Again he glanced sideways at the bridge, then back at her. And again. Then he jumped. In a flash he had leaped the couple of paces from the weir-bank and clambered up onto the bridge. He was to the right of the locking gear now, standing on the corner of one of the wooden planks. That was it. He had her in his sights.
Midge pushed herself as tightly as she could against the metal stanchions, seeking whatever protection she could find. She realized that Scurl was still hampered by the briars that tumbled across the planks. They were all around his feet and legs, and banked up high on his right. He couldn’t move any further sideways, and so his line of vision was not yet perfect. But with just a few steps forward he would be onto the bare planking. And from then on he could shoot her at will.
She saw him glance at the pillow. The pillow . . .
Midge hadn’t given it any thought. Could she use the pillow for protection? Would it stop an arrow?
‘Get back, dammee!’ Scurl’s sudden yell made her jump. He swung the bow sideways, no longer pointing it at her but at something beyond her shoulder. Midge looked quickly behind her and then back at Scurl. In that instant she’d seen George drop to the ground. Shot? No . . . the arrow was still in the bow – and trained on her again. Midge raised the pillow in front of her, desperately trying to cover the half of her body that wasn’t hidden behind the stanchion.
Her wrists and arms kept making little jerking movements. She fought to keep the tip of the arrow in focus . . . weaving her head from side to side . . . ready to duck . . . waiting for the moment . . .
But the moment didn’t come. Why? Why didn’t he just go ahead and do it? Even in her terror, Midge began to realize something: Scurl had only got one chance at this. If he were to shoot and miss, then he would have lost his control over her. She could rush forward . . . try and grab the bow before he could use it again. In fact she and George together could very probably overpower him. Scurl was all alone – no gang around him now – no other archers to back him up. All he had was that bow and arrow, and perhaps one shot at her. He had to be certain . . .
Brrrrrrrrrr . . . rrr . . . rrrrrr . . .
The sound was so startling, so unfamiliar, that for a moment Midge thought it was something to do with her attacker. She stared at Scurl in bewilderment, saw him crouch a little lower, teeth bared. Then she realized what was happening and delved frantically into the pocket of her fleece. Brrrrrrr! The sound grew even louder as Midge drew out the travel alarm. On and on it went, the high-pitched ringing sharp and insistent above the dull roar of the weir. Midge fumbled with the brass winding keys. How did you turn the wretched thing off? Brrrrrrrrrr . . .
She found the button at last, and the noise stopped dead. Midge didn’t know what else to do, so she just held out the clock in her right hand for Scurl to see. She didn’t want him to think that it was a weapon. The old-fashioned object dangled from her fingers, brass case hanging open so that the winding keys were exposed, sunlight glinting on the curve of the glass. Twenty-five past ten, the hands said. Hadn’t it been set for half-eleven?
Scurl kept the bow trained upon her, but his eyes strayed to the metal clock. Midge was already trying to think of some way of explaining, searching for words that would assure Scurl that there was no threat here.
‘What be that thing?’ Scurl’s angry voice rose above the crash of the weir. ‘Some Gorji trickery?’
‘No, it’s . . .’ Midge was still hoping to show Scurl that the clock was not harmful in any way. But at the same time she could see that he was curious. His attention had been deflected, if only for a moment. Perhaps she could somehow extend that moment . . .
And then a flash of true inspiration shot through her. She grabbed at the idea, spoke without even thinking.
‘Don’t you know what it is?’ she shouted. ‘You’ve been searching for it long enough. It’s the Orbis.’
‘What did ’ee say?’
‘I said this is the Orbis. I’ve found it.’
She waited . . . waited for his sneer of disdain, waited for him to tell her that he knew full well what the Orbis looked like and that it bore no resemblance to this piece of Gorji rubbish.
But Scurl didn’t speak. He looked at the clock again. Then he lifted one of his feet, shook it clear of the brambles and took a deliberate step forward.
‘And if you come any closer,’ said Midge, ‘I’m going to drop it in the water.’ She extended her right arm so that the travel alarm was dangling beyond the edge of the plank.
Did Scurl believe any of this, or care? She couldn’t tell. But he remained where he was at any rate. Midge half turned her body, shifted her stance so that she was ready to run either forwards or backwards depending on what happened next. Scurl regarded her, his eyes taking in the pillow, the position of her feet, the alarm clock dangling above the water. He was a hunter, and like a hunter he was prepared to wait for his best opportunity.
But then his thinking seemed to change. He nodded, and lowered the bow a little.
‘Well, if that be the Orbis, maid, we’d best parley. Why did ’ee bring it here – to give to I?’
‘Yes,’ Midge improvised as best she could. ‘To give to you . . . if you want it.’ She brought her arm back towards her.
‘Then give it,’ said Scurl. ‘Or do I come and take it?’ He lifted his foot as if to step further forward, and Midge immediately hung the travel alarm over the torrent once more.
‘No!’ she shouted. ‘You’ve got to give me something in exchange.’
‘Ah.’ Scurl moved back. ‘I didn’t think as ’twould come for naught. What would ’ee trade for such a bauble then?’
‘You know what I want. You have to let us go free – all of us.’
‘Agreed, then.’ Scurl didn’t even hesitate. ‘Give me the Orbis and I’ll not touch ’ee. Any of ’ee.’
Was he mocking her?
‘You mean . . . you’ll just let us go?’
‘Aye. Now give me the Orbis.’
Their voices rang back and forth above the tumble of the water.
‘But how do I know you won’t shoot me if I do?’
‘Well, thass just it, maid. Thee ain’t likely to trust old Scurl, I reckon, so we don’t get very far, do us?’ He was playing with her, Midge was sure of it. Just playing for time. But then so was she.
‘All right. Let Little-Marten untie Henty. Give your bow and arrow to him, and then I’ll give you the Orbis.’
Scurl laughed outright at this. Midge could see his sharp yellow teeth beneath the greasy beard. ‘Now that be going just a little too far down t’other path, maidy. Give my bow to the Woodpecker? And what do ’ee think he might do wi’ it? No. But don’t let I stop ’ee talking. I be enjoying myself – and still willing to hear ’ee out.’
Midge tried to think. There must be some way of doing this, some suggestion she could make that would test whether Scurl was serious or not. He wasn’t going to just give up the bow and arrow. It would leave him with no hold over her, and in too much danger. How badly did he want the ‘Orbis’? He didn’t seem very bothered about it, but then maybe that was the whole idea.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘the Various have been trying to find this thing for years and years. You know how important it’s supposed to be. If this was yours then you could take it to the forest, and . . . and everyone would be very proud of you for finding it. They’d forget what you did, and forgive you and everything. They might even make you King or something, for all I know. It has to be worth letting us go in exchange.’
Scurl had stopped laughing now. ‘’Tis thee that put me out here, maidy, to rot and to starve – as all my company did rot and starve – and I s’d be glad to put an end to thee in return. Aye, and I’ve tried to do it more ’n once. I casn’t stand to look at ’ee, nor these rag-tags that hang by thee, nor any such traitors. But I’ll tell ’ee this true. If I was to hold the Orbis then I’d give up my hold on thee, and never think on ’ee again. Now there’s my word on it. Find the way, and I’ll m
ake the bargain.’
Midge had seen enough of Scurl to know that his word was hardly to be trusted, but she wanted to believe him nevertheless. He made no attempt to hide his hatred of her, yet he would put that hatred aside for the sake of something that meant more. She had to make this work. It was their only chance.
‘What about this then,’ she said. ‘Let Little-Marten untie Henty, and let them come over to this side of the weir. Then put down your bow and arrow, on the bridge, where you’re standing now. And then come and meet me here in the middle and I’ll give you this.’
‘No,’ said Scurl. ‘For as soon as I got to the middle, thee’d all turn tail and run – and take the Orbis with ’ee. My bow’d be back here, and I’d lose the lot of ’ee.’
‘Well, you think of a better way, then.’
‘Woodpecker and the Tinkler stay this side,’ shouted Scurl, ‘I ain’t letting go of ’em. Not till I gets what I want.’
Midge tried to think this through. How could she keep Little-Marten and Henty safe? Maybe if Scurl were to put down the arrow . . . or give it to Little-Marten . . . keep the bow . . .
No, she just couldn’t seem to find any way of . . .
‘Tell ’ee what I’ll do,’ Scurl’s harsh voice called out again. He took the arrow from the bow, and held both of them up for Midge to see. Then, with a sudden swing of his arm, he flung the bow far out into the weir. Midge watched in astonishment as the bow twirled out across the water, a bright spinning arc, to be swallowed up into the tumbling foam. She couldn’t believe it.
‘There. What do ’ee think to that?’ Scurl was grinning at her. ‘Now thee’ve naught to fear. But hark ’ee – I’ve still got this ’un.’ He held up the arrow in his fist. ‘Aye, and more like it. So if either of ’ee try to come at I – thee or that other Gorji snip – then thee s’ll find I’ve a sting yet. And if ’ee were to run, or keep the Orbis from me, then I’ve still got the Tinkler maid. She ain’t going anywhere, nor Woodpecker neither, not whilst she’m snared. And I s’ll stap this arrow through her eye, or worse, I can promise ’ee, if there be any Gorji tricks. Woodpecker!’ Scurl turned round and shouted for Little-Marten. ‘Come up here – away from that maid! Get theeself up here, where I can sithee!’
Little-Marten was still on his hands and knees beside one of the bramble bushes. He rose hesitantly to his feet, but remained where he was, looking completely dazed.
‘Up here, dammee!’ Scurl watched for a moment as Little-Marten began to stumble forward, then he turned back to Midge.
‘Now then, maidy. Here be the way of it. I s’ll come to thee – and I warn ’ee, thee’d best not run. Then we shall make our trade – the arrow for the Orbis. Agreed?’
Midge couldn’t get her thoughts straight. This was all moving too quickly. She needed to work this out, but she was being given no time. Already Scurl was beginning to step forward.
‘Don’t trust him, Midge!’ George’s voice called out from behind her.
‘Stay out o’ this!’ Scurl roared back. ‘And stay down! I ain’t coming across with two of ’ee on the bridge!’
‘It’s all right, George, he can’t hurt me,’ said Midge. But her words sounded more confident than she felt. Could he stab at her with that arrow?
‘Hold the arrow the other way round,’ she shouted to Scurl. ‘With the feathers pointing towards me.’
Scurl nodded. ‘Agreed, then.’ He held the arrow by the tip, loosely pinching it between finger and thumb so that it dangled harmlessly downwards, the feathers tilted in Midge’s direction.
Midge was still nervous, still trying to see how Scurl might use the arrow to harm her. He couldn’t shoot her with it, and she didn’t think he would be able to throw it hard enough to do much damage. She still had the pillow clasped to her body if he should suddenly try to stab at her. Would he really risk losing what he was after just for the chance of wounding her? Would he have thrown the bow away like that, if he wasn’t serious about trying to do a deal? No, he had kept the arrow for his own defence, not to attack her. Once he had what he wanted he’d go away, surely? And as long as she and George stayed here, Henty would be safe enough.
‘Come on, then,’ she called to him. ‘But keep the arrow like that.’
He looked so awful, that was the trouble. As Scurl stepped out above the pounding waters and drew closer to her, she saw how disgusting he really was. His hair and beard were matted into great clumps, solid with grease, and there were fingermarks smeared all down the front of his leather jerkin. Around his feet and legs were wrapped bits of old sacking, cross-tied with orange binder twine. As he spread his tattooed wings and edged along the planks towards her, Midge caught the animal scent of him – strong as a monkey house. It turned her stomach over, filled her with fear and revulsion just to be anywhere near him, but at the same time she couldn’t help feeling a stab of pity for this terrible creature. He looked so completely derelict.
Then she caught sight of the oilskin quiver, slung around his back. She’d forgotten about that.
‘Those other arrows,’ she said, pointing. ‘I don’t want them near me. Put them down.’
Scurl said nothing, but once again he did as he was asked. With his free hand he unslung the quiver, bringing the leather strap over his head and lowering the bundle onto the planks at his feet. Then he stepped over the object.
‘Bist ready?’
‘Yes.’
Scurl was almost within reaching distance now. Every sense in Midge’s body was alive, straining to stay sharp. She was aware of the crash and rumble of the weir beneath her . . . the anxious figure of Little-Marten hovering near the other end of the bridge . . . Henty, white-faced and helpless among the briars . . .
She knew that George would be tensed and alert on the bank behind her, waiting, trying to be ready for whatever might come. There was nothing more she could do but get it over with.
Midge gripped the pillow closer to her body and leaned forward, holding the clock out towards Scurl. Her hand shook with nervousness, and the scuffed and battered little object looked pitifully unconvincing in the bright sunlight.
But Scurl didn’t even glance at it. His eyes were on her, and they were still the eyes of a predator, unblinking, fierce in their concentration.
‘Take it,’ he said, and held the arrow out, raising it so that the feathered flights were pointing towards her. Midge hesitated. Unless she let go of the pillow she would have to take the arrow in the same hand that the clock was in. She didn’t want to do that in case he grabbed her, but nor did she have any intention of dropping the pillow.
She shook her head. ‘No. I’m going to have to put the cl— the Orbis down.’
It was a gamble. Midge lowered herself into a half-crouching position, feeling horribly vulnerable. Her eyes were almost at Scurl’s level as she let the alarm slip through her fingers. It tumbled forwards onto the boards with a soft clunk. Midge quickly stood up again.
‘Take it.’ Scurl thrust the arrow towards her. He still showed no interest in the clock. Midge didn’t want the arrow – didn’t want even that minimal contact with this awful being – but this was the deal that they had struck, and the look in Scurl’s eye told her that she had no choice. She reached out and grasped the arrow, feeling the bristly texture of the trimmed feathers sharp against the palm of her hand.
Scurl didn’t immediately let go of his end. He resisted her pull just for a moment – enough for Midge to know that it was deliberate, and enough for her to know that she’d made a mistake. As Scurl released his hold on the arrow, he took a step forward, placed his foot next to the travel alarm – and kicked it into the weir.
The clock skittered across the boards and was immediately gone, lost in the broil of froth and spray.
Midge was still frozen in position, holding the arrow out in front of her like a fencer. She looked down in horror at the water, then back at Scurl. What was he—?
‘Dost think me a fool?’ Scurl roared. His red face danced just beyond t
he sharpened point of the arrow. ‘Dost think I don’t know yellow-metal when I sees it? And glass? These be Gorji things! Gorji work!’
He’d known all the while, then. Right from the very start he’d known, and had played her along in order to get as close to her as he could.
Midge felt her legs going. She tried desperately to keep the arrow upright, pointed at Scurl’s face. It was her only chance. Just keep jabbing . . . and jabbing . . .
Scurl retreated, but remained calmly beyond her reach. He let her take a couple more feeble little stabs at the air, then he hitched aside his leather jerkin, crooked an arm behind his back – and drew out a knife.
In his hands it looked like a sword . . . some great military thing . . . curved and horrible. Scurl grinned at her.
‘Now we be matched,’ he said.
Midge thought that she would faint. The dizzying roar of the water was all around her, and the sunlight seemed blazingly bright. She saw the arrow drop from her helpless fingers and bounce towards the edge of the planking.
‘Thee’d best run, maidy.’ Scurl’s voice was like a whisper in her ear.
‘No!’ Another voice, shouting, from far away. Henty. ‘Don’t run! Don’t show your back to him!’
Don’t run? Midge looked at the knife. Scurl was changing it from one hand to the other, holding it by the blade now, raising it high as if to throw it. She turned from him and felt the pillow slide from her grasp. Don’t run? But she must. She must run and run . . . faster than a knife could fly . . . faster than it could cut through the air . . . blade spinning end over end . . .
She must run. And yet she couldn’t move.
Little-Marten was moving, though . . . dashing along the planks . . . and then flying . . . soaring upwards to land on Scurl’s shoulders, grabbing the arm that held the knife. ‘Nooooo!’ Midge heard his furious yell – and felt the boards tilt beneath her. She saw Scurl and Little-Marten tumbling sideways, locked together in a dark tangle as they fell from the bridge, and knew that she was falling too, helplessly off balance on the rocking planks. Midge flung out her arms as the water rose to meet her, but was then swinging back round and crashing against the boards. She landed on her knees with her arm twisted up behind her. George was there, gripping her wrist, hauling her back to safety.
Winter Wood Page 28
