The Starthorn Tree

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘Because the spider spied her,’ Durrik replied.

  Pedrin and Lisandre both groaned. ‘That’s gruesome,’ the goat-boy said. ‘Can’t you do better than that?’

  ‘I thought ‘twas rather clever, actually,’ Durrik replied, leaning down to rub his withered leg. ‘Aught to distract me from how empty my tummy’s a-feeling. Isn’t there anything else t’eat at all, Pedrin?’

  ‘Not a crumb,’ Pedrin answered forlornly. ‘We ate it all for dinner last night. Nah, I’m afraid ’tis air pudding for brekkie. Unless Briony knows of an inn just ahead that serves fried eggs and ham.’

  His rather lame attempt at a joke fell flat as a pancake. Lisandre and Durrik glanced at Briony, sitting silently, her ragdoll cuddled close to her thin chest, and then they glanced away, embarrassed. Briony said nothing.

  ‘Well,’ said Pedrin, looking rather forlornly at the bowl that Briony had put out for the wildkin the night before and which had been licked well and truly clean, ‘I s’pose we might as well get on our way. We’re a-going to have to get ahead of those soldiers, if we can.’

  ‘They will not be able to move very quickly if they need to carry Lord Zavion in a litter,’ Lisandre said. ‘Surely we can gain some ground if we hurry?’

  The starkin princess had, in the last few days, grown quite fluent in Adalheid, for the other children tended to talk amongst themselves in their own language, which Lisandre had found very irritating. After much patient translation by Durrik, Lisandre had gradually picked up the most commonly used words, using Ziverian for any word or expression she did not know. Similarly, the other three peppered their speech with Ziverian words to help deepen her understanding, so that conversation between them now ran smoothly and comfortably.

  Now the starkin princess was reluctantly easing her swollen feet back into Durrik’s shoes, wincing at the pain of her blisters and uttering, quite unconsciously, one of the favourite curses of the hearthkin: ‘Tessula’s tears, that hurts!’

  ‘Are you sure you’ll a-manage with your feet so sore?’ Briony asked.

  ‘I am sure I shall manage perfectly well, thank you,’ Lisandre said stiffly, unable to meet her eyes. ‘Do not concern yourself with me.’

  All day they felt awkward with Briony, unable to forget how she had cuddled the huge black spider to her cheek. Even Pedrin, who prided himself on his stoicism, could not have borne the spider’s touch with fortitude. None of them had ever known a girl that was not repulsed by spiders, at the very least.

  Even more difficult to deal with was Briony’s admission that she knew things that others did not. The other children could not help wondering uneasily if she was reading their thoughts. Such insight smacked too much of the Craft for anyone to be at all easy in their minds, particularly Lisandre, who had been taught to fear and revile the Crafty. Even Pedrin, whose mother regularly sought the advice of the hedge-witch Naoma, felt uneasy and even a little frightened. Briony had seemed such an ordinary sort of a girl but every day spent in her company revealed new and mysterious depths. Pedrin even began to doubt her motives, wondering why she was leading them ever deeper into the Perilous Forest. He had to remind himself quite sharply that she had put herself in grave danger to help rescue them from the wood-sprites, yet once again he wondered why she had done so, and to fear she had some other, hidden purpose.

  It was a long, wearisome day. They walked for hours, following the river towards its source, each one of them tired and scared and troubled. All knew the starkin soldiers were there in the forest somewhere, searching for them, led by the sinister Lord Zavion. All knew the forest was filled with many perils, most of them unknown. All felt the strain of the past few weeks. Added to that was the discomfort of hunger, for they had not dared take the time for fishing. All they had to sustain them was the thin sweet milk that Snowflake never failed to provide, and a handful of mulberries Briony plucked from a tree.

  At last they had to stop to rest, unable to walk another step on swollen, throbbing feet and aching legs. They chose a quiet pool, with a clear view down the river so that they would have early warning of anyone following them. The evening sun slanted down through the brown water, highlighting the softly waving weeds and lazy fish drifting along the bottom. Although Pedrin dangled a line in the water, none of the fish bothered to bite and so he lay back in the grass, the fishing line wrapped around his splayed toes, letting his weary body relax.

  Thundercloud roamed all about the clearing, leaping onto the high roots of the trees, trying to reach the unripe nuts high in the branches. Snowflake lay beside Pedrin, her head resting on her dainty black hooves. Briony sat apart, her mouth drooping wistfully, playing cat’s cradle with a loop of string. The sight made Pedrin rather sad. She seemed so very alone.

  Along the banks were bushes whose long branches trailed in the water, coloured as vividly as the sunset sky. ‘Look at those gorgeous flowers,’ Lisandre exclaimed, dabbling her hot, tired feet in the water. ‘What a remarkable colour.’

  Briony smiled briefly, lowering the intricate net of string woven about her fingers. ‘I wouldn’t try and pick a bunch.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They’re not flowers,’ Briony answered. ‘Look.’ She pulled one hand free, reaching down and dragging one of the flowering branches towards her. With a little start of surprise, the others realised that what they had thought were blossoms were indeed tiny orange frogs, clinging to the twig with enormous green toes.

  ‘Urgh!’ Lisandre said, shrinking away.

  ‘You thought they were pretty when you thought they were flowers,’ Briony said sadly, and let the branch dangle in the water once again.

  ‘Well, so much for the perils of the Perilous Forest,’ Pedrin said, idly kicking his foot so his lure would bob up and down in the water. ‘From the stories I’d heard I thought we’d be a-fighting gibgoblins and hobhenkies every step of the way.’

  Like Durrik, he was trying to find a way to bridge the unease that had grown between them, but it was an attempt doomed to failure. Briony gave him an unusually direct look from eyes as clear and brown as the river. ‘We’re only a few days into the forest,’ she said. ‘The wildkin hate and fear those of your kind. They don’t live near the edge of the woodland but deep within the shelter of the trees. We shall be a-seeing more of the wildkin now we’re a-venturing into the heart of the forest.’

  Pedrin frowned and chewed on a blade of grass. Something odd about Briony’s statement was niggling at him but he could not put his finger on it. He glanced at her and she blushed and dropped her eyes to the geometric pattern of string laid out on her lap. He found himself wondering what colour her eyes really were.

  Just then they heard a distant tinkle of music. Lisandre stiffened all over, her face draining of colour. ‘Ziggy’s night-light!’ she cried, jumping to her feet. ‘But who . . . ?’ Before the others could stop her, she ran down the path, her red skirt all bunched up in her hands. The others scrambled up, exchanging quick glances of dismay and anxiety.

  ‘Go with her, Thundercloud!’ Pedrin cried, struggling to untangle his fishing line from his toes.

  The shaggy black billy-goat bounded after her, his horns low. Pedrin raced behind, fumbling for his slingshot. Cabbage-head! he thought to himself. To go a-running off like that, just when we were a-talking about the dangers of the forest!

  Pedrin caught up with Lisandre just as she came panting into a small gully by a deep, shadowy pool of water. The air struck at them with a chill, causing their skin to shrink with gooseflesh. The gully was rimmed around by high cliffs, their mossy roots sunk in the green-dark water. The banks were overgrown with curling fronds of fern and bracken, while tall stately trees soared high into the sky, their branches intermingling so all was quiet and dim in the small clearing below. The only sound was the roaring of the waterfall where the river tumbled down the cliff in foaming white cataracts.

  Where the waterfall hit the pool, the water churned and boiled but elsewhere the water’s surface was d
ark and tranquil. No birds or frogs sang, no insect chirruped, no fish broke the mirror-still gleam. There was a great patch of burnt ground where a bonfire had once been lit, but otherwise there was no sign of life.

  Then they saw him. An old man, sitting on a log, his bare legs dangling in the water. He was an odd-looking creature. He wore a long coat, woven from leafy willow twigs, over mud-coloured trousers rolled to the knee. On his head was a cap woven from rushes. His face was very long and thin and mournful, with a big, high-boned nose that jutted out from beneath the brim of the cap. Long straggles of gingery-white hair hung halfway down his back, all snarled with old leaves and burrs. His straggly white beard was so long the end dangled down into the water, while his mouth was completely hidden beneath a shaggy moustache.

  Involuntarily Lisandre and Pedrin drew together, the goat-boy sinking his fingers into Thundercloud’s shaggy black coat. Behind him he heard Durrik’s halting step, Briony’s light tread and the patter of Snowflake’s hooves. He glanced back at them with a frown and a jerk of his head. There was something about this cold shadowy gully that made him feel uneasy, and he could see by their faces that the others felt it too. They all came together into a little bunch, the goats standing protectively in front.

  The old man did not seem to have noticed them. He was looking down at something he held in his hands, something which glittered even in that uncertain light. Then the exquisite strain of music filled the air again.

  Lisandre sprung towards him, all her wariness forgotten. ‘That’s Ziggy’s!’ she cried, half-sobbing. ‘What do you do with it? How dare you?’

  He looked up at them, his eyes very dark and bright on either side of the preposterous nose, and swiftly tucked one hand beneath the skirt of his coat of willow twigs. He spread the other out in a deprecating gesture. ‘I’m just a-sitting enjoying the evening, little miss. What’s in that to get you into such a botheration?’

  ‘You have Ziggy’s night-light! I heard its music and I saw it in your hand. Give it back! It’s not yours.’

  ‘Now, now, not so hasty, little miss. Whatever you a-talking about? Do you mean the moon? That’s the only light I ever have at night, unless I catch a glow-worm. And I certainly don’t have the moon in me hand, nor a glowworm neither.’

  ‘I’m not talking about a glow-worm,’ Lisandre cried. ‘I’m talking about my brother’s christening egg. Do you not realise it was a gift from the king himself? How dare you lay your filthy thieving hands upon it!’

  ‘Now, that’s not polite,’ he said with great dignity. ‘I’ll have you know me hands are very clean.’ He spread both of them out for her to see. They were very long and bony, and covered in gingery-white hair. ‘And to call someone a thief when you hardly know him is not at all nice, particularly when you’re just a little girl and I am really quite elderly. I must say I wonder about the youth of today. They have no respect, no respect at all.’

  Lisandre blushed. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I did not mean to be discourteous,’ she said haltingly, the first time any of the other children had heard her apologise. Durrik and Pedrin exchanged little grins as Lisandre hurried into speech again. ‘But you do have my brother’s christening egg, I saw it in your hands and I heard it playing. Where did you get it? Give it back to me!’

  ‘I thought ‘twas a night-light you were a-talking about. Now ’tis an egg? I do wish you’d make up your mind. You young things are so muddled. Clear thinking, that’s what you need, clear thinking and clear speaking.’

  Lisandre stamped her foot. ‘You had it, I saw it! Give it back now!’

  ‘Now, now, little miss, manners!’ he said reprovingly, so that Pedrin’s grin grew wider.

  Lisandre gave a little shriek of frustration and swooped upon him, searching him hastily. He held up both hands in protest. ‘So hasty! So rash!’

  But Lisandre had given a little crow of triumph, finding a bulge within his twiggy coat. She tried to drag it free but could find no way to open the pocket. Frantically she tugged at it, and would have torn the twigs asunder if she could. He sighed and shook his head. ‘Is that any way to behave, young missy? Me father would have taken a willow-switch to me if I’d acted like that when I was your age. Stand back, I say, and bide your time.’

  Chastened, Lisandre fell back, though her face was hot and angry, her jaw thrust forward.

  ‘Now, now,’ he said, sliding his fingers within his coat and pulling out a jewelled orb that flashed in the last rays of the sun. ‘I s’pose this is what you were after?’ Lisandre gave a little sob. ‘Yes! That’s my brother’s night-light.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know why you didn’t say so from the very beginning,’ the old man said, waggling his beard from side to side. ‘All this talk of glow-worms and eggs, you had me fair befuddled.’

  Lisandre’s chest rose and fell rapidly. ‘What are you doing with my brother’s night-light?’ she demanded, her voice trembling. ‘Where did you get it?’

  She reached out both hands and tried to seize it, but he held it fast, saying reprovingly, ‘No snatching now, little missy. I must say, I wonder at your parents, they don’t seem to have taught you no manners at all.’

  She let it go, biting her lip and bunching her skirt up tightly with both hands.

  The old man’s moustache twitched as if, underneath all that hair, he was smiling. He looked down at the glittering thing in his hands, and the moustache dropped mournfully once more, the shaggy brows drawing over the eyes, hiding them. Of midnight-blue enamel, the orb was crisscrossed with delicate bands of gold. At the point where each band crossed was a golden star set with a glittering jewel, while two narrow strips of diamonds circled the orb. Another big diamond was set at its apex, flashing with rainbow fire.

  ‘I knew ‘twas trouble the moment I first seen it,’ he said ruefully. ‘I felt it in me bones. I should’ve left it where I found it—’

  ‘Where? Where did you find it?’

  He gave Lisandre a reproving glance. ‘—But it a-glittered like the moon on water and when I picked it up, it opened up its secret heart to me. It seemed then it was meant for me, and so I thought, well, if you don’t take it, Sedgely, the moon-cursers will. They took everything else.’

  He touched it with a long bony finger and the egg split into two, the top half rising up smoothly to reveal a little carousel of golden horses. Delicately wrought, each horse had a different coloured saddle and bridle, one set with rubies, another with emeralds, yet another with sapphires and the fourth set with yellow diamonds. As the music played, the horses rose up and down as they circled round and round. At last the music came to an end, and the two halves of the egg folded together again, hiding the carousel from view.

  ‘Oh, ’tis lovely,’ Briony said with a sigh. She had drawn close to the old man and now gave him one of her rare, shy smiles.

  ‘What do you mean, the moon-cursers? Who or what are they?’ Lisandre demanded impatiently. ‘What do they have to do with my brother?’

  Sedgely shot Lisandre a glance from under his bushy white brows and did not answer.

  ‘He means the outlaws,’ Briony said quietly.

  ‘Yeah. Outlaws. Big rough noisy men with sharp swords and quick tempers. You should keep out of their way, little missy. They’d cut off your pretty fingers for all those fine rings you’re flashing about.’

  Lisandre looked down at her hands in dismay. She wore several rings set with amethysts, sapphires and diamonds. Selfconsciously she hid her hands under the folds of her skirt.

  ‘Why do you call them moon-cursers?’ Pedrin asked.

  ‘Because they curse the moon, of course,’ the strange old man said. ‘They like the night to be dark so no-one can see them as they lurk about. Though whether the moon shines or not, I still see them as they bring their boats up and down the river.’ He gave a dry chuckle. ‘I see them but they don’t see me.’

  ‘Forget the outlaws, what about Ziggy’s egg? Where did you find it? Take me there!’ Lisandre was dancing about in her impatien
ce.

  ‘I wouldn’t be forgetting about the moon-cursers if I were you, little missy,’ Sedgely said. ‘You don’t want to fall into their clutches. They’ve a grudge against the starkin, the moon-cursers do, and I don’t doubt they’d be pleased to lay their hands upon the dead count’s pretty daughter.’

  Lisandre lost all her angry colour. ‘How do you know who I am?’ she demanded. ‘Who are you anyway?’

  The old man stood up, swept off his cap of rushes and made an elaborate bow. ‘I’m Sedgely, little missy. And you told me yourself who you were, for you said the boy who played with that starry egg was your brother and I’d seen for meself that he was the old count’s son. Though I would’ve guessed for meself, I think, for you have a great look of the boy about you.’

  ‘You saw my father and my brother? You stole the egg from Ziggy? What did you do to them? If it was you . .. if you were the one who hurt them, I’ll . . . I’ll . . .’ Lisandre was incoherent with rage and grief.

  Sedgely’s shaggy brows drew together. ‘So now you accuse me of murder as well as thievery, little missy. What can have given you such an idea about me?’

  ‘You have Ziggy’s night-light,’ she stammered.

  ‘And that makes me a murderer?’

  Lisandre scrubbed at her eyes angrily. ‘You have his night-light. Do you not understand that it was a christening gift from the king himself, a mark of great favour and esteem? Ziggy would not lose it or give it away, particularly not to a ragged old man like yourself. What else am I meant to think?’

  ‘You could mebbe ask me, politely, how I came to have your brother’s starry egg?’

  Once again Lisandre was confounded. Her face burnt with embarrassment. For a moment she had nothing to say, and then she asked stiffly, ‘Well then, how do you happen to have it?’

  ‘Well, I’ve heard questions more prettily phrased in me time but I s’pose it shall have to do, the youth of today being what they are,’ Sedgely replied, tugging at his beard. ‘Well then, I guess you’ll want the full tale, and me, I like t’take me time in the telling of tales. I don’t s’pose you young ones are hungry, are you? For I’ve found a-eating and a-listening go rather well together, don’t you agree? And certainly ’tis easier to keep things straight when the sides of your stomach aren’t a-flapping.’