The soft Gorji bindle-wrap would go with them, they had decided, when the time came. It was too precious a find not to keep, although too bulky to carry easily. They solved this problem by cutting off the end of the sack, so that it was of a length more suited to their size. Little-Marten spent some time hacking the thing apart with a tinsy knife, and Henty then folded the rough edge and stitched it with fishing thread. It was good – not rainproof, but wonderfully warm. And they could always cover it with one of their own oilskin bindle-wraps to keep out the wet.
The birds in the trees about them, they noticed, were far tamer than the few that now remained in the Royal Forest. It was plain that the ruddocks and throstles that dwelt here had less to fear from the Gorji than their forest cousins did from the Ickri. No archers prowled this peaceful copse, ready to shoot down anything that moved, no snares were set for the coneys that fed unconcerned at the very borders of the settlement.
And so it was with them. Henty and Little-Marten had been among the Gorji before, and had suffered no hurt at their hands. Consequently they were wary, but unafraid. Even the great roaring machines that came and went, so alarming at first sight, seemed to pose no real danger. Such things were apparently confined to the enclosure, and never ventured beyond those bounds.
The distant voices of the Gorji became familiar to them, after a day or two. Midge they immediately recognized – the maid who had come to the woods – and the other maid and youth who had been there on the terrible day of the felix. But this was the first time they had been able to observe full-grown giants going about their business – those who commanded the machine monsters, and the man and woman who gave them their orders. Were they such a fearful race? They carried no recognizable weapons, built no fires upon which to roast their victims, dealt none of the death and destruction that all childer of the little people were told was the Gorji way. The Wisp, who nightly fished the Gorji wetlands, returned with tales of such deadly encounters and hair’s-breadth escapes as would freeze the blood of the listener. So brave those fishers were, to dodge the giants’ flashing blades and skip beneath the bellies of their ferocious hounds for the sake of a string of eels. But the one old hound that Henty and Little-Marten saw looked scarce able to walk. Perhaps the fishers’ tales were exaggerated after all.
A string of eels, though. What wouldn’t they give for a nice piece of baked eel now? Warm and dry they might be, but they were becoming desperately hungry. Their store of food had long gone, and there was very little in the trees and bushes about them that they could eat. Little-Marten was no hunter – had never used a bow and arrow or killed in his life. His position as Woodpecker had excused him such tasks. Neither was Henty any expert forager. She had picked mushrooms and blackberries, but the daughter of Tadgemole had not been expected to seriously grub for survival. Both had relied on others to provide for them. Come the spring and summer there would be roots and nuts and fruit for the taking, but how should they live until then? To escape, and to be together – this had been their only thought. Beyond that there was no plan. Now they were going to have to learn how to winter off the land.
‘What do the Gorji eat?’ Little-Marten wondered. ‘Do ’em grow tiddies like the Naiad?’
It was worth finding out – though how they would cook a potato should they find one was an unanswered question. They could hardly be lighting fires so close to the Gorji settlement.
‘We’ll go and see,’ said Henty, ‘come moon-wax.’
It was late into the night before the last of the bright lights of the settlement was extinguished, and even then there remained a faint blue glow from one of the high windows. But now was the time, if they were to risk it at all.
Little-Marten and Henty descended the rope ladder, and silently made their way through the copse. The air was cold and still – dangerous, for any little sound they made would carry clearly on such a night. High up on their platform perch with a view of the world about them they felt safe enough, but down here on the ground and in darkness was a different matter. They would not want to meet the Gorji hound at this level, old and feeble though it might be.
As they stepped from the copse onto an open stretch of short-cropped grass, a pale moon appeared, slyly showing its face from behind the clouds. More danger – for now they could be seen as well as heard. The pair quickly crossed the grass and moved around towards the back of the dwelling, where the shadows were deeper.
Henty grabbed Little-Marten’s arm. ‘Hst! What’s this?’
Little-Marten looked down at the ground. A cabbage. And another . . . and another. They had stumbled upon a vegetable patch, and so quickly that they could hardly believe it. Their instinct had been proved right: the Gorji lived as the Naiad did, cropping the land for their food.
But when they crouched down to examine this treasure, they were disappointed. The cabbage plants were ancient, with leaves as tough as snake’s hide and already reduced to tatters by slugs and winter frost. Little-Marten and Henty moved around the frozen plot, the soil solid and lumpy beneath their feet. They found other plants – tough stalks and half-exposed roots that they didn’t recognize – but all of them the neglected remains of a season long gone. There was no food for them here.
Move on, then. They tiptoed along the pathway that surrounded the massive building, and came to a stone construction that jutted out, like a smaller dwelling added to the first. Here there was an open entranceway. Little-Marten and Henty peered inside as they moved past, hanging back, ready to run if necessary. The enclosed space was dimly illuminated by some circular object fixed to the far wall. They saw that there was another door, this one shut, a wooden bench . . . some long garments hanging above it . . . and a row of giants’ boots, arranged into pairs, the biggest of which were almost as tall as themselves. Henty and Little-Marten lingered for a few moments, fascinated by this glimpse into the Gorji world. But they could see nothing here that was of any practical use to them, and so they pressed on, retreating from the light and silently rounding the darkened corner of the building . . .
Hssssssschhhhhttt! A ferocious explosion of hissing and snarling burst upon them from the shadows, so sudden that they fell against one another in terror. Fiery yellow eyes glaring down at them from above . . . fangs drawn back, spitting hatred . . . their enemy, their nightmare, here to haunt them again. The eyes widened, fixed them to the spot in their chilling gaze, then seemed to shoot straight out into space. Henty and Little-Marten instinctively ducked, but the beast had already launched itself. To their amazement it flew straight over their heads. They saw it land in the light of the open doorway behind them, a shock of black-and-white fur, frantic claws scrabbling for purchase on the frosty stone. In an instant the thing had gone, a final yowl of outrage trailing its disappearance into the night.
Henty and Little-Marten rose unsteadily from their crouching position, still stunned and weak-kneed with fright. A felix! Memories of the savage barn animal that they had encountered the previous summer should have made them more wary of venturing abroad at night – and yet this creature had plainly been terrified of them. It had been much younger and smaller, they realized now, than that other monster.
Had its yowling roused the giants? They stared up at the dwelling, ready to flee if any light should appear. Nothing. All remained quiet and still.
Little-Marten let out a deep breath, and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Ffffffff . . .’ He drew Henty towards him and they stood for a while in the cold moonlight, waiting for their beating hearts to subside. When they finally moved apart, Little-Marten saw the puzzled expression in Henty’s eyes. She tilted her head back a little, as if to focus, then put her hand up towards his shoulder.
‘Bide still,’ she whispered.
Little-Marten craned his neck sideways, trying to see what she was doing. ‘Eh? What is it?’
Henty had a fragment of some pale substance between her finger and thumb. She sniffed at it, held it away from her, sniffed at it again. Then she cautiously put
it to her mouth and tasted it.
‘What’ve ’ee got there?’
‘Try it and see.’
Henty raised her fingers to Little-Marten’s lips, and put a scrap of something into his mouth. Little-Marten chewed at the morsel between his front teeth, explored the texture of it with the tip of his tongue. It was . . . fish? Aye, fish! But like no fish that he had ever eaten before . . . a delicious salty flavour, with none of the earthiness of the eels and gudgies that the Wisp provided.
How could a piece of fish have found its way onto Little-Marten’s shoulder? It must have been dropped there by something. The felix . . .
Simultaneously the pair of them turned towards the place that the felix had sprung from. They saw a large black container, square edged and taller than them, with a lid that had been thrown open. From the top of the container protruded torn scraps of a shiny material that they recognized – the same type of black sack that had held the Gorji bindle-wrap. They sniffed at the air, and looked at each other, as if to confirm what they were both thinking. There was food in that thing. They could smell it, for certain, and they were beginning to guess at what it was that they had discovered – a food store. This must be what the giants used for their Basket-time.
The container had handles – very useful – and Little-Marten found that by standing on tiptoe he could just reach one of these. He tested the weight of the thing, rocking it to and fro on its base.
‘I reckon I can tip ’un up,’ he whispered to Henty. He put one foot against the base and leaned back, pulling the handles towards him. Henty stood beside him, ready to help take the weight. Between the two of them they managed to lower the object onto its side, more or less in silence. They hauled the black sack from the open mouth of the container, and began their exploration.
What they found was scarcely believable: pieces of fruit, vegetables, meat – more food than all the Various tribes had seen brought to their own Basket-time in a moon. Crusts of toasted bread, some already spread with honey . . . half-full metal containers, one of which held the delicious fish . . . some strange curving yellow fruit that had been peeled back, bitten into, and then put aside for later . . . and all of it jumbled together in a glorious heap. They feasted as they foraged, gulping down mouthfuls of cooked potatoes, greenstuff and those things that they recognized, poking experimentally at those they did not, sniffing, tasting, offering, sharing. Did the Gorji truly live thus, with so much food to spare that they could leave such a basket out for a single felix? No, there must surely be others who would come to take of this.
In the meantime how much could they take for themselves, without it being missed? They had a whispered discussion.
‘Enough for the morrow,’ said Henty. ‘No more, or they might come a-hunting for it.’
‘Aye, agreed,’ said Little-Marten. ‘We’d likely end up as meat ourselves if they catched a hold of us.’
They sorted out a few crusts, some small round pieces of dark fruit – of which there seemed to be plenty – and part of a bird carcass. The rest of the food they carefully put back into the black sack, trying to arrange things as they had been before. Then they grabbed hold of the handles of the big container and tilted it upright once more.
‘Should we close the top?’ Henty wondered.
‘No. Best leave it as ’twas.’
Back to the tree-dwelling they hurried, carrying enough spoils to see them through the following day, delighted at their success. Provided that the giants raised no alarm on discovering their loss, there seemed no reason why this shouldn’t become a nightly expedition.
‘We s’ll see the winter through yet,’ said Little-Marten, as they reached the foot of the rope ladder. ‘And never need turn a hand. Go on up with ’ee, then.’
‘Oh no, Master Woodpecker. It’s those idle hands that I don’t trust. You first.’
Chapter Seventeen
MIDGE WAS SITTING bolt upright up in bed, her pulse banging in her ears.
Tap-tap-tap . . .
Again that terrifying sound from beyond the drawn curtains, louder now, more insistent. Midge wanted to run – to leap out of bed and dash to her mother’s room – but she dared not move. One twitch from her, and whatever monster was out there would surely come bursting through the window . . . roaring through the shattered glass . . .
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap . . .
Although if there was a monster, then it might not be quite so polite as to knock for permission to come in. Midge felt the use of her muscles returning to her, along with her reasoning. It would take no more than a moment for her to be through that door and out of here, if she wanted. She turned her bedside lamp up a little higher, then edged over to the far side of the bed, swinging her legs out in readiness.
Tap-tap . . . tap-tap . . .
Could it be Pegs? The thought occurred to her. Maybe he’d flown up to the window ledge and was perched there, trying to get her attention. Maybe it was him. No. Pegs would speak, as he had done before, whisper to her in those strange colour-words. But then something that Pegs had already said came back to her, about Little-Marten and Henty. How they’d run away . . .
Maybe it was Little-Marten, then.
That seemed more possible. Midge stood up, still undecided as to whether she should run to get her mum or go over to the window and see for herself. It couldn’t be anything that dangerous out there, could it?
Tap-tap-tap . . .
Well it wasn’t going away, whatever it was. Midge crept silently over to the window. She hesitated a few moments longer, before gingerly twitching the edge of the curtain, keeping it at arm’s length, ready to jump back. She couldn’t see a thing.
Closer, then. She leaned forward and pulled the material aside a little more, to make a bigger gap.
‘Oh . . . !’ Midge gasped and instantly let go of the curtain.
A hand! She had glimpsed a pale hand, flat against the glass, a waving movement. The hand was quite small, though, and its gesture unthreatening. Perhaps it was Little-Marten after all. Midge forced herself into decisive action. She drew the curtain aside properly, grasped the catch and pushed the window open.
‘Agh!’ Midge heard a grunt of alarm from outside, felt the resistance of the window as it bumped against some living thing, and realized to her horror that she’d shoved whatever it was off the window ledge.
‘Oh no!’ She peered out into the darkness below, and saw something scuffling about among the shrubs near the balustrade wall. ‘Spick it! Spick . . . spick . . .’ Low muffled curses drifted up from the shrubbery. It didn’t sound like Little-Marten.
The figure straightened and turned to look up at her. Midge could see a face now, furious eyes that glinted white in the moonlight. It took her a moment or two to realize who it was – and even then she could scarcely believe it.
‘Maglin? ’
‘Aye, Maglin.’ The hoarse whisper came back to her. ‘Or what be left of him. Do ’ee mean to see me dead, maid? Well, no matter. I be down here as’d have to come down anywise.’
‘Yes . . . um, sorry. I didn’t mean to push you like that. But what do you want?’
‘Look on the ledge, maid, beside ’ee. There be a pecking bag – see it?’
‘A what? Oh. Oh, yes. I’ve found it.’ Midge looked along the window ledge and saw a rough bundle of material. ‘Do you want me to throw it down?’ She still didn’t understand what this could be all about.
‘No, maid. ’Tis for Celandine. Thee must take the bag to her and tell her that ’tis a gift from Maven-the-Green. Can ’ee remember that?’
The freezing night air was making Midge shiver so much that her whispers came out in shaky gasps.
‘Wh-what?’ She couldn’t believe she was having this conversation. ‘This is f-for Celandine?’ She dragged the bag towards her.
‘Aye. And only for she. From Maven.’
‘But what is it?’
Maglin didn’t reply. He’d turned away from her and was looking intently towards the fa
r end of the building. Midge heard a muffled yowl from the other side of the house. Probably one of the cats messing around in the bins again.
‘I be gone,’ Maglin hissed up to her. He began to back away towards the shrubbery. ‘Mind what I tell ’ee, now. The bag be for Celandine – from Maven. To help her remember. And when ’ee’ve learned whatever there is to learn then bring word to me. To me. Come to the tunnel and ask for Maglin – no other.’
‘No . . . wait. What about Pegs? Have you seen him? Is he all right?’
But Maglin was already clambering over the balustrade wall. He disappeared into the darkness with no other word. Gone.
Midge picked up the bag and put it under her arm for a moment as she closed the window. A quick tug at the curtains and back to her bed she scuttled, shaking with the cold. She threw the bag on the bed, and sat with her knees up and her duvet pulled around her shoulders, as she studied it. The material seemed to be of soft animal skin, a bit like roughened chamois leather, but darker in colour. It had a single carrying strap, again made of leather, and a flap that had been tightly fastened with waxy twine so that the contents were hidden. Midge reached forward and prodded its lumpy shape. There was a round object in there of some kind . . . a couple of other indeterminate shapes . . .
Winter Wood Page 18
