‘Maglin! Bist hurt?’
Midge thought that she recognized the faces of the first couple to arrive.
Maglin waved them away. ‘Keep back, Glim. Raim – get behind me.’
‘But have he wounded thee?’ The guards looked threateningly towards Tadgemole.
‘Get back, I say! ’Tis but a scratch. And ’twere Ictor’s doing, not the cave-dweller’s. Keep away – and keep all others away. Now then . . .’ Maglin pointed his spear across the stream towards Tadgemole. ‘We shall have this out, thee and I.’
But as he spoke, the bushes behind Tadgemole parted and other cave-dwellers began to appear. Like pale spirits they materialized, silent and serious, to stand on the opposite bank. Some carried staves, and some the implements of their work – hammers and picks. All looked as though they had come prepared for trouble.
Maglin nodded as if in understanding. ‘Thee’d already had word o’ this, then,’ he said to Tadgemole. ‘And knew that the maid were coming.’
‘As did you. And now it seems that all have learned of it . . .’ Tadgemole was watching the hillside, and Midge turned once more to look.
The tangled woods were coming alive with little figures. From among the trees they appeared, in ones and twos at first, and then in larger groups – some walking, some gliding . . . young children . . . mothers with babies . . . Ickri hunters and Naiad field-workers . . .
Midge simply gawped at the sight. It was a medieval painting come to life . . . a film . . . a fête . . . a carnival procession – or a migration. Yes, the little people were like birds or animals, following a common instinct as they moved urgently through the bushes and the undergrowth, the groups converging and all heading in the same direction: towards the tunnel stream. And towards her.
She saw a tiny child stumble and disappear into the rough grass, a mother pausing for a moment, arm outstretched – and then the infant’s head bobbing up again, disorientated, its red cap all askew. More archers circled down from above. A trapper, or a hunter, she noticed, with some half-plucked carcass still in his grasp, the bird hanging upside down, grey wings splayed. A pigeon? Long wooden rakes . . . bundles of withy . . . many of the tribespeople were obviously carrying whatever they’d been occupied with when the word had gone round, so intent were they on getting here as quickly as possible.
The colours . . . the clothing that they wore . . . so perfect, Midge realized, for their surroundings: muted ochres of orange and yellow, washed out browns and greys and olive greens. The colours of winter wood. Only the Ickri stood out, in their flashes of black and white – and even they might be mistaken for magpies at a distance.
And now there were more still, coming along the banks of the stream in single file, another tribe, paler skinned than the Ickri or the Naiad, though not as pale as the cave-dwellers. These must be the Wisp, the night-fishers. They carried pronged spears, simple forked sticks for the most part that had been sharpened into points. One or two had small metal gardening forks, fixed to the ends of homemade poles.
Midge had never realized that there could be so many of them – had simply never thought about the actual numbers that might be living here. But there must have been enough to fill a school playground at least. A hundred? Two hundred? She searched the growing crowd for Little-Marten and Henty, but couldn’t spot them anywhere. Nor could she see any sign of Pegs.
It was dizzying to watch them all forming into groups, each to their own kind, huddling into ranks on either side of the stream – crowding together, yet all in silence. Midge was left breathless at the sight. This was truly another world. Beyond the briars and brambles, the life of humans went on – her life – with its roaring traffic, and airports, and televisions and computers. And school. And here in the middle of it all was this impossible thing happening. It was too much to deal with.
And yet they were just people. That was what she had to keep telling herself. She had stumbled across the border of an unknown country, a foreign land: different people, with different customs. But people, just the same.
That thought helped, and Midge clung to it as she gazed at the wild assembly, the scores of grave little faces that now surrounded her. Ickri, Tinkler, Troggle, Naiad and Wisp – the five tribes of the Various.
And they were so quiet. No baby cried, no child laughed, no archer murmured to his neighbour. An entire population had gathered, yet there was nothing to be heard but the soft chuckle of the stream, and the lone piping of a bird in some distant hedgerow. The gentle sounds of the woodland.
But there was such tension in that silence, such an expectancy, and Midge shrank before the many solemn eyes that were upon her.
‘It seems we be mustered, then.’ Maglin finally spoke, his voice gruff on the still, wintry air. ‘Though I gave no such command. But perhaps ’tis as well that all should hear. Glim – drag that traitor’s body out o’ my sight. And you, Raim, give him aid.’
Maglin examined the Orbis for a few moments as the guards went about their grisly task, then he held the object up high, turning himself about so that all could see it.
‘At last we have it,’ he said. ‘The Orbis! Look upon it and wonder that it still exists. Aye, and that it should be found – returned here by this Gorji child. We owe her much. To my hand it’ve come’ – Maglin looked at Tadgemole – ‘as so it should. For it was my hand that helped guide its return. If there be any that would lay a better claim, then now be the time to speak, and let us have done with all argument.’
Maglin lowered his arm and faced Tadgemole across the narrow stream.
‘The Orbis came to you by chance only,’ said Tadgemole. ‘Aye, and by my mercy. I don’t wonder you hide the body of your traitorous guard, Maglin. Does he not serve as a reminder of where you would be if not for me? What if I had let him kill you, as was his purpose, before I brought him down? Whose hand would hold the Orbis then? Mine! And I also played some part in its return, as this Gorji maid would tell thee. But I have another claim. This thing belonged to the cave-dwellers, not the Ickri. It was in our possession, not yours, and it was we who gave it to the maid Celandine, to be taken from here for safekeeping. And now that it returns, it must return to us. You’ve no right to it.’
There was a shuffle of movement from the cave-dwellers at this, and a low murmur of agreement. Midge shifted her position slightly, trying to ease the cramp in her legs. She had a horrible feeling that she might be called upon to act as some sort of judge in this conflict, and she didn’t relish the idea.
‘No right?’ Maglin’s voice was beginning to rise. ‘I am Keeper of the Stone! Or have ’ee forgotten? The Touchstone is carried by the Ickri, and the Orbis be only a part of that. It belongs in my Stewardship and should never have been split from the Stone in the first place. Why do ’ee think that the Ickri returned to these woods longseasons ago? To bring together the Stone and Orbis once more. But it was the cave-dwellers who lost the Orbis. Sent it away for “safekeeping” you say? If it wasn’t for the foolishness of your kind, we should be gone longseasons since – not starved and trapped among these empty trees. ’Tis you and yours that have brought us to this, Tadgemole! And now thee say I have no right? No, the Orbis must be joined with the Stone – where it belongs. And the hand that bears the Stone must now bear both.’
Another murmur arose at the end of Maglin’s speech. Midge looked at the faces of those that she could see from her crouching position. Their expressions seemed equally divided: the Ickri and Naiad were approving of what Maglin had said – the Tinklers and Troggles, unsurprisingly, were not. Only the Wisp seemed uncommitted, standing about the shallows of the stream, dibbling in the waters with their pronged spears.
‘So.’ Tadgemole was speaking again, and Midge returned her attention to him. A grim smile passed across his face, and that did surprise her – never having seen him smile before. ‘Possession is all, then. And is this what you truly believe, Maglin, that . . . what were your words . . . that the hand that bears the Stone must bear the Orbis
also?’
‘Aye,’ said Maglin. ‘There can be no division in this.’
‘Then we have no argument,’ said Tadgemole. He raised the leather bag that he carried, put his hand deep into it . . . and brought out the Touchstone.
It took a few moments to register. There were gasps of disbelief at first, but then a swell of angry voices arose.
‘They thieving cave-dwellers have took the Stone!’
‘No! ’Tis the Ickri that be the robbers! They’ve stole the Orbis!’
‘Give it back, ye stinking old grey-rag! Give it back – or thee’ll take an arrow instead!’
‘Not from you we shan’t, boss-eyes! You couldn’t hit the ground wi’ your own foot!’
‘Blood, then! Give ’em blood! On the Ickri!’
From both sides of the stream the insults flew, and rocks and arrows looked likely to follow. Midge hunched her shoulders and shrank closer to the earth, bracing herself for outright war.
Maglin was waving his spear at Tadgemole, and shouting . . . but he was calling for peace, not violence.
‘Keep them back!’ he roared. ‘Tadgemole – hold ’em there! Let none attack!’
He turned to his own archers and struck out at the nearest, knocking the arrow from his bow.
‘Put down your weapons! Hold, I say! Aken! Glim! Do ’ee not hear? Silence! Silennnnnce!’
Such was the power that Maglin still held that the ruckus gradually subsided, and eventually all weapons and missiles were lowered. Tadgemole too had managed to calm the Tinklers and Troggles, so that the two sides resumed their restless truce, facing each other across the stream with much scowling and muttering.
Maglin leaned heavily on his spear, his head sinking forward, one stubbled cheek resting against the flat blade. He pressed a forearm to his brow, a picture of weariness. His very shoulders were beginning to shake, the effort of bearing himself upright apparently too much for him. But then he threw back his head to give a great shout to the heavens – and it was a shout not of pain but of laughter.
‘Ha! Haaaa . . . hah!’ The sound was so shocking that those nearest him actually flinched away, half raising their arms in defence. ‘We be a match, then, Tadgemole, me and thee! Aye, and each no better nor worse than the other! Neither of us have gained more than we lose. Ha!’ Maglin looked about at the astounded Ickri archers, his face split with mirth. ‘They that once held the Orbis now hold the Stone, as we that once held the Stone now hold the Orbis.’ He chuckled and gave a long sigh. ‘Though how such trickery have come about I don’t yet see. Well, I look to thee for explanation then, cave-dweller, and we must parley this through. Parley, I say, and not fight. I shall raise no weapon again, where none is raised against me, and there be my vow on it. So let us agree on this much: no more blood. I’ve none left to spare, and that I do know. Zelma! Bist there?’ Maglin searched the crowd. ‘Zelma – fetch me a poultice . . . a swab. I be mazed in the head, I reckon. Aye, and must be, to find this to my amusement.’
What had come over him? Maglin, who could always be relied upon to charge headlong at whatever obstacles might stand in his path, now seemed ready to back away from conflict.
As if sensing the amazement about him, Maglin spoke again.
‘How else should I act? If ’tweren’t for Tadgemole I should be killed already. He’ve saved me from the treachery of my own kind, when it might have served him better to see me die. What should his reward be – that I attack him in return? No. I shan’t do it, and nor shall any under my command.’ Maglin looked around at his company in order to emphasize this point. ‘We shall settle this by parley. So where do us stand? We have the Stone, and we have the Orbis. We should rejoice in this much. And our task be to find the true way forward. But how? And by whose hand? These two parts must be joined together, ’tis plain enough, but beyond that is beyond my knowledge. All my hope was to bring this day about, and I’ve looked no further. Perhaps the cave-dwellers can show us more. Come, Tadgemole . . .’ Maglin held out the Orbis in his right hand. ‘If I give this over to thee, tell me how thee’d put it to use.’
Tadgemole, always so confident in his manner, now looked completely taken aback. And when he spoke there was suspicion in his voice.
‘Give it to me? And not ask for the Stone in return?’
‘I’m become more seasoned of late, Tadgemole, and perhaps a little wiser with season’s turning. I have consulted with the Stone many times, and see that here lies a power beyond my own. My heart has altered. I believe that Elysse exists – our true home – and that we might return there if we could only see our path. I believe that the Touchstone would guide us if we had knowledge to put it to such purpose. But I have no such knowledge, and I be willing to step aside for any that do. Keep the Stone, then, and be Keeper of it, and take the Orbis also if ’ee can show ’tis rightfully yourn. I be ready to follow, if thee truly knows the way.’ And again Maglin offered the Orbis, holding it out across the shallow waters to Tadgemole.
But Tadgemole made no move to take it. He looked down at the Stone, cradled in his pale hands, and then up again at Maglin.
‘Your heart is altered indeed then,’ he said, ‘if you are ready to give all over to me. And I’ve no ready words in answer. As with you, so it is with me: I’ve wished only to bring this day about and have given little thought beyond it. But . . . you say that you have consulted with the Stone? What do you mean? You have already learned how it might be used?’
‘Aye, but in part only. I cannot say how the Stone and Orbis should work together, or what might betide if they be joined.’
‘No more can I.’
‘So? But ’tis your kind that’ve always held a faith in these things, Tadgemole, not mine. I be come to this only lately, and in the sun-wane o’ my days.’
‘My people do hold faith, Maglin, and I hope we ever shall. Yet faith may not be knowledge. We’ve no word of such things in our almanacs. We know only that the travelling tribes came from Elysse to the lands of the Gorji, guided by the Touchstone. And that when the Touchstone was split, so we became trapped here. We believed that if Stone and Orbis were brought together again, then on such a day we might return to our home. But now that the day has come . . .’
Tadgemole paused and shook his head. ‘No. If you’ve already worked the Stone, Maglin, then you’ve more knowledge than I. Perhaps ’tis for the Ickri after all to lead us from this place . . .’
Another moment of hesitation and Tadgemole held out the Touchstone, offering it to Maglin across the quietly trickling stream.
Midge stared at the two of them in wonderment – and with a growing feeling of exasperation. After all the trouble and fuss and danger that she’d been through in order to bring the Orbis to the forest, and now nobody could give the thing away! What was the matter with them?
‘Why don’t you just put it all together and see what happens?’ The words simply tumbled out, and everybody turned to look at her. Midge felt stupid then. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I only meant that . . . well . . . it might be an idea, that’s all.’ She decided to shut up.
Maglin glared at her a little longer before speaking. ‘We be thankful to ’ee, maid, for all that thee’ve done. Aye, more thankful than we could say. But we s’d be more thankful yet if thee’d hold silent till we’ve done. Now, then . . .’ He turned to face Tadgemole once more. ‘’Tis plain to me, Tadgemole, that neither of us see clear ahead, and that each could gain from another’s aid. What do ’ee say, then – shall we call ourselves Elders, thee and I, and try to act together in this? I find that there be few Elders around me that I’ve any faith in – and we be both more of an age for keeping counsel than for cracking heads.’
‘Hmf.’ Tadgemole gave a grim little snort. ‘I’m all for counsel, Maglin, and I’ll gladly join with you in that. But whilst I’m still able to crack any head that needs it, then I’ll not give up the right.’
‘Ha. So be it, then. Until any wiser head comes along, we must put our two together and hope to keep ’
em from breaking one on t’other . . .’
But then the two heads in question turned to face upstream, moving simultaneously, as if drawn by some signal. Midge was still coming to terms with the sudden reconciliation of this extraordinary pair, and it took a moment longer for her to catch up. She followed the direction of their gaze.
Something was happening among the Wisp. The fisher tribe, which had been spread out across the shallows, were now stumbling to either side, parting the way. In order to let someone through? Midge peered at the mill of little figures, trying to discover what was going on.
White . . . she caught flashes of white amongst the dividing crowd . . . white hair and wings. It was Pegs! She could see him, picking his way along the centre of the stony stream. He’d not come to any great harm, then. But her relief quickly turned to puzzlement. Because there was something else . . . someone else . . .
Midge rose unsteadily to her feet, aware of the ache in her legs as she looked over the heads of the crowd. Pegs was being ridden. Yes, there was someone on his back – a girl? A figure at any rate, dressed in white. Long silvery hair. Very pale.
The tribespeople had pulled right back. They stood away from the banks of the stream and looked on in silence as the winged horse and his strange rider passed between them, the click of hooves audible on the wet stones. And there was another sound, soft and musical. The chink of bells. Pegs was wearing a bridle, and Midge gave a little gasp as she recognized it. Yes, she’d looked at that bridle so many times that it was like an old friend to her.
But the figure in white was a complete stranger. Who could she be? The eyes of the girl were looking straight at her . . . so dark, they were, for such a pale face . . . and Midge felt self-conscious, a clumsy giant amongst those all around. Her legs didn’t seem to want to hold her upright after all. She sank dizzily to her knees again, grateful to be able to rest her fingertips on solid earth.
Was it a girl, though? As Pegs drew closer, Midge wasn’t so sure. The figure perched sideways on his back was perhaps not as young as she had first seemed. Her skin was clear and unlined, perfect. But there was something in that perfection that didn’t seem very girlish somehow. A kind of tautness that gave away the years. And though her build was slight, it wasn’t teenage-skinny. She was too graceful for that, too composed.
Winter Wood Page 32
