For Orelia, a brilliant bird with azure-gold feathers and leathery booted legs tugged at a seed-case high in the canopy. Beneath, a climbing rose spread from a single cane, its deep carmine blossom rich in something more than mere fragrance. Beside it a flowerless climber, bare and twisted, coiled around the trunk. A second bubble presented a winged monster, dragging itself along a stream, scarred and exhausted.
The tree shared with Valourhand the dying star, its core diminishing with every streamer like a Catherine Wheel. She instantly grasped the physics: Lost Acre was losing the sustaining force of its creator and needed a fresh dynamic to renew. A second scene followed. A press of men and women dressed in leather and fur, cheeks and bare legs striped with woad, surrounded a makeshift hoist. A robed figure in black placed in a wooden cage a large oval stone and a cup, puffing with blue steam, and then fixed four coloured stones to receptacles forged in the bars. He raised a hand and the counterweight dipped, lifting the cage to the mixing-point. Counterintuitively, there was silence, the faces gaping and visibly fearful of this undertaking. In the distance, women carried a second near-identical stone and another cup, this time red with fire.
Valourhand realised that she had just witnessed the making of the dragons. Nobody could create such perfect beasts from a living monster. The oval stones were eggs. They entered the mixing-point with the liquid ice or fire to emerge with it infused in the embryo. She shuddered to think what experiments had bestowed this expertise. Never patronise the past as ignorant.
Gregorius Jones witnessed his own transformation a millennium ago: the green bud of the Midsummer flower wound around his arm like a torc, staggering beneath the tree as the mixing-point flooded towards him.
Time is relative. Though the work of seconds only, these moments of shared experience seared their consciousness. They felt privileged. This sharing between tree and man was a plea for understanding from one to the other, not a deathbed ramble.
A crack of dried timber, sharp and violent, broke their reverie: the tree’s trunk split; branches cracked and fell. Only the patch of slippery sky remained unchanged.
Gregorius picked up the escharion, lying in the grass where Wynter had abandoned it. He stared down the slope at his friends. He loved this place no less than the Rotherweird Valley. He flicked through his own memories – parents, siblings, a favourite toy, sea journeys, Ferox, the legion, and the chance encounters which had formed his subsequent life: the hedge-priests and Rhombus Smith, Form VIB, his friends now and those he had cared for down the centuries, all in a matter of moments, if you go by watches.
Failed emperors and generals fall on their sword. He had only half-chosen that fate, or so he hoped. To die to live. As to how, he had nothing but instinct to go on, but at least they were the sharpened instinct of the Green Man. Ever since their departure from the spiderwoman’s lair, he had gripped the seed of the Midsummer flower, his bequest from Hayman Salts, protectively in his fist. Now he laid it flat in his palm, brought it to his mouth and swallowed it whole.
Nothing happened – no surprise; people ingest seeds daily. He cradled the escharion, the two pipes ending in one mouthpiece. He suspected, even hoped, to sound his own doom.
Gregorius Jones prayed to his gods and blew, long and hard.
The plangent note, neither brass nor woodwind, had carry and depth, with the best qualities of both. The moment he heard it echo on, Gregorius felt vindicated. It sounded like a hunting call but promised the opposite: a summoning of allies.
Morval apprehensively backed away from the tree into the meadow.
The ground quivered. The wrenching had begun. Roots were dying beneath their feet even as roots from elsewhere strove to hold Lost Acre in place. Gabriel, Orelia and Valourhand lost their footing as the sky overhead crackled. To the west, long plumes of blue smoke burst through the mist, sprinkling shards of ice on the ground; in the east, flame belched and sizzled.
In death is life, in death is life, Gregorius mouthed to himself as he braced his back against the ruined tree.
The fire-dragon and the ice-dragon, monsters from another time, burst through the cloud, glided over the meadow and hovered above Jones’ diminutive figure. Gregorius did not look away: a good legionary faces his end. He raised his arms as if for an embrace.
Claud’s poem tripped into Orelia’s head:
‘At the gaytes of Spring,
When trees are hoar white strewn,
Escharion must heat the seed of winter
Lest all men die in bitternesse.’
‘Jones!’ she screamed. ‘Run!’
The dragons, lungs stoked for maximum effect, exhaled, obscuring Jones in a brilliant ball of fire and ice.
Morval’s face glowed silver and scarlet. Impervious to the risk, she drew the line and memorised the colours until, their work done, the dragons veered back the way they had come.
Jones suffered more a drastic diversion of his life-force than mere pain: his physical being combusted into frozen ash as the seed absorbed him and exploded into life. New roots surged through the ground, the green fuse entering the wreck of the old tree. Slender new branches broke through the split casing of dead wood and tiny leaves appeared, drinking in the mist and clearing it in minutes.
In sudden brilliant sunshine, Lost Acre reacquired her colours.
Valourhand, Orelia and Gabriel stumbled up the slope towards the white tile, too stunned to talk, but Tyke tottered painfully towards the tree.
Valourhand let him go: Tyke exuded an autonomy which she respected. Once there, Tyke motioned to Morval to leave for the tile. Her pen ceased its dance and she obeyed. Stooping, his bloody fingers rested the tip of the staff on the trunk and the base on the ground among the roots.
Standing by the white tile, wiping the tears away, Orelia asked, ‘Could we have done anything? Somehow?’
Gabriel replied, ‘He’s alive as could be: the Green Man now and forever. The human plot is for us to sort out.’
He’s right, thought Orelia, and it’s horribly tangled.
‘Something is askew,’ she said. ‘If Persephone Brown is Nona and loyal to Wynter and Bole, why didn’t she intervene? Why didn’t she look distressed?’
Valourhand, not by nature sensitive to the presence or absence of distress (including, in fairness, in herself), instantly analysed. After a moment, she said, ‘The plot was for Bole to appear to sacrifice himself for Wynter, only to retrieve his control, his body and his mind by arranging the use of the green staff against Wynter. He and Nona had worked out the staff’s ability to unpick the work of the mixing-point – and she must have guessed Tyke’s staff would both engineer Tyke’s escape and fight the gnarl.’
‘Nona acquired the gnarl centuries ago,’ Orelia added, ‘from a family in Hoy.’
‘She’ll be back for it,’ said Valourhand, pointing at the cavernous rent in the earth.
Gabriel interrupted with an unexpected change of subject. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but there’s one thing I have to do for Gregorius. I’m not having his roots cluttered with spent syringes. It’s a desecration.’
Orelia rested her hand on his arm. ‘You’re right,’ she said, realising that against Everthorne’s maverick charm, Gabriel offered inner strength and kindness. She realised too that both had the artistic talent she liked in a man – Everthorne had been an extrovert but disturbed painter, Gabriel a focused, introvert carver. She had loved the one and now found herself slipping into love for the other.
Valourhand tutted at what she considered an unnecessary bout of housekeeping, but picked up Orelia’s concerns about Persephone Brown. ‘We all know the legend, and that legend drove Wynter and his followers – and according to Oblong, the ancient Eleusians worshipped Persephone. She rules the earthly world in spring and summer and the underworld in autumn and winter.’ She paused. ‘So today she takes Rotherweird.’
‘How?’ asked Orelia before answering her own question. ‘The Apothecaries?’
Valourhand filled a gap. ‘I
t’s fairly bizarre, but I’d say this is the arrangement: Thomes rules Rotherweird when she’s away, presumably here in Lost Acre, during autumn and winter. But she returns to rule Rotherweird in spring and summer. Thomes will think she’s mad and easily disposed of; she’ll know that and it’ll be Thomes who won’t last. But that’s tomorrow’s game.’
Gabriel returned, one arm clutching his coat, the other supporting Tyke. Avian life forms broke cover, the forest crackling with disturbed undergrowth. At their feet a chrysalis released a large crimson insect with a horned back.
‘It’s wake-up time,’ said Orelia.
‘Meal time,’ added Valourhand as she helped Tyke onto the tile. He disappeared instantly with no flicker of an image left behind: all had been restored to working order.
‘Thank you, Gregorius,’ whispered Gabriel.
*
Tyke emerged in his beloved valley wracked with pain and barely able to walk, a mirror to mankind’s cruelty and kindness, reflecting back whatever he received. Events dictated to him; he never to them. He could not be sure whether this passivity was a mystical gift or a character fault, but his immunity to the mixing-point had marked him out as unique.
Very occasionally, like a fish from below, conventional feelings broke through. He felt grief for the loss of so many friends, Gregorius but the latest. He registered the interest shown by the fiercely independent young physicist in his welfare, but with it, the irony of what attracted her: his incurable restlessness. She loved the unattainable and his time here was drawing to a close.
Morval Seer, following Tyke through the tile, was perplexed by his peculiar gesture. He had signalled to her not to record. How could this be? Didn’t everyone crave the telling image to be preserved in the artist’s amber? He had laid his staff against the tree, where it had transformed into a climbing rose: a miracle-worker who did not want his miracles remembered? Despite the richness of the scene, she had obeyed. But why?
A realisation dawned: this had been Tyke’s moment of private grief, so not a gesture for public consumption. He had known Jones as long as anyone alive. Memories of tiny acts of kindness by others surfaced too – from Jones and Finch to the gangly historian – and a prompt formed in the chaos. She must do more than indulge her peculiar talent. She must wear the loss of Fortemain as those around her wore the loss of Gregorius. Pen and paint must be servants, not masters. She must uncoil, unfreeze and open her face to the sun.
*
His stomach half sunk in the sandy mud of the riverbank, Oblong maintained his vigil. When the Apothecaries’ craft landed, he had agonised over whether to attempt attack or sabotage, but the armed Apothecaries on guard had deterred him. He had been appalled to see Morval, but what could he do?
The return of the main party left him the more outnumbered. They walked briskly across the meadow, the twelve Apothecaries, with Sly, Thomes and Persephone Brown. But where’s Wynter? And where is Morval?
One mystery yielded to another: Persephone boarded first and took Wynter’s elevated throne. Why give her such prominence? Oblong could only think of an old legend replayed the first day of spring, Persephone returned from the land of the dead to rule the living . . .
The Apothecaries’ craft, altogether more substantial than Boris’ gimcrack contraption, accelerated skywards and disappeared. Oblong opted against pursuit; he could not fly the machine and fight, not alone. He rose from his hiding place, numb with worry for Morval, and walked to the wreck of Gabriel’s house. He poked around in the ash, but nothing had survived. Even the steel woodworking tools had twisted in the heat.
He cursed out loud. He, the only historian, had missed another climactic event. Yet again, he would have to harvest hearsay.
Pull yourself together, barked an inner voice. Call yourself a historian? Go to Lost Acre – go to the battlefield, investigate.
Halfway up the woodland path, he met a bedraggled company coming down.
‘God, I forgot about him,’ said Valourhand, the first to appear, supporting Tyke on the descent. ‘We’ve got transport.’
Orelia was more welcoming. ‘Oblong – thank heavens you’re here. Wynter is dead, Bole with him, but Gregorius . . .’
‘The tender leaves of hope tomorrow blossom . . .’ said a voice further back.
Oblong beamed; Morval smiled back, stumbled down and hugged him.
Oblong blushed as Gabriel arrived.
‘You need to defend the town,’ he said to Oblong as the historian clumsily disengaged from Morval. ‘Persephone Brown and Thomes are the new enemy.’
‘You’re coming too,’ Orelia said fiercely to Gabriel, but, hand in pocket, he declined.
‘I’ve a mission of my own,’ he said. ‘It’s easy enough, but it has to be done. You save the town; I save the country.’ He turned to Tyke. ‘You have an extraordinary constitution. I’ll be back with herbs and hot water as soon as I can.’
He hurried across the meadow, past the wreck of his house and on, that one hand still in his pocket.
The rest of them were given no time to reflect. Panjan cut through the breeze and landed beside Oblong, who unclipped the canister tied to his leg.
‘Finch’s writing,’ said Valourhand as Oblong unfurled the single roll of paper.
To Morval, the two words, Cave Myrmidon, summoned an image of a monster from underground.
Oblong translated. ‘He means Cave Myrmidon – beware the Myrmidon, whatever it is.’
‘That’s where Persephone lives – Myrmidon Coil. We need to get back – and quick,’ said Valourhand. Reluctantly she added, ‘Tyke isn’t fit to travel. He stays.’
‘Fashioned by nature’
5
Escape by Water
Outside the Witan Hall the fragment of gnarl maintained its tentacular grip. Inside, adults fretted, while the children relished the crisis. Would they be here for ever? Would they turn yellow? Would they have to eat each other to survive?
But Ferensen knew the reason for their imprisonment: Wynter needed young cells for the mixing-point, and in this age he could not acquire them from the wider world.
‘What feeds the cistern?’ he asked Megan Ferdy, who alone had remained calm.
‘Aquifers from the Hoy plateau,’ she said. ‘They drain down to the Winterbourne and on to the Rother. We take only what we need.’
‘Can I see?’
She gave him a hard look. Ferensen had a troubled relationship with water. Bill had seen him emerging naked from the river, his skin shiny and black. She had an inkling of where this might lead – but Ferensen was their spiritual leader. He acted for the common good.
The Hall’s deepest chamber had been fashioned by Nature. Waterflow had gouged a huge rockpool down one side of the mossy cavern. Ferns gripped the ceiling and in the depths, isolated pebbles glowed like jewels. Every drip tinkled and the air left a brackish taste on the tongue. It was an aqueous place to every sense. Interlocking pipes and pumps kept the water on the move and fresh. Piled in one corner, sharp-sided rocks riddled with holes served as counterweights for the buckets which fed the internal plumbing.
Ferensen weighed a rock in his hand. ‘There must be an overflow.’
Megan nodded.
‘We need several lengths of string.’ He paused, then said softly, ‘I’m sorry. It’s an unpleasant task, but hopefully you won’t be needed.’
She looked hard at Ferensen. In recent days his default expression of calm had turned anxious. She had a premonition. ‘Let me guess. You weight your ankles, and I mustn’t let you come up for air,’ she said, more statement than question.
‘Something like that,’ he replied.
She fetched a ball of sturdy twine, cut several lengths, fed them through the holes in the rocks and fastened them to his ankles. He handed a second, longer connecting line to Megan to enable retrieval and climbed to the rim, cradling the stones in his arms.
She followed and he hugged her. ‘Love to Bill and the children,’ he said before turning and descendin
g the steep shelf. He allowed the rocks to fall as the water reached his shoulders.
Bubbles rose; the surface threshed briefly. Ferensen had vanished.
6
The Finishing Line
Carnage. Mayhem. Chaos.
The stream of directions, rebukes, rule reminders and penalties from Gorhambury’s megaphone passed unheeded as his voice contrived to grow both hoarser and shriller. Paddles flailed; poles jabbed; this was more naval battle than boat race. Guild Bands struck up on the river bank with wildly conflicting choices: ‘Jolly Boating Weather’ competed with ‘Also sprach Zarathustra’.
Every crew member in the Municipals carried waterproof copies of the omnibus edition of the Great Equinox Race (Guild) Amendment Regulations (amended). Gorhambury’s treatment so outraged them that they abandoned competition for higher ground and appointed themselves Water Marshalls, so outraging everyone else – including Gorhambury, for no such office was sanctioned by the Regulations.
Rhombus Smith’s pronouncements from the towpath fared little better, although unlike Gorhambury, he did not mind. His headmasterly ear heard more laughter than spite: a case of childhood regained, with one or two exceptions . . .
The enmity between Mixers and Apothecaries ran deep, as did the Master Tanner’s ambition to win at all costs. Luck of the draw had sent Sister Prudence and her Apothecaries east and the Mixers and Tanners west of Rotherweird Island. When neck and neck with the Mixers, the Master Tanner launched his frogman with a distracting cry of, ‘Man overboard!’
In quick succession, the Mixers’ three vessels suffered terminal leaks, but the frogman, an excitable type, lost control in the underwater turmoil and speared the Umpire’s coracle too. Gorhambury, his hand to his ear as if saluting the river god, swam only when the water reached his chin.
Meanwhile, the Scholastics, propelled by the Heads of Languages and the Sixth Form swivelling their hips in imitation of the Bolivian water beetle, were closing the gap on the Apothecaries. Fanguin, beside himself with excitement at the revival of his rotator technique, bellowed encouragement: ‘Pelvis front, pelvis back—’
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