Midge was becoming aware of a pervasive smell beginning to fill the warm room. She lifted the bag and brought it cautiously towards her. Yipes, the thing stank. A deep earthy smell, overlaid with a sweeter perfume . . . sort of musky. Lavender?
She was going to have to do something about this, and quick. Her mum was sure to notice the smell when she brought in her morning mug of tea. And then there would be awkward questions. Midge hopped out of bed and went across to her wardrobe. She rummaged about and found two or three scrunched-up plastic carrier bags, remnants of past shopping trips. They might help contain the strange odour. She put the leather bag inside one of the carriers, tied it up as tightly as she could, then put that bundle inside a second bag and did the same. Get out of that, she thought, and stuffed the whole lot back into her wardrobe.
What could be in there, though, and why had it been Maglin who had delivered this strange package? He was the last one she would have expected to see. ‘To help her remember’, Maglin had said. They knew, then, that Celandine’s memory had gone – probably from Pegs. But how had Maglin known whereabouts in the house to find her? And what on earth did that weird old Maven-the-Green have to do with all this?
Too many questions, as always. But tomorrow was Sunday, and so perhaps she would soon learn some answers. Uncle Brian was going over to Almbury Mills again, and she’d be able to visit Aunt Celandine. The bag would go with her.
Midge turned her lamp down low, and lay back down on her pillow. She closed her eyes. You just couldn’t think too much about all this stuff, otherwise you’d go nuts. That was one thing she’d learned already.
Maglin paused at the gates to the Gorji settlement, listening for any further sounds of danger. Nothing. If there were a felix about, it was nowhere to be seen.
He glanced back up towards the blue light in the Gorji child’s window, marvelling at what he’d just achieved. It had been no easy matter to land on that narrow ledge . . . fly-hopping from the swaying branches of the nearby fir tree. And no easy matter to balance there once landed. Drat the girl for then shoving him from his perch . . .
But he’d done it – flown down from the woods, soaring through the black night, to deliver the pecking bag at Maven’s behest. He shook his head, still unable to see how the hag had known exactly where the child would be. And still wondering how she’d managed to persuade him to take on such a task.
‘If thee would hold the Orbis, maister, then thee has it to do.’ Maven’s words came back to him. And her meaning had been plain: he could not simply wait and hope for the Orbis to come to him. He must act to help bring it about.
‘And you think it my task to run this errand?’
‘Name another that should do it for ’ee – or could. Celandine lives, Maglin, but she ails. She be old and near-blind, and have no remembrance of her time amongst the Various. She’ve long forgotten the night she left the forest, and what she carried with her. Unless she be given some reminder, the Orbis s’ll not be found. I’ve gifts for her that may aid her memory. Bring them to her, maister. Put them in the hands of the Gorji child, and tell her they be for Celandine – for Celandine alone, mark ’ee – and for none but she to open. From Maven-the-Green.’
‘What? Shall Celandine know your name, then?’
‘Aye, she’ll know my name. I told her long ago as this day would come.’
‘You spoke with her?’
‘Once. She were but a maid then. ’Twere I who helped her flee the forest, carrying the Orbis with her, when Corben and the Ickri would hunt her down . . .’
Such revelations. Maglin was lost in the wonder of it. How little he had understood of his own tribe and all their history. How little he had seen and heard of what was in the very air around him, and how little he had cared. Only a short while ago he would have given Maven the rough side of his tongue for even daring to step close to him. Now he did her bidding, it seemed. He was to fly to the Gorji settlement bearing gifts for Celandine, from Maven-the-Green.
And still he had hesitated. ‘Maister’, she called him. Yet who was maister here, when Maven seemed to know so much, and he so little?
‘How shall I find the child?’ he had said.
‘Look for a blue lamplight. Beyond that lies her chamber.’
‘A blue light? How do ’ee know all this?’
‘I knows what I knows, maister.’
And there it was. He had put his trust in Maven and in his own powers, and that trust had been proved well founded. Faith and belief. This must be his way forward.
Maglin took one last look around the settlement, then climbed through the bars of the gate to begin the long journey home.
Chapter Eighteen
A NEW SHARPNESS in the morning air told Little-Marten that something had changed. He put his hand against the lid of the box-crib, raised it a little, and listened. The birds sang as usual – the throstle in the nearby rowan tree, the wood pigeons further away at the edge of the copse. But their sound was different, flat and muted, the air itself unnaturally still. Little-Marten raised the box lid completely, sat up, and looked towards the open side of the tree-dwelling. Now he understood. The branches of the cedar were heavy with snow.
He clambered out of the crib, pulled on his chilly jerkin, and wandered over to the edge of the platform to take a look at the world.
‘What is it?’ Henty’s voice, sleepy and muffled from within the box.
‘Come and have a glim,’ said Little-Marten.
They couldn’t remember when they had last seen a fall as heavy as this. The trees and bushes were thickly laced, bowed down by the weight of snow, and on the ground below there was barely a blade of grass showing. Beyond the copse they could see the smothered rooftops of the Gorji settlement, and beyond that the silent stretches of wetland, flat and uniform beneath a coverlet of white, dark rows of willows protruding here and there.
In the old forest such a snowfall would be viewed with dismay. Hunting and trapping, fishing and foraging, all would be made the more difficult. There would be no time or inclination to stand and admire the wonder of it, only grumbles at the hardship it brought. But for Henty and Little-Marten, this was not so. They had fallen on easier times. Warm and dry and well-fed, they could afford to gaze out in delight at the transformation.
Little-Marten kicked at the ridge of snow that lined the edge of the platform, so that a small avalanche of it fell to the ground below with a satisfying flump.
‘Hst!’ said Henty. ‘Don’t!’
‘Why not?’
‘The Gorji might see it.’
Little-Marten was about to say that this wasn’t very likely, when something far more important occurred to him. He peered down at the smooth and unbroken surface of the snow that surrounded their tree – a surface that would be similarly unbroken all the way to the Gorji dwelling. If he and Henty were to go on living here in secret, then that covering of snow would have to remain as it was: undisturbed.
‘This don’t look so well,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well don’t ’ee see? We can’t get to the Gorji basket for food without we leave tracks all the way there. Aye, and all the way back.’ He scanned the surrounding copse, trying to see if there was some route by which he could hop and glide from tree to tree, and so keep off the ground. He wasn’t hopeful. The cedar where they now dwelt was by far the biggest tree between here and the dwelling; those nearby were mostly hollies and rowans – too spindly and bushy to be able to land upon, not enough height to be able to stay aloft. And the slippery snow-covered branches would make it harder still. He’d likely end up on his back at the first attempt.
Henty could see what he was thinking. ‘No good?’
Little-Marten looked up into the high branches of the cedar. ‘That’d be the only way,’ he said. ‘Climb up to the top of ’un and do it in one. ’Twould only be a crack-nog as’d try it in the dark, though. And if I got there I should still leave tracks all around that gurt basket – and have to get back, somewi
se. No. I reckon we’m stuck here for a bit.’
They clambered back into the box-crib and sat huddled together, watching the skies. For the time being they were trapped, but perhaps the snow would melt before too long. They weren’t so badly off.
But by mid-afternoon the weather looked as though it might worsen if anything. The sky was a flat grey colour, with a band of darker cloud on the horizon – no hint of sunshine to melt the snow – and it was plain that they would have to go this night at least without taking food from the Gorji basket.
‘Wish we’d not been so careful, though,’ Little-Marten grumbled. ‘I could go a couple o’ tiddies, now.’
But Henty put her head to one side, and raised a finger to her lips. Little-Marten looked at her. What had she heard?
Voices. Coming down through the copse.
‘Yes, if it’s still like this tomorrow we’ll get the old toboggan out for you, eh? Where is it – in the Stick House?’
‘Think so. Haven’t used it for about three years.’
A man and a youth by the sound of it.
Then another voice: ‘I’ve never even been on a toboggan. There weren’t really any hills around where we lived, in London, and we never got much snow. Nothing like this, anyway.’
It was the Gorji maid, Midge. So there were three of them altogether – a man and two childer. Little-Marten and Henty got out of the box-crib as silently as they could, and quickly began to gather their belongings: pecking bags, clothing, the Gorji bindle-wrap . . . hurry . . . hurry . . .
‘Yeah, we could build a snowman. Or an igloo! That’d be better still. I’ve always wanted to . . . hey! That’s funny. Where’s my rope ladder?’
‘What?’
‘The rope ladder – it’s gone!’
‘What do you mean, gone?’
Crunching footsteps coming closer to the tree.
‘No, it’s still up there, George. Look, see that bit of blue rope?’ The man’s voice.
‘But I didn’t leave it like that! How could I have got up there again?’
‘Well you must have done.’
‘But I didn’t!’
The voices were directly beneath the tree now. Little-Marten and Henty were ready to go, but dared not move for fear of being seen.
‘Well it doesn’t matter right now, does it?’
‘Course it matters right now! I’m going to find a branch or something. See if I can get it down again, and find out what’s going on.’ More crunching of footsteps.
‘Well, hang on a minute, George. Listen. Go to the shed and find a rake, or a hoe – it’d probably be quicker in the long run. And some gardening string. Get some string, and Midge and I can try and find a stick in the meantime. We’ll tie the rake to the stick, and I’ll probably be able to reach it, then.’
‘OK. Back in a tick.’
Little-Marten moved silently towards the edge of the platform, risked a quick glance, and then drew back again. He saw the boy, George, beginning to run towards the dwelling.
‘Come on, Midge.’ The man spoke again. ‘We’re going to have to humour him, the nutter. Help me hunt around for a stick, and then we can think about going over to Almbury Mills. That’s if you still want to.’
‘Yeah, course I do. George is right, though, Uncle Brian. He couldn’t have left the rope ladder up there like that.’ The girl sounded puzzled, and it was a moment or two before the crunching footsteps moved away from the tree.
‘Brr! Bit of a wind blowing up.’ The man’s voice had become more distant. ‘Shouldn’t be surprised if we get another dose of this before long.’
Henty and Little-Marten waited, peeping down from the platform, dodging back out of sight again, trying to keep track of the whereabouts of the Gorji. Finally, Little-Marten whispered, ‘Now!’ and the two of them began to make their way down through the branches. They took the route that they had planned, continually looking over their shoulders in order to keep an eye on the giants. Along the lowest branch they shuffled, horribly aware of the lumps of snow that kept falling to the ground. But the giants were further down the copse, and still they had managed to avoid being seen. They took the final jump, landed on the soft snow, and hurried away towards the thicket that bordered the copse. Little-Marten fairly pushed Henty into the undergrowth and took a last look behind him as he followed her. He glanced through the trees and saw that the girl Midge was turning in his direction. Had she seen him? It was hard to tell, and too late to do anything about it. He scuffled beneath the hedge, and crouched next to Henty.
‘Got one!’
The boy was back, waving some long implement.
Little-Marten and Henty stayed where they were. Perhaps the giants would fail to get up into the cedar, and just go away again.
‘OK, well I’ve found a stick. Let’s give it a whirl.’
It didn’t take them long. The man simply tied the stick to the long pole thing, reached up towards the platform, and after a couple of attempts the ladder came tumbling down.
‘There you go.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’ The boy climbed up the swinging ladder and scrambled over to the platform.
‘Hey – all my stuff! It’s all messed up! Come and have a look, Midge. I can’t believe this!’
The boy disappeared from view, as the girl began climbing the ladder.
‘Look at this!’ The boy was back, standing at the edge of the platform and holding up the remains of the soft red bindle-wrap. ‘Somebody’s hacked my sleeping bag in half! And there’s old tin cans up here . . . bits of cabbage stalk . . . chicken bones . . . hell of a mess . . .’
The girl paused at the top of the rope ladder, to look at the bindle-wrap. Then, as the boy disappeared once more, she turned and stared at the exact spot where Little-Marten and Henty were hiding.
‘We’d best be gone,’ Little-Marten whispered to Henty, and she nodded. The two of them pushed their way through the hedge and began to struggle along the snow-filled ditch on the other side. The easy times were over.
They had barely got away from the settlement before the weather turned. Perhaps the whirling clouds of sleet that now came sweeping across the wetlands would help keep them hidden, but it made the going that much harder. Little-Marten and Henty stayed close to the hedges and ditches, ducking low, their eyes narrowed against the icy sting. No word was spoken, but both knew that there was only one direction left open to them: the Far Woods.
They dared not set out across the open fields, although there was little chance of their being seen in this weather. Instead they kept to the borders and the banks of the rhynes, dodged along the lines of willows, finding what cover they could. Their zig-zagging progress was slow and dispiriting – made worse whenever they were forced to backtrack because of some hedge too thick to penetrate or some rhyne too wide for Henty to jump. Exhaustion finally brought them to a standstill. Henty sank into a crouching position at the base of a willow, her back to the wind.
‘Just let me rest a little,’ she said. ‘Then we’ll go on.’
But Little-Marten knew that neither of them were able to go much further. They would have to find shelter, and soon, if they were to survive the coming night. He turned and looked beyond the narrow rhyne from where the willow stood, searching what little he could see of the swirling landscape. There were dark shadowy shapes out towards the middle of the next field. Little-Marten couldn’t tell from here whether these were bushes or pieces of Gorji machinery, but he would go and investigate.
‘Bide here,’ he said.
The wind threw him off balance as he spread his wings in order to jump the rhyne. Little-Marten teetered on the edge for a moment, but then launched himself and managed to land safely on the opposite side. He scrambled up the snowy bank and leaned into the wind, battling across the field towards the objects that lay there.
It was a tree – or the remains of one – an old oak that had been cut down. The rotten stump remained in the ground, whilst all around lay stacks of logs and branches. It looke
d as though the Gorji were in the process of sawing and sorting the wood, ready for some future use. Little-Marten moved among the piles of snow-covered tree limbs, looking for a likely place to shelter. As he circled the area, eyes screwed up against the biting sleet, he saw that there was a great split in the main stump of the tree – a deep hollow. He pushed his way towards it, and crouched down to take a closer look. Immediately his heart lifted. The hollow was big enough for both him and Henty to crawl into. It looked fairly dry in there, and better still it was to the leeward side of the wind. That was enough. He would go straight back and get Henty.
She made a better job of crossing the rhyne than he had, jumping lightly from bank to bank as he stood with his hands outstretched ready to catch hers. Her face was desperately white, though, and the touch of her fingers was like ice.
‘I’ve found somewhere,’ he said. ‘And ’tis just a step.’
Little-Marten was already unpacking the bindle-wraps as they approached the tree stump. He ducked into the hollow, quickly spread an oilskin on the ground, and laid the soft Gorji sack on top of that.
‘Get theeself in there,’ he said.
They buried themselves deep inside the red bindle-wrap, their limbs aching and shaking beyond control, their faces so numb that they could barely speak. The very air inside them was frozen. It seemed impossible that they could ever be warm again.
But eventually their teeth stopped chattering, and a little feeling returned to their fingers and toes. The amazing Gorji wrap had begun to work its magic. Little-Marten was the first to surface, lifting his head from beneath the soft material and squinting out at the wild landscape. They were protected in here from the worst of the weather, and though the wind growled around the entrance to their makeshift cave it could no longer gnaw at their bones. He shivered at the thought of what would have become of them if they had not found this shelter.
The inside of the tree smelled musty, and was so rotten that the slightest movement caused crumbling lumps of wood to fall upon them, lumps that could be pinched to dust between their fingers. Little-Marten and Henty lifted the corners of the oilskin wrap beneath them and grubbed around to see if there might be a few acorns that they could eat. Nothing. Not even a beetle.
Winter Wood Page 19
