White Wind Rising

by Dan Davis

  The others all exchanged confused looks. Archer did not remember ever hearing about a plague in the Vale that recently. It was a fear everyone had, of course. That a terrible disease would ravage the Vale. But it had not happened for years and years, so far as he knew.

  ‘I never heard of no plague,’ said Weaver.

  ‘Me either,’ Archer said.

  ‘As far as the Alchemist’s records show,’ Writer said. ‘There has been no plague for a hundred years or more.’

  Weaver scoffed. ‘The things you come out with, Keeper, honestly.’

  ‘Not just me, is it,’ said Keeper, looking very upset. ‘How come no-one knew about the flying balloon man at Archer’s fair? And how come Weaver had that deep snow one winter that no-one else remembers?’

  None of them could understand it, least of all Archer.

  ‘It doesn’t matter why we don’t remember the same things, does it,’ Archer said. ‘The Alchemist did some strange things to us. None of you remember your real names. Who knows what else he did to the things that we remember? But we will be back in the Vale by tonight and that’s the main thing. We’re almost at the edge of the forest and from there it’s probably not far from Writer’s house.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Keeper. ‘Because Burp and me are just about done.’ At the sound of his name, Burp looked up and hissed.

  ‘Fancy sharing that wall mushroom now, Keeper?’ said Weaver.

  ‘I ate that earlier,’ Keeper said, his red cheeks reddening.

  ‘Without even offering to share?’ Weaver said, and tutted. ‘Well I hope you enjoyed it.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Keeper. ‘It wasn’t edible.’

  ‘How do you know that we are at the edge of the forest?’ Writer asked Archer, peering ahead through the trees. ‘I can see no edge.’

  ‘Look at the trees around us,’ Archer said. ‘For a few miles now more and more of the trees have been coppiced.’

  They all looked at him blankly. He wondered how they could not know about things like finding your way in the woods or coppicing or finding wild mushrooms, as opposed to wall mushrooms, but he did not say anything about that.

  ‘Coppicing is when you chop down a tree but you let it grow back from the stump and it grows up in all these separate shoots, see? Then in a few years the trees look like these, with little thin trunks all clustered together.’ He pointed out the thin coppiced trunks of many of the trees about them. ‘Makes really good poles for fences and firewood and all kinds of things.’

  ‘Charcoal,’ said Keeper. ‘They make it with coppiced wood.’

  ‘You lot are so boring,’ said Weaver, laying back on the grass and yawning dramatically. ‘How can you all speak so much without ever saying a single interesting thing?’

  Archer was about to say something about a pot, a kettle and the colour black but a loud voice cut him off.

  ‘AND HERE YOU ARE!’

  A man stood at the edge of the clearing.

  Archer jumped. Then he leaped to his feet.

  There was a very big, very dangerous-looking man standing at the edge of the trees. He stared at them with a great lopsided grin on his face.

  He had short hair, a filthy face and was wearing very unusual clothes indeed. He wore a long red coat and a wide brimmed hat and huge great boots and gloves. Packs slung over his shoulders.

  An outfit like nothing in the Vale, he was sure. Everything was greasy, muddy and worn.

  He also carried a long, straight heavy-looking thing like a stick or a club. It had some kind of metal pipe running along the top of it. And he had an absurdly long, thin knife at his waist.

  The man’s belt had two short clubs, also with metal tubes on them.

  A single word sprang into Archer’s mind.

  Outsider.

  ‘Yes, yes, here you all are, my young friends,’ the outsider said and walked towards them, grinning. ‘Finally.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Weaver said.

  She was in a half-crouch with her knife out and teeth bared.

  Keeper looked horrified and was standing in front of Burp, who rumbled. His long black tail swished back and forth.

  Writer stood there tall and serene but her eyes were ice.

  ‘Who am I?’ the man said, his voice rough. ‘Why, I’m Pym, little lady.’

  He raised his strange club-thing and pointed it right at each of them, one after the other. ‘I am most pleased to be meeting you and so on and so forth,’ he said, in a funny, pretend accent. His laugh was like a saw scraping a nail.

  Archer did not understand the joke.

  Neither did Keeper, clearly.

  ‘Why are you pointing that stick at us?’ Keeper asked.

  The outsider called Pym looked at Keeper as if he was mad. Then Pym sighed, lowered his strange-looking stick-club thing and laughed again.

  ‘Well, let’s us just forget about that approach then, shall we?’ Pym shook his head. ‘Tells you what, old Pym’s just going to take what he wants and go,’ he said. ‘No drama, right?’

  He strode forward toward Keeper with his hand outstretched. Pym’s face was twisted in anger.

  His eyes focused on Burp.

  Archer grabbed up his bow from his back, whipped out and nocked an arrow and drew it back.

  He pointed the arrow at the man’s face.

  ‘Don’t take another step,’ Archer shouted, his voice shaking. ‘Or I will put this arrow right through your eye.’

  Heducation

  ‘Whoa, there, lad,’ said the outsider who called himself Pym. He stopped where he was. ‘I don’t mean you no, harm, young master. Why don’t you lower that arrow?’

  ‘I will lower it,’ Archer said. ‘When you step back.’

  The man was still grinning, teeth yellow as a buttercup, when he slowly took his club from his shoulder and pointed it at Archer. Was Archer supposed to be afraid of a stick? Even one with a metal pipe on the top.

  ‘Nasty knock you’ve taken there,’ Pym said. ‘You sure you could shoot straight with just the one eye?’

  ‘I only need one,’ Archer said. ‘You’ve been following us,’ he added, knowing that he was right.

  ‘Following you?’ Pym said. ‘Now why would I be following you? I never seen you lot before in all my live-long days, my lad. So why don’t you just lower your little bow there and I’ll lower me musket and we chat like Englishmen. What say ye?’

  Archer knew he was lying about not following them. There were the footprints from last night.

  And one other good reason.

  ‘If you never saw us before just now then how come you weren’t surprised to see Burp?’ he asked, jerking his head at the little dragon. ‘Our dragon.’

  Pym’s eyes flicked to Burp and he looked irritated and angry for a half a moment.

  Then he plastered on his fake smile again. ‘Well, we got plenty of them dragons where I’m from.’ He shrugged his broad shoulders.

  ‘And where are you from?’ Archer asked.

  Pym hesitated. ‘I’ll tell you if you stop pointing that arrow at me, young master,’ he said. ‘I’m not about to do anything to you lot, am I? Not when you’ve got a bow and arrow. Not to mention a mighty dragon with you.’ Pym laughed as if he had made a very witty joke.

  Archer glanced at Writer. Her bright blue eyes flicked to him. Again he saw her ice cold anger. She was telling Archer that Pym was dangerous and not to be trusted. But then Archer did not need two eyes to see that.

  Weaver looked furious. Keeper was standing as tall as he could between himself and Burp. The dragon was curious about this new man and craned his long neck around Keeper’s back.

  ‘I will lower my bow if you put down that thing,’ Archer said, nodding at the stick-club.

  ‘What, me old musket?’ Pym glanced round the four of them. ‘This old thing? Me dear old musket, what never hurt no one? Well, if it makes you feel kindly towards old Pym, then I will. Course I will. Man of honour, is old Pym, mark my words.’ At that, he leane
d his musket - whatever that was – against the trunk of the fallen oak.

  ‘Good,’ Archer said and lowered his bow and relaxed his string. He kept his arrow nocked. ‘But you stay over there and don’t come any closer.’

  ‘Oh, that is a fine way to greet a fellow, that is,’ Pym said. ‘A perfectly innocent fellow just stopping by to bid you a good day and this is how he gets treated.’

  Archer did not believe this man’s words, not for a moment. ‘Well you’ve said good day now,’ Archer said. ‘And you may be on your way.’

  ‘All in good time, all in good time,’ Pym said, staring at Archer and drumming his fingers upon the hilt of the long knife that he wore at his side. ‘Perhaps first you and me, we could have a trade, right?’

  ‘What sort of trade?’ said Writer, her voice as clear and strong. ‘Do you have food?’

  ‘Oh, food I got,’ he said, patting one of the bags over his shoulder. ‘Food aplenty have I got, young lady. But what have you got that I want?’ he said, licking his lips and smacking them together a few times. ‘Something tasty for something tasty, right is right?’ He looked at Burp.

  ‘We don’t have anything to trade,’ Archer said. He turned to the others. ‘And we don’t need food. We’re nearly home anyway.’

  ‘Oh now, that’s where I beg to differ,’ the man said, and his eyes darted over Burp, and Writer and back to Archer. ‘You got plenty to trade, my lad. Even if you don’t know it.’

  ‘Look,’ Archer said. ‘We’re just nearly home now. Which village are you from? If you are not from round here, you can find your way easy enough. Just a half day away there’s a village called Polstead and then beyond that there’s one called Straytford. Further on there’s a big town called Morningtree. I’m sure you can find plenty of people to trade with you there.’

  ‘I knew it,’ Pym said, slapping himself on the thigh. ‘You lot are from Bede’s Land.’

  ‘No,’ said Archer. ‘Don’t know where that is. Where are you from? You said you’d tell me if I lowered the bow. And I lowered it.’

  Pym grinned, his teeth so rotten they looked about to tumble from his mouth. ‘You’re a clever one, ain’t you,’ he said, wagging his finger at Archer. ‘I can see I’m going to have to watch you. But fair’s fair, son. I’m from a village called Havering down near London way.’

  ‘Where is that?’ Writer said, eagerness for information creeping into her voice. ‘How far is Londonway? In which direction does it lay?’

  ‘Eh?’ said Pym, scratching his head under his big hat. ‘What do you mean, where is London? It’s London, sweetheart. London, what is the biggest city in the whole world. It lays just down south a little ways, so close you could almost smell the stink of it from here.’

  ‘I see,’ Writer said. ‘Could you be a little more specific? You say it is a city. Now, I believe that to be somewhat in the same vein as the ancient Greek polis. So, please tell me, what is it like?

  ‘It’s London, darling.’ He spoke loudly, and slowly, as if she was simple. ‘You know, London.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Writer said. ‘I came across references to a place called London in some of the books I copied. None of it made much sense, I am afraid.’

  Pym stared at them.

  Archer shrugged. Everywhere outside the Vale was a total mystery to anyone inside the Vale.

  Keeper looked confused. Weaver scoffed, but at what Archer was not sure.

  ‘What you saying?’ Pym said, looking back and forth between them. ‘You ain’t saying the rest of you never even heard of London?’

  They all shrugged. ‘Should we have?’ Archer asked.

  ‘Ha ha!’ Pym laughed, a harsh barking sound. ‘You lot are flaming mad, the lot of you.’ He shook his head. ‘You really are from Bede’s Land, ain’t you. Lost to the world, well and true.’

  ‘We are from the Vale,’ Archer said. ‘Just beyond those hills.’ He jerked his head back.

  ‘And you never been out of there before, have you?’ Pym said, his eyes narrowing. ‘Old Bede never let you.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Archer said, not willing to give anything away to this man.

  ‘Well, let me heducate you, young master,’ Pym bowed slightly then paused. ‘But first why don’t you tell me your name. I told you mine and after all, fair’s fair.’ Pym winked.

  Archer did not want to tell him so he hesitated.

  ‘Come on, lad, fair’s fair,’ Pym said again. ‘Don’t you folk even know that if I told you mine you has tell me yours? You never heard of tit-for-tat? That’s how these things work out in the world, you know, lad.’ Pym shook his head. ‘You’ll be needing a proper heducation now that he’s popped his clogs, you know. It’s a bad old world out there, oh yes, and you’ll be needing to know her ways.’

  ‘Who are these people he’s talking about?’ Keeper whispered to Weaver.

  ‘Archer,’ said Archer to Pym. ‘My name’s Archer.’

  ‘Oh deary me.’ Pym shook his head. ‘You don’t trust old Pym with your real name, well, that’s just that going to be then, ain’t it. What about you others? You going to share your names?’

  ‘I’m Writer,’ said Writer, warily.

  ‘I’m Keeper,’ he said.

  ‘Weaver.’

  Pym hesitated for a moment then burst out laughing. ‘Ha ha! You is all at it!’ He laughed so hard he ended up coughing and bent over at the waist, slapping his knee. ‘Fine, that’s fine with old Pym, you keep your real names.’ Pym straightened up and took a few steps forward up to the trunk of the fallen tree and then eased his backside onto it. He wiped tears from his eye with a gloved hand.

  ‘Tell us why you think we’ve never been out of the Vale before,’ Archer said.

  Pym bowed his head. ‘Now, I knows you ain’t ever been out of Bede’s Land because no one has. Not never. No one’s ever been in there, neither. Try as we might.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Writer said. ‘The Vale over there? It’s full of people. Lots of people. That’s where we’re all from.’

  ‘I meant no one from the rest of England, sweetheart,’ Pym grinned, showing her his mouth full of rotting teeth. ‘Bede’s Land is surround by the Haunted Wood, see. And ever since forever, no one’s ever been able to get through the trees before, not till recent, like. It’s protected, see? That Alchemist you got in there put spells all round his land. That means if you need to go from Dipswych to Coalschester, you gots to go miles around, right up inland up beyond the trees to higher up the River Sour and cross there. Or you have to go down and cross the Sour Estuary from up Felixstones to Harwych. But not no more, you don’t.’ Pym laughed, and waved a hand at the trees about them. ‘See? Old Pym is almost through.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Archer. ‘Why can’t you get into the Vale?’

  ‘I told you,’ Pym said, raising his voice. ‘It’s some sort of Alchemist’s protection spells. Everyone knows that. Everyone in England knows about the Bede. What happens, you see, is anyone who tries to get through, into your Vale, just gets lost in the trees and turned around. Even when you walk in a dead straight line you come out back where you started. You can’t chop down the trees, neither, don’t think no-one’s tried it. Your axe shatters. Fires don’t burn them. Whole place is cursed. Wolves howling all night, chasing you out, hounding you all the way. Wolves, I ask you, in this day and age. And if you try to row up the mouth of the Sour Estuary, the waters just push you back. The Alchemists, I tell you, they’re a curse on this good earth.’ Pym spat a big wad of phlegm onto the grass at his feet. It was thick and yellow. ‘Alchemists,’ he said, his face twisted into a white rage. ‘We’re going to round up every last one of them and string them up. We done hundreds of them and we’ll get thousands more of them, you just see if we don’t.’

  Archer did not know what to say.

  There is more than one Alchemist.

  There are thousands of them.

  A Soldier’s Job

  Archer could not believe that everyon
e outside the Vale had their own alchemists, too. And they were fighting them, just like Archer and his new friends had done.

  Perhaps the outside world was not so different from the Vale.

  It was comforting to know.

  Keeper was looking confused. ‘If that’s all true about never being able to get through the Moon Forest or whatever you outsiders call it,’ said Keeper. ‘How did you get in here?’

  ‘Well now,’ said Pym, tapping the side of his nose. ‘This last few months things have gone different, see? We didn’t know why, no one did. But what happened was we started building a fort at Hardleigh just up there to the north and there’s all these northern lads with us, and of course they don’t know no better and they started chopping down the trees at the edge of the Haunted Wood. Just chopped them right down.’ Pym made a chopping motion with his hand, and laughed. ‘Well, we couldn’t believe it, let me tell you. Since then we been chopping like there’s no tomorrow. Not much old forest left round this part of England so the locals been going mad with all the chopping and burning and hunting all the deer. Deer like you would not believe. Deer meat is cheap as you like, now. Deer when breaking your fast, again at luncheon and then for dinner, and all. Everyone’s sick of it. Been hunting the wolves, too, hunting them with dogs. No one seen wolves round these parts since never and everyone be wanting a wolf skin afore they all gone for good.’

  ‘Hunting deer?’ Keeper said, a sob racking his body. ‘Eating them? I don’t understand.’

  ‘You mean you don’t even—’ Pym began but was cut off by Writer speaking over him.

  ‘And hunting wolves?’ Writer cried. ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘I see what you mean, young lady,’ Pym said, nodding gravely. ‘But it ain’t dangerous if you know what you’re doing. And the price you get for the fur, more than makes up for the risk. And of course it is great sport, great fun.’