Winter

by William Horwood

  ‘In the rear, you say?’ said Stort, resuming his interest in the panel of instruments before him.

  ‘Must be one of those humans chasing us, who was able to climb aboard in some way as we escaped.’

  ‘Is the rear in darkness?’ said Stort.

  Blut confirmed it was.

  ‘And now?’ asked Stort, pressing a button.

  ‘A light has come on and . . .’

  Blut peered through the window cautiously, briefly examining the rear before abruptly pulling the curtain to.

  ‘. . . and it’s a man. The two rear doors of the box are open, swinging about in the wind. That’s what has been making that banging sound.’

  ‘Is the light off again?’

  Blut confirmed that it was.

  ‘Ah!’ cried Stort, turning on other switches and turning various knobs. A sudden cacophony of music came and went; the Satnav sprang briefly back to life; the seat they were on tilted slowly forward.

  ‘Ah, ah!’ cried Stort once more.

  Above their heads, turned towards the driver’s seat, a small television monitor came on. It glared white-grey for a moment before changing into a dark grey-green image in which a ghost-like figure of a man stood.

  Katherine immediately understood what they were looking at.

  ‘It’s so the driver can monitor the horses in the box. It’s also night-vision so they don’t get startled by sudden lights. That’s our passenger!’

  There were two stalls near the cab, the window being centred on one of them. The man was now further off, standing up with some difficulty by holding on to the partition that divided the stalls. The area beyond, by the open doors, was unencumbered but for a ramp that made the floor slope towards the rear.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ asked Katherine.

  ‘Trying to reach out to one of the doors, maybe to close it,’ said Barklice.

  ‘Is he really!’ said Katherine purposefully. ‘We’ll see about that!’

  ‘He can’t quite reach it,’ Barklice said, starting a running commentary. ‘He’s pulled back, repositioned his right hand to a strap on the side, edged a bit nearer the door and he can al . . . most . . .’

  ‘Hold tight!’ cried Katherine.

  She braked quite hard.

  ‘He’s shot forward from the door, towards the stall!’

  ‘And again . . . !’

  She accelerated hard and fast.

  ‘He’s swung back towards the doors. He’s let go the strap and he’s clinging on . . .’

  ‘Hold fast!’

  She braked very briefly and then shot the horsebox forward again.

  ‘And now he’s . . . he’s . . . oops!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s gone. He fell out of the back.’

  ‘Good result,’ said Katherine pitilessly. Her control over the vehicle and herself was getting better by the minute. ‘I’m going to get us as far towards Brum as fast as I can,’ she said, ‘but first we’d better sort those doors.’

  She waited ten minutes, when she was sure they were well clear of the intruder, assuming he had survived his fall, before pulling over. Terce and Barklice got out to close the rear doors.

  ‘Gentlemen and lady,’ called out the verderer, ‘if anyone wants to relieve themselves, this is the moment!’

  Everyone but Stort tumbled out and Katherine disappeared to the far side of the vehicle.

  ‘Not too far!’ cried Barklice, worriedly.

  The horsebox had given them a dangerous sense of comfort and invulnerability. Back outside on solid ground, standing in a cold wind with a starry sky above and shadows all about, was a salutary reminder that they were advancing through unknown territory where dangers of all kinds must lurk. They found the side door was also partly open and they closed that too, guessing the intruder had managed to clamber aboard that way.

  Stort remained in the cab, playing with the instruments. He noticed that a red light with a door icon on the dashboard had gone out.

  ‘Which was telling us that the doors were open,’ he pronounced.

  He turned on the Satnav once more, worked out how to lower its volume, and he engaged in a conversation with the female voice, admonishing her for giving warnings that were not needed and directions that were not relevant.

  ‘She reminds me somewhat of Goodwife Cluckett, my housekeeper,’ he observed, ‘though her voice is rather less pleasant at times than this charming female’s, now I am attuned to it.’

  Barklice and Blut took a careful look round from the carriageway, which was raised over the fields below. There were almost no lights, near or far. There was a dim glow on the road far behind, which they guessed might be the vehicle they forced off the road. Ahead, across the night horizon, was a wider glimmer of light beneath a dark shadow that looked like an advancing bank of cloud.

  It was time to move on.

  ‘But before we do,’ said Barklice, ‘we should accept that it is unlikely our good fortune will continue. If there was one vehicle coming our way, there may be another. We too might be forced off the road or stopped. We should therefore have an exit strategy so that we are not taken by surprise.’

  It was agreed they would vacate the vehicle in an orderly way with Arnold watching over them as they went. Barklice would lead them to safety.

  ‘Better than wandering round looking for each other in unknown and probably dangerous terrain,’ he said.

  The ’sacs were placed ready for such an emergency exit and their various staves and other items stacked in an orderly way.

  ‘There is one other matter,’ said Barklice gravely, ‘and it is one I would ask Emperor Blut to arbitrate on.’

  He touched Terce’s arm to get his attention and nodded, saying, ‘He’s going to show you something we found in the rear.’

  The chorister went to the nearside wheel and removed something dark and metallic from its shadow. It was a weapon, a machine pistol, the first such firearm most of them had ever seen.

  ‘Does it work?’ someone asked.

  ‘We don’t know,’ said Barklice, ‘but this is not the time to find out.’

  Blut stared at it uneasily. They had been fired on earlier and it might well happen again. But the debate about the use of human weapons such as this was a very familiar one in the Imperial court. Their use by hydden had never been sanctioned by Sinistral, ever. The closest thing the Fyrd had to such weapons were crossbows and they had been sufficient to win an Empire.

  ‘Put it somewhere safe,’ said Blut cautiously, ‘and we can debate the issue as we go. Times are changing, I fear, changing fast, and now humans are attacking us. Something profound is happening across the Hyddenworld . . . I should perhaps say, across the mortal world.’

  New times called for new ideas.

  ‘We’ll take it with us then,’ said Blut, and Terce, who understood, hugged the great thing to his body.

  They sombrely climbed aboard once more, the weapon placed behind Terce’s seat.

  ‘Now, let’s try and continue without interruption,’ said Katherine. ‘Everyone comfortable?’

  They were physically but not mentally so. To some the vehicle felt like a prison.

  ‘I’ll give it half an hour more,’ said Katherine, ‘and we can see where we’ve got to and decide what next. Agreed?’

  The vote was a silent one and it was unanimous.

  But the engine sounded good, the wind roar turned into just an occasional whine and they settled down to the prospect of a steady run along the still-empty road.

  Their silence deepened, with fatigue and concern.

  Only Stort appeared unaffected by either, showing increasing excitement as he played with the Satnav.

  ‘Would someone be kind enough to ask me how far we are from the centre of Old Brum, or Birmingham, as humans call it?’

  Katherine obliged.

  ‘Would you like the answer in kilometres or miles?’

  ‘Kilometres.’

  ‘One hundred and sixty three,’
he replied at once. ‘And our ETA?’

  ‘Okay, Stort,’ she said heavily, guessing he had worked out how to use the Satnav, ‘what’s our estimated time of arrival then?’

  ‘At our present speed and assuming for the moment that we were able to continue the whole way without let or hindrance, then I can safely say that we would arrive home in Brum at exactly . . .’

  There was a loud bang, then another and their vehicle slewed left and came to an abrupt halt.

  ‘Out! Now!’ commanded Barklice. ‘You all know what to do.’

  A broken arc of beautiful orange light, accompanied by the crackle of a gun, swung inexorably towards them from fields on their right-hand side. They were being fired on.

  They got out and away fast, their feet slipping on fuel spilling across the road from beneath the horsebox. Terce helped lift out Sinistral, followed by Blut, and the others hurried after Barklice into the shadows.

  Moments later, tracer fire hit the cab in a shower of sparks and exploding metal. They dived down the embankment on the far side as ominous new flames licked the horsebox’s bonnet and sides.

  Terce followed almost at once, shoved by Arnold. They were brief silhouettes against the bright light of explosion and drifting orange smoke and Terce held the fearsome weapon, dark and ugly, under an arm.

  They had barely crossed the field away from the road to the safety of the hedge on the far side before the tank of the horsebox blew up and the whole thing burst into flames. A short while later several humans appeared in the orange smoky light, some looking in their direction. They stayed still and low and there was no attempt by those on the road to pursue them. One turned his weapon towards the darkness and sprayed the field with bullets, but none came near the hydden.

  ‘Time to move,’ announced Barklice, taking the lead once more. He took them unerringly to a gap in the hedge beyond which they found themselves in safe and welcome darkness.

  ‘Time to return to the Hyddenworld,’ he said with relief. ‘Stay close, Arnold to the rear, all within touching distance of the one ahead. No talking, no stopping, no dawdling. Nice and steady as we go . . .’

  ‘Aye, aye, Cap’n,’ sang out Arnold when he was in place, ‘and what be our destination?’

  ‘A place your kind of people know well, Arnold. The Bilgesnipe are well established in these parts. We are now within easy reach of the Quantock Hills.’

  ‘Never nor nary heard on ’em,’ said Arnold.

  ‘You’ll have heard of what it is they rise on the north side of.’

  ‘Which be?’

  ‘The Levels.’

  Arnold let out a gasp of surprise and pleasure.

  ‘The famed watery Levels o’ the fairy shire o’ Zummerset? You mean we be onnat way there?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Then off’n we start and away’n we go, me hearties, along the old ways, like what Mister Barklice be happiest with. The Levels be as much water as land and my ma said there’s no place in all Englalond as misty dreamy as that grand place.’

  ‘Just so,’ murmured Barklice happily, ‘exactly so!’

  15

  CASUALTY OF WAR

  Whatever or whoever it was had guided them over the Goodwins to the safer, calmer sea roads beyond, they never quite knew.

  Riff and Deap were of the opinion that they – and Jack – had seen the light of the Mirror-of-All itself and this was what saved them.

  ‘When we’m say “light” we mean reflection, for that be what all things be and nowt else,’ observed Deap.

  To which Riff added, ‘Aye, t’was in your wyrd, Jack, that we should see that light when you’m took the helm like you did, bold as brass, movin’ and heavin’ and swayin’ wi’ the craft like you were born to it, which you were. Eh, Leetha? Which he was!’

  Jack did not mention the White Horse and its Rider again, nor speak Judith’s name, but for his part, though he believed in the Mirror, he was certain she had been there all along, showing herself only when she needed to. But was she, too, a reflection?

  Slew kept his mouth shut, even when asked.

  ‘Aye, I saw this and that,’ he said, ‘but what it was I do not know.’

  As for Leetha, she stayed below deck most of the time.

  ‘I danced,’ she claimed.

  ‘How’d you do that down there?’ challenged Slew.

  ‘I danced in my mind, my love,’ she said, ‘I danced time on.’

  Slew could only shake his head.

  Arguing with Leetha was hard. Her smile melted the bleakest heart, her beauty, barely faded, softened daylight and the stars.

  ‘You danced time on?’ wondered Jack.

  She nodded.

  ‘How else do you think we found time to heal your injuries, and Slew’s leg and foot, and Deap’s shoulder and arm? That takes time and I danced it to us.’

  Jack frowned, puzzled. There was no denying these healings had been fast, impossibly so. Yet there the three of them were, healed.

  But of what, of what?

  The words were a voice in his ear, carried over the North Sea waves, ravelled into the rigging above their heads, punctuated by a tap of a comma and a rattle of a question mark, the block and the tackle on the deck.

  It was, he knew, Judith’s voice, and she was there, with them, hurt and angry and ageing and terrible in her distress, yet healing them all, saving them, journeying their thousand deaths and saving their lives each time.

  ‘We got through, my lads, but ’tis all bad what be happenin’,’ said Riff, shaking his head, ‘and I mean nobbut the truth when I say it feels like the end o’ things.’

  ‘The End of Days?’ said Jack.

  ‘You could say that, aye.’

  ‘Aye . . .’ growled Deap.

  Slew said nothing and did nothing until Jack, catching his eye, seeing that there was no sense in making a landfall without making peace first, grinned.

  Slew stared at him and, though it wasn’t very much to look at, there was a brief wrinkle around his eyes, and a nod of acknowledgement. Finally they sat bobbing about in the calm after the storm, saying very little, the two craft lashed together, sharing their food, their brew, their thoughts, their words, and they shared a time of peace.

  That time felt like everything to Jack. It was family.

  Jack slept awhile after the craft were made fast, out on deck, a plaid for his bed and another to cover him, his family murmuring shadows all about.

  ‘He makes a sound pottage, he does,’ he heard Deap say.

  ‘Shoves seaweed in,’ said Slew.

  ‘Seaweed, bindweed, any bloody weed’s better’n our Lady’s mess,’ muttered Riff, whose hand was on Leetha’s thigh, his shoulder to hers. There was a happiness in her eyes not seen in years, for she’d known a clutch of days and nights she never thought would come to pass.

  A hawser clinked against a mast, water lapped, and the surf they heard was on another, safer, bank and it slowly faded behind them as the wind, a south-westerly and warm, began to blow and take them on.

  ‘Good enough for the last leg,’ murmured Riff, stirring gently because he thought his Leetha was asleep. ‘Look about, lads, set the sail and leave Jack be. He’m earned it.’

  Then louder: ‘Look about! Wind’s up and we’m off!’

  ‘Where bound, Pa?’ cried Deap, separating the craft and crossing to his own.

  ‘Maldon,’ Riff sang back, his strong self again, ‘and may Mirror grant we see some lights or else we’re sailing to a fallen land.’

  The northern reaches of the Thames Estuary and the Essex coast lay west but they hadn’t seen a light on land since passing the North Foreland.

  A fallen land!

  It was the sailor’s dread, worse than death itself, to end a passage ’cross the seas to find all life on land had died. For what is a mariner’s journey worth, and the cargo that he carries, if he can’t be sure that when he sets sail and leaves life behind, he’ll find it again at landfall?

  ‘We’ll see li
ghts soon enough,’ growled Slew, who worried about the dark.

  The craft ran steadily along together and when Jack woke he crossed over to be with Deap again because he had taken the warp and weft of his cutter to his heart and mind.

  ‘Set oh!’ sang Riff and he and Deap let their tops’ls out with a satisfactory wump of filling air and a pleasing lean of the craft as they went along, hissing through the water for a time before the wind rose a shade more and it was the rigging and the sails they heard.

  Nor’rard they went, running clear of the Skullion Brake and hearing at last the bell buoys ringing softly, which is music to the ears of those who’ve made passage up the Channel from the south.

  ‘But still no lights anywhere,’ said Riff grimly, reading the last of the stars before they were gone and carping the wheel off a couple of points easterly, ‘not a damn one.’

  Maldon is the best known of the hydden ports along the eastern shore and the once-favoured destination of generations of sailors from the Continent, from Beornamund’s time and on. It is connected to the mainland by a tidal causeway, and shifting sand and mud had made landfall easier on the north-east side. Riff favoured that point and he knew the longshorefolk who eked out a life there, from boy to man to muddy grave, as his pa and grandpa before him knew.

  The island is little used by humans, and that on its higher north-west end. There are creeks aplenty on the eastern shore, and mergent flats and all sorts of moorings.

  Riff knew it like he knew his own hand and if he was troubled before to see no lights he was filled with dread to see none at all now in that good place. Not for fear of grounding, just the worry that his mates on Maldon had had a mischief done to them and had fled or, worse, were no more.

  They dropped anchor silently two hundred yards from shore, the swell and hustling breeze wanting to drive them in. Dawn had not broken so the light was bad. The clouds had thickened down, slight mist rolled in, the feeling was eerie.

  Riff got his lantern, lit it low, slipped in the reddening glass and green, and said, ‘It’s worth a try but Mirror knows, if there’s nowt showing onshore for a goodly tide like this, there bain’t likely to be a soul about, not even ’in.’

  He said it heavily, for the hydden he referred to he had known since a boy, and Baggy had seemed old then.