by B G Denvil
I was amazed. Taking the tumble down from the shelf, I sat it in front of me and gave it an affectionate polish. “What a good thimble you are,” I told it. “And thanks very much. Could you perhaps answer number six as well?”
But the thimble gave a little apologetic hop. “Can’t do it,” said my surprising new friend. “Ain’t got no idea.”
Nineteen
I went into the village on my own later that day. I expected icicles on my nose, and blue hands frozen within my gloves, but I flew as fast as possible, which actually increased the terrible cold, but at least it made the trip so much faster. I didn’t fly over the village, but went around the back and landed on the outer edge of Trout Farm. This way I also managed to avoid most of the returning rats.
Back on the thick frosted grass, I took several slow movements and began to grow some extremely healthy trees. They started, as unmagical trees usually do, as scrubby looking twigs up to no further than my ankle, but kept increasing. They became enthusiastic and shot off a few little branches each, a leaf or three, even though it was a miserable winter, and with an occasional wriggle they all grew as tall as I was myself. And on they went, towering over me eventually from a considerable height. The leaves they grew quickly dropped, and several hopeful fig buds dropped too. Rather a shame. But within half an hour I was staring up at six massive fig trees soaring into the sky we shared. These trees would be raining figs by next autumn. I’d have to make sure to bring it in to conversation with Alid or Joan, it was quite likely that they wouldn’t know what figs were for.
That was an enormous pleasure, and I silently thanked the red thimble once more. But considering the season, I knew that it would be almost a year before Alid could make any extra money at all from this special fruit.
I tried to think of how I could introduce more cows without it looking exceptionally odd. I started with two, put them both on a halter, and led them up to the house. The newly made cows were very obliging. Both were reasonably large, soft coated in tan and white with big brown eyes and mouths that appeared to constantly chew. They even bent down as I walked, and tried a bit of frosty grass, which they seemed to like.
Joan was already outside, scattering seed for the hens. She looked up in slight alarm as I appeared with two large unknown animals.
“I think these cattle are looking for a good home,” I told her, feeling slightly stupid. The cows were slurping and I suppose the frost tipped grass had usefully supplied them with both food and water at the same time. “They, um, turned up at The Rookery. We can’t keep them there, and I was a bit worried so I went over to Mike Postlethwaite on the opposite side of Kettle Lane to us. He’s got a big place as you know, but it’s mostly sheep, and he said these two cows were nothing to do with him. I thought – well, we can’t keep them, Mike didn’t want them and any other farms should have come looking before now. Can I leave them here?”
The hearty smile was definitely positive. “Of course,” she said, patting their rumps. “Beautiful animals and will be ready for milking by the look of them. I can open up the second shed and keep them nice and warm. Just let me know if any worried farmer comes looking for them.”
“I will indeed,” I assured her, “and while I think of it, I came round the back way because I didn’t want to be leading such big animals over the village green and so on, and I saw your lovely trees there. You know, the big ones close to your back hedge. What sort are they?”
Naturally she frowned, bemused. “I don’t think we’ve got any,” she said. “Are you sure you don’t mean the birch trees over the lane?”
“No, no,” I insisted. “I came through your last field, and there they all were. I’ve never seen such trees before. No idea what they are.”
“Me neither,” said Joan, taking the long string leads attached to the cow’s halters. She was interested in the halters and added, “The farm where these came from would recognise these, since few of us farmers ever use them.”
“Good,” I said. “That’ll make it easy to prove where they came from if anyone wants to claim them.” Though I knew no one would. “But one day you really ought to go and look at those lovely big trees. Please don’t cut them down. Too lovely.”
I left the cows with Joan. They’d never have any personality, poor things, since they weren’t really real. But they’d produce plenty of milk, and hopefully double what the farm was making before. But even with the figs next year, this wasn’t going to make them rich. Figs were rare and valued highly, loved by all, but I had no idea about the price they’d bring, so as I walked off waving to Joan, I secretly added a few sovereigns to Alid’s purse in their bedchamber.
There wasn’t much I could do about Whistle or Alice at the moment, so I flew home, smiling at my fig trees below me, and at the scampering rats below the trees, arriving back at The Rookery where I found Fanny sitting on my personal door step. I knew why, but I didn’t think I was ready.
But Fanny, being Fanny, danced inside as soon as I opened the door and proceeded to tell me how much she adored Harry. I sat patiently with my mind whizzing from number three to number six to number two. Yes, she loved him. Yes, she wanted to marry him. Yes, she couldn’t live in The Rookery with him without being in each other’s arms. And yes, she knew he loved her too.
“But what’s the terrible problem about you being stronger than him? He doesn’t seem to mind,” I pointed out, busily making some hot steamy hypocras with several strong spices, three herbs and the strongest Burgundy I could summon. I needed something to warm me up from the inside, as well as my cosy dog and wafting hot air.
Fanny was grateful for the drink too, and sipped between almost every word. “Harry’s always been the joker, it seems,” she said. “But I think all that playing around and laughing is to cover up the weak magic, hiding what he can’t do with a lot of fun and humour. He’s convinced he doesn’t care about being a forty, but he’s way below average. I’m sure he’d feel a twit if someone asked for something he couldn’t do, and then along came his wife to do it for him.”
“Oh dear.”
“You don’t know how to do it, do you?” Fanny sighed, swigging down the last of her steaming wine. “Well, you’re a ninety-eight, so if you can’t do it, nobody can.”
“I haven’t had a chance to have a go yet,” I complained. “I need to look at some of the old books. I wish Whistle was here; he used to do things like that. He made me as you know. Well if you can make a ninety-eight from a few thistles and a kitten, then surely you know how to make a forty into a sixty-one.”
Eventually Fanny flapped out into the cold, and I sat wondering if I was capable of anything useful at all. I trudged over to my small chest in the bedchamber and fished out a load of Whistle’s old papers, first stolen by Alice, and then by me! I curled up on the cushioned settle, and thumbed through papers, books, scrolls, documents, papyrus, parchments, and even scraps of linen with codes scribbled over.
How to open a lock after you locked it with a special spell that now you’ve forgotten.
How to sleep for hours when the crows are nesting and the fledglings are hungry and swearing like goats.
How to speak another language when you have never learned it.
How to grow thick hair back after you’ve gone bald.
How to feel as though you’ve had a bath and look clean without being smelly when you haven’t really been anywhere near the water or soap.
I thrust all these bits and pieces back into the box, and kept searching. I also hoped with considerable concentration that Whistle would turn up quite soon.
One large piece of rolled parchment gave a clue. How to teach better magic to wizard children before they make the grade.
I started reading.
One of the problems with magic is it isn’t ever one source or one direction. There are spells. You can learn them. That’s the easy part. Except when muddling them like Peg. Then there’s the sort that comes from inside your own magical concentration. That’s the hard
part, and you have to be over a grade sixty to achieve this. It’s what that grade stands for – average. So below you can’t do any of the concentration stuff. Actually, that’s a swizzle, because everyone is better at some things than others, but usually you don’t expect easy flight, even for a fifty-five, but a sixty-two can fly, though perhaps not as fast as he’d like. But you’re not expected to make glorious magical events and changes unless you’re creeping towards the seventy or above.
And I was a ninety-eight which was worthy of showing-off, dancing up and down, and flying to the north pole and back in a day. But having spent almost all my life as a fifty since my adopted mother carefully suffocated any burgeoning talent, I was terribly out of practise. Whistle, an extremely experienced ninety-five, was far more impressive than I was. Edna was a ninety-three and had loads more experience than myself. She often stepped back to allow me space to learn and grow, but I knew she knew more than I did.
Magical toys were useful too, so now I gathered a good handful and spread them on the table. Whistle’s silver toadstool, spoon and cup. Oswald, my ruby hat pin. My new somewhat doubtful playmate, the red thimble. Then I added two items I had never, never understood. One was the small sceptre given to me on my twenty-five years coming of age, which I had never used and didn’t know how to. No one, even the great judge who had given it to me, had explained it. Lastly, there was my birth gift, a cup of brass with scrolled swirls of silver and gold in stunningly beautiful designs. I’d never even seen this until searching my mother’s rooms.
A fair collection, I thought. Me – a ninety-eight with a collection of magical devices which I needed to explore. I held Whistle’s papers in one hand, and regarded my table of interesting objects.
“Well,” I said. “Who speaks first?”
I might have guessed. “You wants me to stick it in somebody you doesn’t like?” asked the red thimble with very willing co-operation.
I gave it a frosty glance. “No. I only want good things,” I said, and began to fill the toadstool with cold water, then the spoon and finally the cup. I did so love that final drink. It felt like a magical medicine, telling me that anything and everything was possible. And at the moment that was exactly what I wanted.
Eventually the cup answered me. “There are many methods for increasing magical strength, especially with a tutor or a device made for such situations. However, these solutions normally take many years to produce even an increase of five or six points.”
“Twiddledy-poms,” interrupted the thimble with a slight bump. “There’s better ways than that. Good fun too.”
“If you are thinking the same as I am thinking,” said the silver cup, “then you should keep your silly ideas to yourself. That is not great fun at all. It is terrifying to the lowly wizard.”
“But I ain’t scared o’ nuffing,” objected the thimble.
“You aren’t going,” said Oswald suddenly. “I should point out that this red fool is correct in one respect, in that this method exists. But the silver cup is also right in another aspect, for the way is difficult, and danger exists around many of those corners.”
“Then, tell me what it is.” I waited. There was a silent stillness, and I realised I had not asked anyone by name, so they were probably all staring at each other. “Oswald,” I said at last. “Please explain.”
I could hear my hatpin clearing its throat. “It is known as the Way of the Forest,” it said. “The method is complicated. First, you must gather all your strength and knowledge and drain it into a symbolic holder, like myself. I do believe a ring you can wear is the ideal way to hold such a collection safe.”
I had never thought of Oswald as a collection, and I began to wonder if he had more secrets, but this was now a separate subject, so I asked him to continue. “And must the student be alone?”
“Only two people may travel together into the forest,” Oswald said. “But they must both be naked of all magical power in this fashion, or they may well lose it entirely.”
That certainly wouldn’t be something I’d risk. “Go on.”
“Once in the forest, you must make your own way. There are many dangers, but you have to use your own remaining human senses to discover whatever is open to you. You will only gain the greater knowledge if you have the intelligence to find it and claim it. Any wizard who simply stumbles through the forest with no courage or determination will come through without any more points on his grade than three or four at most. Whereas a weak but determined wizard may gain thirty points or more.”
I sank back in my chair. “Please, silver cup,” I asked, “will you tell me what you think, and if you agree.”
“I agree,” said the cup. “This is true and well explained. But the dangers remain. There are creatures in the forest that will eat anyone with magical abilities, for they may then take that swallowed and stolen power to the shadow side. There are ghosts, there is the River of Forgetfulness, and the Tree of Fortitude. It is a very hard way to claim what is not your own.”
With a small sigh, I reached forwards and tapped the top of the thimble. “And you said it was fun?”
“Of course,” it said, sounding a little grumpy. “’Tis a very pretty forest, it is, and if you plays the game right, you comes out wiv wings to fly. Good fun. Just try not to get eated by monsters.”
“So,” I asked, half teasing, “if Harry agrees to go, would you go with him?”
The thimble gulped. “Not a good idea,” it said. “Not cos I’s afraid. But I got no way to pack up me magic and put it in a ring cos I ain’t got no finger. ‘Tis a finger I’s supposed to sit on. And getting stronger magic ain’t such a good idea fer me. Cos – ” and his voice turned to a whisper, “I’s a red’un.”
I accepted this and decided he actually made some good points. “Alright, thanks, everyone. You’ve been most helpful. I shall talk to Harry and Fanny. Goodness knows what they’ll decide. I hope they won’t choose the forest. Where is it anyway?”
“Straight down,” said Oswald.
I didn’t like the sound of that either. And I also began, just faintly at the back of my mind, to see why he was a bright red ruby instead of a pretty white diamond or even a blue sapphire. Red always seemed such a problem.
Twenty
“Concentrate all your magic and bundle it into some sort of token carrier, like a ring. That will be hard enough to start,” I told Harry.
“No,” Fanny was already shaking her head. “I could never let someone I love go through such terrible danger. I’d be terrified every moment Harry was gone. There has to be another way.”
“I think there is,” I told her. “But very slow and takes years and only a couple of points after months and months.”
“We’ll do it that way,” said Fanny, smiling in relief. “If we can find out the right things to do, we can have fun together, and it may be a slow climb, but that doesn’t matter.”
Harry was shaking his head. “My love, this may sound mean, but I don’t want you teaching me. Especially in such a slow plodding way. I’ll fail – and miss bits and get stuff wrong, and you’ll be oh so patient and hide your temper and swallow back the impulse to swear at me and hit me over the head with a frying pan. And the trouble is – even if you’re too sweet to want to do that, I’ll secretly be thinking you are. Sure quick way to stop loving you.”
“But not the forest. Never,” Fanny said at once. “I’ve changed my mind. No need to increase your magic. I was just an idiot. I adore you just the way you are.”
“Weak and feeble.”
I left them to it. I agreed with everyone and disagreed with everyone, and couldn’t take sides anyway; it wouldn’t be fair.
Thunder rolled through the darkening clouds. I hadn’t seen the lightning. It must have burst in the opposite direction. I stayed inside. Not much common sense in striding out into a thunder storm. But it made me wonder what the weather might be like in the forest. What anyone might be required to decide – where to go – how to avoid somet
hing – or find something – and not to lose whatever magic you already had. When, less than a year ago, I had accepted being a lowly fifty, I had never heard of this place. Had it been offered to me as a way of leaping up points on my grade, I don’t think I would have accepted it. I honestly didn’t care about being weak or strong. It had bothered me that I couldn’t fly, but that was all. I was my mother’s servant, but I had friends, and no one else treated me as a useless half-witch.
And anyway, the forest sounded like a huge shadow. Yet, whether by instinct, a simple guess, or by magical knowledge, I was sure Harry would choose that forest, and believe he’d enjoy it. Then by the time he realised it was not enjoyable in the least, it would be far too late.
I hoped I was wrong. But I knew I wasn’t. Once again, I just wished Whistle would come back.
Using my own back door into the kitchens, I apologised to Issa and trotted into the main hall where a genuine fire lit up everything with undisguised enthusiasm. After enjoying the few minutes rest and comfort I had come for, I realised I was just getting bored, and instead went to the main staircase. Bored? Me? Well, it didn’t happen very often, and I had a lot to do. I should be making sure the donkey and other animals weren’t frightened by the thunder, making sure no one was out there getting soaked, making sure that the houses I’d recently erected for Maggs and Mandrake, and Angdar and Butterfield were in excellent condition with no leaking drips coming from the roof, find whatever I could about Alice, even checking on Alid and Joan. But instead I simply wanted to stay warm, comfortable, peaceful and chat to friends. Yes, horribly selfish, but I didn’t do this other than bedtime.
With Peg and Edna in mind, both of them on the very top floor, I was flying up the stairs when I bumped into a flurry of totally unrecognisable twists and swirls coming towards me, which then disappeared entirely just over my head.
Well, I thought, that rules out Peg. I shall just visit Edna. Which I did.