked here and there, and between these they dodged, making their way along the line of byres. But the byres, where they had hoped to find some rest, now turned out to be roofless and open to the elements – as was the building where they had encountered the terrible felix. They stood in the doorway of the old cider barn, and looked up in wonder at the dark patterns of wooden beams silhouetted against the breaking skies. There would be no shelter for them here.
‘’Tis no good,’ Henty whispered. ‘We shouldn’t have come.’ She was shivering, perhaps from the cold, or perhaps from the memory of what they had witnessed on this spot. Little-Marten put his arm about her shoulders, and together they turned to look back along the way they had come, each at a loss as to what they should try next. These byres were no longer the neglected places that they remembered, thick with grime and season upon season of undisturbed cobwebs. The Gorji were busy making changes, and the scent of them was everywhere.
Little-Marten felt Henty’s shoulders flinch. A light! From high up on the largest building, a brilliant square of yellow cut through the dawn. A fuzzy shadow, huge and ominous, moved back and forth across the light, then disappeared. The giants were awake.
Without a word Little-Marten grabbed Henty’s upper arm and together they hurried back towards the metal gate. BrrrrrrrmmmMMMM! Too late! A terrible rumbling sound erupted at the far end of the enclosure, and they were caught in the glare of some monstrous lit-up contraption that came swinging in through the main entrance, filling the world with its roar and stench.
To the left they dodged – their instincts identical – and into the shadow of the pillars that fronted the main building. Panic drove them onward . . . up the steps . . . across frosty stones that crunched and skittered beneath their feet . . . through clumps of shrubs and bushes . . . anywhere to escape that blazing clanking terror.
They reached the corner of the dwelling, scuttled across an open area of grass, and headed for the welcoming shadows of nearby trees. A copse. At last it was possible to take a breath. The monster could still be heard, bellowing its way around the enclosure, but they were no longer in its sight.
What now, though? They backed further into the trees, still shaken by what they had seen. Little-Marten felt something brush at his shoulder and let out a squawk of fear. Argh! He automatically ducked and lashed out with his hand. But as the thing danced off into the shadows, and then swung back towards him, he realized what it was. Rope.
Rope and bits of wood – a ladder – dangling from the branches above.
Little-Marten had seen this object before. He remembered it. ‘Henty!’ he whispered.
‘What is it?’
Little-Marten grabbed at the rope ladder, put a foot on the lowest rung to steady it, and then looked over his shoulder at Henty. ‘I were here afore,’ he said. ‘Just bide still, while I make sure ’tis safe.’
‘Eh?’
Hand over hand Little-Marten climbed, whilst Henty stood at the bottom, peering up into the trees. She could see a construction of some sort – a platform? – among the branches. The noise of the Gorji machine grew momentarily louder, and Henty glanced nervously towards the direction of the sound. When she looked back, Little-Marten had disappeared into the foliage.
‘’Tis all right.’ She heard his whisper from above. ‘Come on up.’
Henty swung her bindle-wrap a little further around her back, grasped the wooden rungs, and began to climb. It wasn’t easy. The ladder swayed and twisted, and her fingers were too frozen to grip properly, but she managed to get safely to the top, hooked her arm over a branch and hung there for a moment in order to get her breath back.
Little-Marten was edging towards her, holding out his hand. ‘Grab hold o’ me,’ he said. ‘Don’t be feared.’
Henty grasped his wrist, hauled herself up among the branches, and followed his lead. A short hop, a pause for balance, another little jump, and they had gained the platform.
It wasn’t just a platform, though. Here was a dwelling – of sorts – made of wood. And though it had but three sides it did at least have a roof.
‘We s’ll be safe here,’ said Little-Marten. ‘For this night, anyways.’
‘This day,’ said Henty, for now the true light of morning was filtering down through the trees, and the copse was alive with birdsong. A little longer out in the open and they would have been exposed to any with eyes to see. All the more fortunate, then, to have found this shelter – if it was indeed safe.
‘Do the Gorji not dwell here, then?’ Henty sounded doubtful.
‘Don’t reckon so,’ said Little-Marten. ‘’Tis empty, and I can’t smell ’em. I seen ’em here last summer, but there’s naught of ’em now winter’ve come.’
There had been more to this place, he remembered, on his previous visit: sleeping arrangements, and bits of clothing and the signs of cooking. Strange objects. Things that made frightening noises when you touched them . . .
Now there was just a single box, a big wooden crate, pushed deep into one corner. Little-Marten sighed. A warm byre, with some hay perhaps to sleep on, would have been better. They might stay dry beneath this roof, if they were lucky, but there would be no escape from the freezing winter air. ’Twould have to do, though.
Henty was wandering about inside the hut, touching the walls, looking up at the roof, but Little-Marten stepped to the edge of the platform to see what he could see. Not much, and that was all to the good. The tree was a blue cedar, its winter foliage as thick and concealing as it would be in the summer. And although part of the main dwelling was visible, and some of the byres, and stretches of the landscape beyond, Little-Marten felt that this was as safe a place as they were likely to find – unless the Gorji returned by chance. A thought occurred to him. He could pull the ladder up into the tree. Aye, that would give hindrance to any that might come, and ’twould allow some warning . . .
‘What’s this?’
Little-Marten turned to see that Henty was kneeling by the big wooden box. She had the lid open.
‘What’ve ’ee found?’ Little-Marten stepped over to take a look, blowing on his fingers to try and get them warm.
The box contained a solitary object: a big black bag, curiously shiny, and so tightly stuffed that it looked as though it was about to burst. Henty prodded it with her finger.
‘Hsst! Don’t ’ee fool wi’ it!’ Little-Marten’s previous experience of Gorji possessions had made him wary, but Henty could see no danger. She tugged at the bag, and found that it was light for its size – light enough to be lifted from the box and placed on the wooden planking. As the bag rolled over to one side a small hole was exposed, and from this b
ulged a scrap of some softer material, bright red. This too Henty prodded, and found that the little hole could easily be made bigger. And bigger still . . .
It was as though whatever was in that bag wanted to come out. Little-Marten looked on, still agitated, as Henty used both hands to pull the stretchy black substance apart. Like a burgeoning flower the contents emerged – a great roll of padded material, thick and soft, and warm to the touch.
Confident now that there were no nasty surprises to come, Little-Marten ceased his fretting and helped Henty to unravel the object. They laid it out flat, then stood back to take a proper look. Henty was the first to recognize how valuable this thing might be to them.
‘Better’n a bindle-wrap,’ she said.
‘Aye! You’re right – ’twould be.’ Little-Marten knelt down again. ‘And look. ’Tis like a gurt sack. See?’ He lifted a flap. ‘We could get inside ’un, and be snug as a nest o’ throstles.’
‘The box,’ said Henty. ‘We’ll put it in there – ’twould be warmer yet.’
A good idea. They folded the padded sack in two and stuffed it into the big wooden box. With a bindle-wrap placed at one end for a bolster it was perfect – such luxury for themselves as they could never have imagined or hoped for on this icy morning.
‘Jump in and get theeself warm,’ said Little-Marten. ‘And find us a bit o’ food. I be going to pull up that ladder.’
Was there ever shelter as welcome as this? Little-Marten and Henty lay wrapped up in their box, and thought they had never been as warm and comfortable in their lives. Those giants surely knew how to winter, if this was the way they did it.
Little-Marten hung one of his rabbit-skin boots over the edge of the box, and then gently lowered the lid onto it. Now there would be some air, and enough light to let them know when evening had come again. Then perhaps they would have to make some other plan – or perhaps they wouldn’t. There was no hurry. As long as they were safe and warm, and together, nothing else mattered.
‘How long can we stay here, dost reckon?’ Henty voiced the thought.
‘Dunno. I should be happy to wake up when ’tis spring.’
‘Yes. Like the hotchi-witchi.’
‘Heh. You ain’t so prickly as one o’ they.’
It could rain or sleet or do what it liked now, they felt. Better if it did, for then the Gorji were less likely to be abroad. Let the winter storms come, then, and howl across the landscape, so that even giants must give it best and stay a-bed till the season turned. A peaceful vision, but an unlikely one, and as Little-Marten and Henty fell asleep it was to the dull growl of the Gorji machine, still patrolling the distant enclosure.
Chapter Twelve
MAGLIN WOKE IN confusion, hauled from his slumbers by the sounds of angry voices outside the pod.
‘You’ll let me pass, or I’ll crack both your heads open!’
‘Will ’ee? Step back, old ’un, and hold thee peace. Bist deaf? Step back or ’twill be the wuss for ’ee! Maglin!’
What was happening? Maglin grabbed for his spear in the darkness and lurched towards the entrance of the pod. His fumbling hands made heavy work of the oilcloth, and as he finally managed to yank it aside the winter sunshine streamed into his eyes so that he was near blinded by it.
‘So. At last we behold the great Maglin – mighty Steward of the Ickri.’
It was Tadgemole.
Maglin shielded his eyes against the dancing sunlight and saw that the leader of the cave-dwellers was being held at bay by the guards – Glim and Raim – their spears thrust towards him in defiance.
‘What’s this, Tinkler?’ Maglin was aware of how ridiculous he must look, half naked and shivering – and caught so late a-bed – but this only made his anger the more bitter. ‘Do ’ee come seeking a crust? Tain’t yet Basket-time, I think.’
‘A crust? When have I taken aught from you?’ Tadgemole raised his staff in a threatening gesture and the guards prodded their spears at him anew. ‘I don’t come here seeking crusts, heathen. I come here seeking my daughter, Henty! Tell me what you know of the matter.’
‘What matter?’ Maglin was thrown. Had something happened that he hadn’t been told about?
‘She’s gone!’ roared Tadgemole. ‘That’s the matter! Gone in the night – aye, and I can guess in whose company, and with whose blessing! Is this your doing?’
Maglin looked towards the Rowdy-Dow tree. The Perch was unoccupied. Small wonder he’d slept so late, then, with no Woodpecker to herald the dawn.
‘Glim,’ he said. ‘What of this?’
Glim glanced quickly over his shoulder, then turned back towards Tadgemole.
‘’Tis true,’ he growled. ‘We’ve seen naught of Woodpecker. And we took over watch at moon-wane.’
‘And neither one of ’ee thought to wake me?’
Glim shrugged. ‘This be a new game for we, Maglin. We be archers, leastways by our reckoning. Now we’re to play at lookout, it seems. Must we look out for Woodpecker too?’
‘Ha!’ Tadgemole snorted in disbelief, and thumped the butt of his staff upon the hard earth. ‘A fine set of fools you are! Is this the tribe that call themselves guardians of the forest? And do you, Steward, reckon to be the one that should lead us all? Go back to your bed, and sleep the day away. ’Tis plain you know nothing. Yet you shall know this much: my daughter has gone, stolen from me by a heathen, and I hold you to blame for it. A true leader would be able to keep his own raggle-tags in check. A true leader would know the true path for all, and hold all to it. Well, mark me – such a one may come yet. But for now I must seek my child.’
‘You’ll not leave the forest!’ shouted Maglin. ‘Do ’ee hear me? Go back to your hole and stay there, till I’ve thought on this!’
But Tadgemole had already turned to walk away. He lashed out with his staff as he did so, cracking it against the spears of Glim and Raim.
‘I’ll do as I please.’ Tadgemole threw the remark over his grey-cloaked shoulder. ‘Without let from you.’
Maglin was speechless. He watched the cave-dweller stride across the clearing, moving like one half his age, his staff more weapon than support. Tadgemole disappeared into the far trees, and Maglin then caught sight of something else lurking there – a flash of white among the dark winter brambles. Pegs?
The freezing air reminded him once again of his undressed state, and Maglin shook himself free of his thoughts. He turned his attention to the guards.
‘Bide there, till I’m mantled,’ he said. ‘I’ve not finished with ’ee yet.’
The Touchstone lay heavy in his hands, the weight of it a solid comfort somehow, when all else seemed blown to the winds. Maglin sat cross-legged at the entrance to his pod, rolling the polished orb from palm to palm as he considered his problems.
Little-Marten and Henty had gone, quit the forest, evidently, in order to be together. Should he risk chasing after them – sending others into danger that the young fools might be dragged back to safety? No. Not this time. But what if they were discovered by the Gorji, and so brought disaster down upon them all? Maglin didn’t see what he could do to prevent this. Could the Stone help him? Perhaps. But Little-Marten and Henty were not his only concern. There were others.
Tadgemole, for instance. Something in that cave-dweller’s manner had changed. A season ago he would never have spoken as he did now. ‘A true leader would know the true path for all, and hold all to it. Well, such a one may come yet . . .’ What threat was hidden in those words? Did Tadgemole imagine that some new power, or leadership, was about to come his way?
And then there was the Orbis to think about, that missing piece of the Touchstone’s history, ignored by him until now. Did it truly exist? Many times Pegs had tried to persuade him that the Orbis would free the Various from the lands of the Gorji, and return them safe to Elysse. But where and what was Elysse? Aye, and who or what was Pegs?
Maglin shook his head, as far away from any answer as ever. But of one thing he felt a new and growing
certainty: Tadgemole and Pegs had joined together, fallen into some alliance with one another. He saw again Tadgemole’s purposeful stride, heading for the trees on the far side of the clearing, and the pale shadow of the one who waited for him there . . .
‘. . . a true leader may come yet . . .’
What did those words mean? Were Tadgemole and Pegs plotting some treachery against him – hoping to see him overthrown? It was possible, for Tadgemole would surely see him dead and think it no pity. And as for Pegs, who knew?
But by what power could the likes of Tadgemole ever hope to lead the Various? What could even begin to put him in such a position?
Possession of the Orbis . . .
Maglin ceased rolling the Stone from hand to hand, and looked out across the clearing. Now he saw it. Aye, now he understood. His tracker’s instinct had not yet deserted him. Longseasons it had been since he had hunted these woods, a young archer in those days, but his eye was still sharp – still capable of seeing the unseen. The twitch of a leaf, the brief rustle in the undergrowth . . . such things always gave away the game that was hidden there.
And now he could sense the game that was hidden here. If Tadgemole and Pegs had indeed thrown in their lot with one another, it could likely be for but one reason: to find the Orbis. And if they should succeed in finding it, Tadgemole would certainly never hand it over to the Ickri. Yet the Orbis would be of no use to him without the Stone. So was Tadgemole planning to get his hands on the Touchstone also?
Aye, there it was – the hidden game – given away by that brief flash of white amongst the brambles.
Winter Wood Page 15
