‘What about your friend?’
‘He’s different,’ said Ma’m Alice.
‘You mean he’s not a person?’
Ma’m Alice wiped her plate clean with her fingers, then hesitated. ‘Am I a person?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ said Ethel.
‘Even though I’m a giant?’
‘Yes. You are a giant and a person.’
‘Well,’ said Ma’m Alice. ‘My friend is a person and he is not a person too.’
‘Tell me more!’ insisted Ethel.
Ma’m Alice shook her head. ‘You would have to meet him to understand,’ she said.
‘Then let me meet him!’
‘You’d be scared.’
‘I’m not scared of anything.’
‘Not of the T’manians?’
Ethel thrust out her chin. ‘Certainly not of the T’manians,’ she declared. ‘The first thing I did when I became Lady was to prepare the Hall in case of an invasion.’
‘How did you do that?’ inquired Ma’m Alice.
‘I hired Grand Marshal Kevin and his guard. He’s in charge of the new defences. A new wall and … and … all sorts of strategies. He’s fought the T’manians many, many times. He told us so. He was even the Marsh King’s Grand Marshal for a while.’
‘What’s he doing this far north then?’ inquired Ma’m Alice. ‘There’s never been a T’manian invasion near here.’
‘He said he needed a new challenge,’ Ethel said vaguely. ‘Like our Hall. Our Hall was never built to be defended.’
‘There’s never been anything to defend it against,’ said Ma’m Alice.
Ethel shrugged. ‘The City Lord was telling me last trading day that the T’manians are moving northwards, and that they no longer just raid and kill and leave. There are rumours that their islands are overcrowded, that they want new lands now, and slaves to work them. So they are sailing their boats to lands that aren’t prepared for them, so they can take them for themselves. But if the T’manians come here we’ll fight them, and we’ll win.’
‘Will you now?’ said Ma’m Alice softly. She paused. ‘Well, what of the night then? Are you afraid of the night? My friend only comes here in the night.’
‘The night.’ Ethel hesitated. Night was shadow time, whisper time …’ Why at night?’
‘So no one sees him.’
‘I’m not scared of the night either,’ said Ethel firmly.
‘Tonight then,’ said the giant calmly. Too calmly, thought Ethel, suddenly aware she might have been manipulated. Had Ma’m Alice planned for her to meet this friend all along? Would they …
‘Don’t worry,’ said Ma’m Alice. She grinned again, showing her too long teeth, a piece of meat caught between them. ‘He won’t hurt you, I give you my word. He’ll be glad I have another friend. Perhaps you will be his friend, too.’
Ethel nodded.
The Hall smelt staler than usual, even though the windows were wide open, and the shutters, too, and there was fresh-smelling mint bush in the holders along the walls. Ma’m Margot looked after the Hall well, thought Ethel.
It was an old Hall, almost as old as the olden days, built like most Halls of the rubble from an olden days building, so it resisted all weathers, not slowly crumbling like the mud and wattle cottages. The walls were thick and the top windows even still had glass — not olden days glass, it was true, but the thick bluish glass from the next-to-olden days, when such crafts as glassmaking were still practised.
The main room was the Hall, from which the building took its name, a long room that took almost two minutes to walk, it was so long. According to legend it had been the trading Hall, the meeting Hall in the next-to-olden days, and the other rooms had grown around it to accommodate the Lady.
Behind the Hall itself were the storerooms, full of tallies from farm and village. No cottage stores were as secure from rats or weather as the Hall’s. Produce was stored at the Hall and strictly tallied, so each knew what they had brought and could take back again. And by tradition the Lady and her household took what they needed.
The Hall looked after the granary as well, the mill where oats and wattleseed and bunya nuts were dried into flours. According to tradition the Lady controlled all that she could see but, by tradition too, she did very little ruling. She was here to make decisions if decisions were needed — but they rarely were.
Ethel looked out over the courtyard, at the rust-coloured chickens clucking through the unicorn droppings, at the sparrows eyeing them thoughtfully from the eaves, as though they would like to join in but didn’t dare, at the unicorn itself, only his nose visible through his stable, and the flash of his silver horn.
‘My Lady.’
Ethel turned. It was Ma’m Margot.
Ma’m Margot was no taller than Ethel and not much wider. Her hair was hidden under a shallow headdress in plain colours, blue sometimes or red. She wore the traditional narrow skirts of the Hall, unlike the wide dress of the cottager who needed to be able to move freely round their fields or gather oranges perhaps in the generous fabric of their skirts. Ethel was thankful that as the Lady her skirts were wide as well — the Lady’s skirts had to be wide or else she wouldn’t have been able to ride the unicorn.
‘The pumpkin harvest tallies are ready for you to inspect, my Lady,’ said Ma’m Margot, her face expressionless as always below her headdress. She coughed gently. ‘They were ready this morning, but you weren’t to be found.’
‘No,’ said Ethel. ‘I was out.’
‘So it would appear,’ said Ma’m Margot, her voice as blank as her face. ‘Of course the Lady of the Unicorn may come and go as she pleases.’ She paused slightly for emphasis. ‘But the farmers always bring their pumpkin harvest tallies to the Lady on this day. They expected to see you.’
‘Well, I didn’t know,’ said Ethel impatiently. ‘No one told me I was expected to be here today.’
‘No one expected you to leave the Hall without announcing it, my Lady,’ said Ma’m Margot, fitting her fingers together calmly. They were wide, practical fingers, calloused slightly, but without the ingrained dirt and scars of outdoor workers.
Ethel shrugged. ‘I’ll count the tallies now,’ she said. ‘I’m sure they’re correct anyway.’
‘As you will, my Lady,’ said Ma’m Margot. ‘Then tonight there’ll be the formal acceptance of the pumpkins. The farmers will arrive at dusk and then you’ll …’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Ethel. ‘Whatever you like. No,’ she said suddenly. ‘I can’t tonight.’
‘You can’t, my Lady?’
‘I … I have to go out.’
‘But … Ma’m Margot closed her lips. It is not my business to question the Lady, her face seemed to say. Even if the Lady is unreasonable.
‘Look,’ sighed Ethel. ‘I’m sorry. I mean it. If I’d known today was special … Can the farmers come tomorrow night? The pumpkins will still be all right tomorrow. I’ll be here then, I promise.’
‘There’s no reason why they can’t come tomorrow,’ admitted Ma’m Margot finally. ‘It isn’t how it was done before. But I can send a message to them all.’
‘Thank you,’ said Ethel.
‘As my Lady pleases,’ said Ma’m Margot.
Dinner was formal. Dinner was always formal, thought Ethel from her position at the head table in the Hall, Ma’m Margot on one side and Grand Marshal Kevin on the other.
There was always a cloth on the head table and flowers, a fancy of Ma’m Margot’s, even though you couldn’t eat them. The chairs were always in the same positions, everyone sat in the same places and the meal never started until the Lady took her first mouthful. Ethel had never dared be late in case everyone else went hungry.
The fire licked and puffed and snickered behind the main table, filling the Hall with extra heat, even though it was already hot with the warmth of so many bodies.
Of course it made sense to have a formal meal with so many to be fed. It just looked so … so complicated, tho
ught Ethel wearily. The guards, the millers, the tanner, the chookman, the servants down the far end of the Hall, the platters in place along the tables, roast geep and mounds of small white geep cheese wrapped in herbs, yesterday’s leftovers turned into pies, dishes of potatoes, their skins just lifting, spread with butter and still steaming, pumpkins baked whole and filled with long-cooked wattleseed and fruit, apple fritters that would be cold before anyone got to eat them, lillypillies baked in honey and bunya bread and wilted turnip tops with bacon and …
Meal times had seemed so luxurious to the village girl, used to the grudging soup at Uncle Maddox’s. But to the Lady of the Unicorn it was yet another day’s chore to get through, a time when she must be public and watched by all.
‘A fine meal,’ said Grand Marshal Kevin, his face as smooth as an egg and slightly greasy round the chin. ‘But then every meal is fine in your Hall, my Lady. The hospitality of your Hall compares even to the great Halls and I’ve seen many of them in my day. Why, I remember when I was Grand Marshal to the Marsh King, his Hall once served …’
‘Excuse me,’ said Ma’m Margot. ‘My Lady, will you have some cheese?’
‘Thank you,’ said Ethel. ‘What were you saying Grand Marshal?’
Grand Marshal Kevin was tall, though not quite as tall as all heroes ought to be, and dark haired. His hands were smooth as his sword, a genuine olden days one he claimed, though Ma’m Margot sniffed when he was out of hearing and muttered that there were precious few references to swords in any of the olden books.
‘I was speaking of the Marsh King,’ continued the Grand Marshal affably. ‘It was the victory feast after we’d routed the T’manians that third time. Three hundred of them attacked that time …’
‘Are you sure, Grand Marshal?’ asked Ma’m Margot politely. ‘You would need many boats to carry three hundred. Of course I’ve never seen a T’manian boat, but I have heard they only carry a crew of ten or even less. Now that would mean that to carry three hundred there would have to be …’
Ma’m Margot didn’t like Grand Marshal Kevin. Ma’m Margot didn’t like anyone new, thought Ethel resentfully. Including her.
‘What do the T’manian boats look like, Grand Marshal?’ put in Ethel hurriedly, though in fact she was glad she’d been too young to remember anything about the T’manian attack that had killed her parents. ‘Are they really made of metal? Surely they’d sink?’
For once the Grand Marshal looked serious. ‘Yes, my Lady. They’re made of metal. Some people believe that the T’manians have great stores of metal, olden days cities perhaps that weren’t covered by the floods. But I don’t believe that is the case. Metal is the first thing they steal on their raids; metal and slaves and just enough food to see them home to their islands.
‘But this is a poor subject for a lady’s table, my Lady! And there’s no need for you to worry about the T’manians now. Not when you’ll soon have fine walls …’
‘When will the walls be started?’ put in Ma’m Margot.
‘Soon, soon,’ said the Grand Marshal good-temperedly. You can’t hurry these things. As soon as we have the stone …’
Ethel swallowed another mouthful of cheese. What was Ma’m Alice eating, she wondered, high up on her hill? Perhaps she should bring her some chicken tonight. Did Ma’m Alice ever catch chicken in her traps? The roast at the end of the high table was still untouched. Suddenly she realised the Grand Marshal was still speaking. ‘I’m sorry Grand Marshal Kevin,’ she said. ‘What was that again?’
‘I was saying, my Lady,’ said the Grand Marshal jovially, ‘that when I was in the service of Lord Jason …’
‘I thought you were in the service of the King,’ said Ma’m Margot.
‘I served the Lord Jason before I was in the service of the King.’ Grand Marshal Kevin was unfazed. ‘Lord Jason was Overlord of the estuary up beyond the great salt marshes. But as I was saying …’
What would it be like to live by yourself like Ma’m Alice? wondered Ethel. To snare your own food and grow your own crops, to watch the sunset spread across the world all by yourself. Lonely, perhaps; but you could be lonely in a crowded Hall as well …
‘My Lady? My Lady?’
Ethel blinked, brought back abruptly to the present. ‘I’m sorry?’ she asked. ‘I didn’t catch what you said.’
‘It doesn’t matter, my Lady,’ said Ma’m Margot.
Ethel glanced at the water clock in the courtyard. You could just see its steady drip, drip, drip through the open doors. ‘Grand Marshal Kevin, Ma’m Margot, if you will excuse me. I have an appointment.’
‘An appointment?’ Grand Marshal Kevin raised his eyebrows. ‘Ah, a young man. What other appointment could a lady as beautiful as yourself …’
‘The Lady is too young for young men,’ said Ma’m Margot shortly.
‘When a lady is as charming as our Lady,’ began Grand Marshal Kevin. He took another mouthful of stuffed tomato. ‘I remember when …’
Ethel slipped from the table.
The unicorn sniffed his way between the rubble, his hooves sounding hollow on the soft grass. He seemed to see better in the darkness than a horse would, thought Ethel. Which was strange, as you’d think that a creature so bright and white would only love the day.
The moon sailed like a cheese rind above the hill, thickening the shadows between the rocks. The smell wasn’t as bad as it had been during the day, Ethel decided.
She shuddered as the unicorn stepped over a giant skull, milk white in the moonlight, then sat herself firmly upright. It was just a bullock’s skull. She ate beef on festival days. Why should she be scared of its skull? Why should darkness make everything so strange?
How could anyone live mostly in darkness, like Ma’m Alice’s friend? she wondered. How would it change you to know only shadows and never the clear light of day?
The rubble grew thicker. Ethel dismounted and led the unicorn up the final path. She halted at the edge of the clearing and looked for a stout beam or post to tie him to. Yes, there was a bean pole. She looped the reins over the top and knotted them firmly.
Suddenly the unicorn reared, his pale hooves flashing in the night. The bean pole cracked, torn from the garden, and swung in a wild arc against his back.
‘What’s wrong?’ cried Ethel.
The unicorn reared again, snorting his fright.
‘What is it? Quiet boy … quiet …’
‘You’d better take him down the hill again.’ It was Ma’m Alice’s voice. Ethel turned. The giant seemed even taller in the moonlight, her bulk blocking out a good portion of the stars.
‘But what’s wrong with him?’
‘He smells someone strange,’ said Ma’m Alice. ‘It upsets him. You’d better tether him further down. There’s a post over that way. There’s a snare on it, but it’s not set. You’ll see it in a minute.’
‘But …’ Ethel had been going to say that Ma’m Alice was strange and the unicorn hadn’t been afraid of her. But she didn’t. She patted the unicorn’s neck instead to soothe him and led him across the hill and down.
The unicorn was breathing heavily but not from exertion. His sides were sweaty.
‘I should rub you down,’ said Ethel. ‘But there’s no breeze here. You won’t get chilled will you?’
The unicorn snorted, but not as loudly this time. His eyes flashed white, and then he sighed and bent down to the grass and began to eat.
Ethel turned up towards the clearing again.
Ma’m Alice was waiting for her. ‘Scared?’ she asked abruptly.
Ethel shook her head.
‘Maybe you should be,’ suggested Ma’m Alice. ‘Your horse is scared.’
‘He’s a unicorn,’ stated Ethel.
‘Ah yes, of course he is, how could I have missed it?’ said Ma’m Alice.
‘He really is,’ said Ethel. ‘It’s not just the horn. If you put him with other horses they attack him. They know he’s different.’
Ma’m Alice nodded agai
n, her face serious now. ‘They always attack what’s different,’ she said. ‘Humans or horses …’ She paused in front of the door. ‘Child,’ she said hesitantly.
‘I’m not a child,’ said Ethel. ‘I’m the Lady of the Unicorn. Whatever is in there won’t hurt me.’
‘Won’t hurt you perhaps,’ said Ma’m Alice softly. ‘But you might hurt him.’
‘Me? How?’
‘By showing revulsion. By turning away.’ Ma’m Alice hesitated again. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked you here tonight,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why I did — loneliness perhaps. He’s a good friend, the one who’s here tonight, but not someone to talk to as you talked to me.’
‘I won’t hurt him,’ said Ethel softly. ‘I promise Ma’m Alice.’
Ma’m Alice looked at her closely. ‘I believe you,’ she said finally. ‘Very well, child. Come in.’
The inside of the hut was dim, lit by a single taper on the table. The fire licked red tongues up the rough chimney, the stones behind it black. Ma’m Alice took the taper and lit a slush lamp and then another. The room flickered in the growing light.
Ethel looked round. ‘But where …’ she began. And then she stopped.
A creature sat by the hearth, its back to the flames. It was small, which was why she hadn’t seen it at first. It had four legs, furry legs like a dog, or cat perhaps, thought Ethel. Its face was furry too, and its ears and snout were long and covered in hair as well. Its teeth were very white and protruded a little at the edges of its mouth, like a wolf. But this was human.
How she knew she couldn’t tell. It was like no human she had ever seen. But somehow Ethel knew that despite the fur and teeth and hairy ears, this was no animal.
The creature saw her. It started in sudden alarm, as though its sight and hearing were too poor to have seen or heard her when she first came in. He backed away towards the fire. The heat stopped him. He crouched trembling in the firelight.
‘Sit down,’ said Ma’m Alice to Ethel gently. ‘Try not to startle him.’
Ethel sat. The weathered concrete chair was too tall for her to reach comfortably, but she clambered up anyway and sat on its edge, her legs dangling and her back very straight.
The Book of Horses and Unicorns Page 21
