‘No. I liked to know that it would always be safe, you see, in my old room. No, the jewellery box never left Mill Farm.’ Aunt Celandine smiled. Her eyes had come alive and she no longer looked so tired. ‘Do you know, Midge, so much of it is coming back to me now. Those little horses that they used to milk . . . I knew I was right about that . . . and how I cut all their hair . . . and the time I helped Micas put the pine-cone into the hollow tree . . . I haven’t got it all in order quite, but it’s there now. At least it’s there.’ Aunt Celandine was obviously far less interested in the fate of the Orbis than in her own returning memories. ‘And after a while it seemed almost normal. They were normal, really. Just people. It was only when those others came . . . the ones that had . . . wings . . .’
Midge listened, but she was trying to think at the same time. ‘What did it look like, the jewellery box?’ she said.
‘Oh, it was nothing very special, that I can remember. Dark wood. Yes, about the size of a shoe box . . . and the sides sloped inwards. A casket. It had a key. Oh . . . I’ve remembered about that game, now, that the children used to play . . . Blinder . . . yes, they flicked these little stones . . .’ Aunt Celandine was off again.
Midge was mentally running around the rooms of Mill Farm. Had she ever seen a dark wooden casket that could once have been a jewellery box? She didn’t think so. And what were the chances, really, that it would still be around after all these years – and especially since the recent upheaval? It just wasn’t possible. So what was she going to do?
‘You had to try and get the stones to land inside the sheep’s skull. Ugly-looking thing, it was . . .’
There was a soft knock at the door, and Elaine put her head into the room. ‘Mr Howard’s here,’ she said, and there was Uncle Brian, standing out in the corridor, all muffled up in his thick winter jacket. He looked a bit embarrassed.
‘Sorry, Midge,’ said Uncle Brian, over Elaine’s shoulder. ‘I need to get back a bit earlier today. I made sure that you had your mobile, then realized I’d forgotten mine, so I couldn’t ring you. Hallo, Aunt Celandine. How are you?’
‘Oh. Who’s this?’ Aunt Celandine was trying to turn round in her chair. ‘Is it the doctor?’
‘No, it’s me, Aunt Celandine. Brian Howard. I’m your, er . . . I’m Midge’s uncle. We’ve met before.’ Uncle Brian came a little further into the room.
‘Have we?’ Aunt Celandine didn’t seem entirely convinced.
Midge exchanged glances with Uncle Brian and shook her head. She stood up. Far easier to be on her way than get into lengthy explanations as to who was related to whom.
‘I’d better go, Aunt Celandine,’ she said. ‘I hadn’t realized how late it was. But listen . . . it’s been a lovely afternoon, and I’ll, um . . . see you soon, yes?’
‘Oh . . . must you go?’ Aunt Celandine held out her hands. ‘Midge, come here. Come here a moment, dear. There’s something I want to say to you.’ She grasped Midge’s fingers, and then glanced across at Elaine and Uncle Brian. It was plain that she wanted to speak privately, and Midge bent closer. ‘I’m so grateful . . . for what you’ve done.’ Aunt Celandine’s voice was a low whisper. Midge was aware that Uncle Brian and Elaine had discreetly moved away. She was aware also of a deep warmth beginning to spread through her fingertips, a strange sensation. As though something was being passed from her great-great-aunt to her.
‘Yes, thank you.’ Aunt Celandine was focused now, squeezing her hand tight, seeking her full attention. ‘Thank you for coming to see me, and for putting my mind at rest. Today has been a wonderful day. You’ve helped me to find so much of what’s been missing, and I don’t think I could have even begun without you. You’re a very special girl, and you’ve made me very happy. I was told when I was young, Midge, that I had a gift. A gift to be given. And perhaps it was true. I held many hands, just like this, and I did what I could.’ Aunt Celandine’s eyes closed. ‘And whatever this gift was, I would sometimes recognize it there in others – in their hands too. Just occasionally. And I’ve recognized it in yours. Yes, right from the very first time. I know that it’s there. No . . . no . . . don’t be frightened . . .’ Aunt Celandine opened her eyes, as Midge instinctively drew away. ‘It’s nothing to be frightened of. Just do what you can, dear. It’s all we can ever do. There now. That’s all I have to say.’
This sounded alarmingly like a goodbye, and Midge was completely taken aback.
‘But we’ll be seeing each other again, won’t we? In a few days?’
‘Yes, of course, dear. Certainly. Now don’t you worry. We’ll see each other again, I promise.’
A last big squeeze of her hand, and Aunt Celandine sat back in her chair. She raised her voice again. ‘And when you find that old jewellery casket, you let me know.’
‘Yes. I will. Bye then, Aunt Celandine.’
‘Bye-bye, Midge.’
‘Ready, then?’ Uncle Brian was zipping up his jacket.
‘Yeah.’
‘Cheerio then, Aunt Celandine. Take care of yourself.’ Uncle Brian gave Aunt Celandine a smile and a wave.
‘Oh. Yes. Goodbye . . . er . . . Brian.’
As they stepped out into the hallway, Midge heard Elaine say, ‘Poo! What’s all this stuff then, Miss Howard?’ She meant the bag and its smelly contents.
‘Oh, it’s just some herbs and things that I asked Midge to collect for me. I’ve been telling her all about plant remedies . . .’
Aunt Celandine’s voice faded away as the door closed. She was a pretty good liar, thought Midge. For her age.
‘She doesn’t look at all well to me,’ said Uncle Brian as he turned the car ignition key. ‘Much thinner than she was last time. There’s nothing of her.’
But Midge didn’t want to hear that. ‘No, she’s all right, I think. Just tired. She hasn’t been sleeping very well.’
Well, perhaps Aunt Celandine would sleep better tonight, now that her mind was more at ease. And it had been a good day, Midge thought. A wonderful day in many ways, although the Orbis was still as elusive as ever. She realized with a jolt that there was one question that she hadn’t even thought to ask: what did the Orbis look like? She still had no idea what it was that she was searching for! How stupid could you get? It could be sitting in the kitchen cupboard with all the food processor bits for all she’d know. And as for ever finding this jewellery casket . . .
‘What was all that about a jewellery casket?’ Uncle Brian’s question made her jump.
‘Oh! Well . . .’ Midge couldn’t see that there was any harm in telling him. ‘Aunt Celandine used to have this wooden box, when she was a girl. She left it at the farm, years ago. It was dark wood, she said, like a casket, about as big as a shoe box. And it had a key. It would be really nice if we could find it again, that’s all. I don’t suppose you’ve noticed anything like that, have you?’
‘Ha! No, love. And I think that a spare nineteen-twenties jewellery box is something that I might notice, if it happened to be kicking around. So what was in it?’
‘Oh, just bits of ribbon and hair grips and stuff. No jewellery. Nothing valuable at all.’
‘Ah.’ Uncle Brian had obviously lost interest. He reached over to turn on the radio. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘that’s probably my last trip to Almbury Mills for a while. Cliff and I have got everything listed now, and he’s shown me how to do the online auction thing. I can sort the rest out on my home computer.’
‘Oh. Oh . . . right.’
Mum wasn’t in a great mood when they got back. She was sitting at the bottom of the stairs, surrounded by piles of paperwork, some of it stacked beside her, some of it spread out on the floor around her feet.
‘Brian, I’m simply not coping with all this,’ she said. ‘And we can’t afford for you to be playing around on the internet every Sunday. It’s just not fair. You need to be here – and as for you, miss’ – Midge had tried to edge past her mum in order to get upstairs – ‘you need to be doing your homework for tomorrow.’
>
‘Already done it,’ said Midge. ‘And anyway we don’t go back to school till Wednesday. There’s two extra “inset days”, or whatever they’re called, in case you’d forgotten. And Wednesday’s only some rubbish school trip – that steam engine thing. So there’s no need to take it out on me. I’m coping, even if you’re not.’
‘Hoy! Don’t you talk to me like that! If you had any idea of what I have to deal with . . .’
But Midge had managed to get past her mum, and was already stomping up the stairs. Yeah, she thought. And if you had any idea of what I have to deal with . . .
‘Listen, Chris, it’s OK. It’s OK.’ Uncle Brian had put on his calm-and-soothing voice. It was actually very irritating. Midge could imagine him using this technique on some angry customer and getting a bop on the nose for his pains. ‘Listen. For starters, I don’t need to go to Almbury Mills again. I’ve got all the stuff listed now. And as for the paperwork, well . . . I saw Pat again today. She said she’s willing to give us a hand with it . . .’
Midge stormed along the landing and into her room, cutting off the voices below as she slammed the door behind her.
Drat the lot of ’em, with their stupid planning permissions and builders and . . . shrubs and wine merchants and . . . paperwork. She had more important things to worry about. What was she going to do about the Orbis? What . . . what . . . what . . .?
She sat on the end of her bed and tried to calm down, tried to think. Not rage, but think. The Orbis had been left here, in this very room, on that very mantelpiece. It was unbelievable. And yet Aunt Celandine had been quite clear: she had put the Orbis in her jewellery box, and as far as she was concerned it had never left Mill Farm.
Except that it must have done, because it certainly wasn’t here now. An awful empty feeling began to fill Midge’s heart. Her sole plan all along, she realized, had been to try and find the Orbis through Aunt Celandine. What other plan could there have been? And she had succeeded, that was the terrible thing. She’d done so well. She’d found her great-great-aunt, against ridiculous odds, and had helped her as best she could to remember her past. And Aunt Celandine had remembered, at last. She’d left the Orbis here, in a casket, on the mantelpiece. Brilliant.
But eighty or ninety years had passed since then, and the Orbis certainly wasn’t here now. So it could be anywhere. Anywhere in the world . . . buried deep under acres of landfill . . . lying at the bottom of an ocean . . . or just simply rotted away to dust.
That was it, then. This day had gone so well in so many ways, but now there was nothing else that Midge could think of doing that made any sense. She’d reached the end of the line.
Celandine’s face glowed softly down at her, a pale shape, suspended among the shadows of the corner alcove. Midge leaned sideways onto one elbow, and in that shifting movement it seemed that Celandine’s eyes briefly met hers. It was just a change of the light, a twinkling reflection upon the glass, but Midge felt that she had caught a glimpse of the real person behind the photograph, a flash of understanding from one who knew her well. Sympathy from a friend.
Silly. The faraway gaze was over her shoulder now, as always. But at least she knew now what that child was looking at, and something of what those eyes had already seen. There was some mutual understanding there, and they were friends, in a way.
‘And we did try,’ Midge whispered to the empty room. ‘We did what we could.’
PART TWO
Chapter Twenty
‘BROTHER . . .’
Ictor spun round at the sound – a familiar voice at his shoulder, low and rasping.
‘Sh!’ He whispered. ‘Bist here again? And in daylight? I’ve told ’ee, ’tis too dangerous! Get back in there where none can sithee!’
The shadowy figure retreated a little into the dark mouth of the tunnel. Ictor looked quickly from right to left, making sure that there was nobody else nearby, then stepped onto a rock amid the trickling waters of the stream so that he was positioned directly in front of the wicker entrance.
‘’Tain’t safe to keep coming here,’ he muttered, still facing forwards. ‘All do reckon ’ee dead, brother, and ’twould be best kept so. Thee must wait till I can find a way of getting ’ee back in.’
‘Aye – and so starve.’ The low voice behind him sounded wild, desperate. ‘Have ’ee got any food? For I be shrammed.’
‘Here.’ Ictor pulled a crust of flatbread from his tunic and held his hand behind his back. He felt the snatching fingers of Scurl, long nails that scraped against his palm as the bread was torn from his grasp.
‘What’s the matter with ’ee?’ Ictor grimaced at the animal sounds of Scurl attacking the chunk of bread. ‘Have ’ee forgotten how to hunt?’
‘Got no flint . . .’ The words were broken by savage gulps and swallows. ‘Lost it and casn’t find another. I can hunt . . . but I’ve no fire. I’d scarce dare light one anywise, wi’ the Gorji all around me. Whatever I kill I’ve to eat raw . . . and it gives I the collies.’
‘Take mine, then.’ Ictor took out his flint and passed it back. ‘And risk a fire. Better that than die.’
More sounds of chewing and gulping. Then Scurl said, ‘What news? When does Maglin go?’
‘He’ve changed his thinking,’ Ictor replied. ‘He stays. And so all will now stay. ’Tain’t no good, Scurl – thee casn’t come back in. None of ’em are like to be going anywhere, as I can see.’
‘Then I be good as dead,’ Scurl growled. ‘For I’ll not last another moon out here. All my company be gone . . . Dregg and Snerk and Fitch . . . all starved . . . and I be next. I’ll tell ’ee this, though – I s’ll take that Gorji brat with me. Put an arrow through her, soon as I gets close enough.’
‘Aye, do that,’ Ictor sneered. ‘And bring the giants down upon us all.’
‘Pah! What do I care? Let ’em come . . .’ Scurl took another savage bite of food, grunting and snuffling like a furze-pig. Ictor turned away in disgust, his brother’s last words still echoing in his ear . . . Let ’em come . . . Let ’em come . . .
Scurl was mazy in the head, that was plain enough. His scavenging life had turned him into something unrecognizable, a beast: slobbering, filthy, stinking of the very ditches he dwelt in. Ictor stared at the black waters of the stream at his feet. Poor Scurl. Driven half mad. And yet . . .
Had what he had said made some sense? Let ’em come . . .
Was there an answer to be found here after all? Ictor raised his head towards the grey skies. He had a vision, then, of yelling giants, swarming up the hillside, bursting into the forest and slaying all before them. Raging unstoppable monsters that tossed Elders and Stewards alike onto the bonfires of their vengeance. Aye, vengeance . . . outrage at the loss of something they held dear . . . such a fury against the Various as would drive them to kill every last one they found . . .
Ictor let the evening sounds of the forest settle around him as he pictured the scene, thought it through.
‘That maid,’ he said, turning to glance into the shadows behind him. ‘The Gorji child that were the cause of all your trouble. Dost reckon ’ee could find her, then?’
‘Ptuh!’ Scurl’s voice spat at him from the darkness. ‘Find her? I knows where she be, and I’m hemmed if I don’t put an arrow through her first chance I get. I’ve come close to it already – but not close enough. I bides my time, though. I s’ll have ’er in the end.’
Ictor nodded. ‘Or I shall.’
‘Eh?’
‘I’ve heard rumour she may come here again, to the forest. Some blether o’ the Orbis – this witchi thing they all be after. What’d happen, would ’ee say, if that maid were to enter these woods and never return to her own? Dost think the giants’d come looking for her? Would they come here?’
‘Aye. They’d come here. There’s they other Gorji brats as know of this place. Why they ain’t told of it already I casn’t say. But if one o’ their own were missing, they’d chelp up soon enough, I knows.’
Ictor t
ook a few more moments to think about this. ‘And if she were found dead, wi’ an arrow through her, what do ’ee reckon those giants’d do to all that were here?’
There was silence.
‘Do ’ee see what I be getting at, Scurl? If that meddlesome child were to die, and the Gorji were led to those they reckoned brought her down . . . well, then. There’d be none left alive by the time they’d finished wi’ ’em. None left save you and I, for we should have already hidden ourselves far away. And then if we should return to the forest, when the giants were gone and all were quiet once more, what lives we should lead, eh? These woods to ourselves, all the game to we two alone, and none other to plague us. Brothers, as when we were childer, afore our troubles came . . .’
‘She’s mine.’ Scurl’s hiss of anger brought Ictor back to the present. ‘I’ve sworn to kill that young snip for what she’ve brought me and my company to, and kill her I shall.’
‘Then do it.’ Ictor could see clearly now how between the two of them they would achieve the same end. It mattered not who first got to the child. Either way it would be the Various who would be blamed. Their secret would come out, the tribes would surely be discovered, and all would suffer the same end at the hands of the giants.
Let Scurl seek his revenge then, and have his day, should that day dawn. And if instead the child should come to the forest, then she would find himself here waiting for her . . . standing tunnel guard . . . ready with an arrow. Ah, if only he could then stay to watch the slaughter that would follow. But there. Perhaps there would be a chance to bring down Maglin himself, just for the pleasure of watching him die, before going into hiding . . .
‘Do it.’ Ictor repeated his words. ‘Do as ’ee’ve planned all along, Scurl, and kill that maid. Don’t matter how or where. Drop a rock on her head if there be no other way. But hear me, brother: make sure ’ee leave an arrow in her, or with her, so that the giants’ll learn from their brats who’ve done this. Aye, and shall then know where to seek their vengeance. An arrow, mind. So that she carry our mark.’
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