Starborn

by Toby Forward

  He shook his head.

  She knelt so that her face was level with his.

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirteen.”

  She put her arm around him.

  “You were in Flaxfield’s house,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s why I was waiting,” she said. “For someone to come from there. I wasn’t expecting you, though.”

  He nodded. “The girl sent me. Tamrin. She told me to come here.”

  “Was there trouble?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it awful?”

  He nodded, not able to speak without trembling at the memory.

  “Come on,” said Dorwin. “I’m sorry I was unkind.”

  He shook his head.

  “What do you want to do?” she asked.

  “I want to go home. Back to the Deep World.”

  Dorwin paused.

  “All right,” she said. “We can do that.” She looked around. “Here you are.” She walked to an elm near by and indicated a roffle door.

  Tadpole was puzzled. “You can see that?” he asked.

  Dorwin nodded.

  “Are you a wizard?”

  “No,” she said. “But I can see them anyway. Most people can’t.”

  Tadpole hesitated. “I want to go home,” he said. “I want to see the stars. I want to help my friends, the ones I met at Flaxfield’s. I want to be far away from the kravvins. I want to do what Tamrin said. I don’t want to let her down.”

  “You can’t do both,” said Dorwin.

  Tadpole sat on the muddy road, his pack still on his back. He shrugged when it bumped against the ground. “I forgot I had this,” he said. “I should go back. I can’t help.”

  “All you have to do is walk through this door. You’ll be safe then.”

  “How long for? How long before the kravvins come to the Deep World?”

  “Perhaps soon. Perhaps never. There’s a lot to do here first.”

  Tadpole leaned against the cart.

  “Are you going to fight?” he asked.

  “It’s where I live. I have to fight.”

  He hauled himself up, using the handles of the cart.

  “I’ll stay,” he said. “Long enough to see the stars, anyway.”

  Dorwin came and put her hand on his shoulder. “Come on,” she said. “You can ride a little way.” She pulled a covering from the cart and made a space for him.

  “I’ll walk.”

  “I’ll get there sooner if you let me push. You’re slowing me down.”

  He allowed her to bundle him in. He curled up, head resting on his barrel, and fell asleep. The cart rocked and bumped. He dreamed he was flying, on clouds in a stormy sky. The motion soothed him. Stillness, when it came, jerked him awake.

  “Are we there?”

  “Not yet. We’ll rest here for the night.”

  He pushed back the cover and looked up at three faces: Dorwin, a man and a woman.

  “He’s only a boy,” said the woman. She bent down and put her arms around him. “And he’s cold, and wet.”

  Tadpole struggled and freed himself. He clambered out of the cart. It was a house, alone, with wide windows and an old oak door. The rain had eased, but Dorwin stood, drenched and tense, controlling her shivering.

  “I should have walked,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “We’ll sort you both out,” said the woman. “I’m Mrs Martin, and this is Mr Martin. Come on in.”

  Before Tadpole knew what had happened he was sitting, wrapped in a huge towel, in front of the fire, with a bowl of stew, a chunk of fresh bread.

  Mrs Martin seemed to think that Tadpole’s bowl had something wrong with it, because every time he managed to get it half-empty she filled it up again. After three refills he put his hand over it.

  “No more,” he said. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t you like it?”

  “It’s lovely. Really. Thank you. But I’m getting full.”

  “Call yourself a roffle,” said Martin. “I’ve seen roffles eat us out of bacon.”

  “Ah,” said Tadpole. “That’s different. That’s breakfast.”

  He scraped his bread round the bowl to soak up the last of the gravy and noticed a nose and eyes emerging from round the side of a dresser.

  He sprang to his feet.

  “It’s a memmont.”

  The creature came towards him, and lowered its head for him to stroke. Tadpole looked overjoyed, then disappointed.

  “It’s not the one I came with,” he said.

  “No,” Mrs Martin said. “He lives with us.”

  Tadpole shook his head. “There are no memmonts Up Top any more. Not since the problems.”

  Martin clicked his fingers at the memmont. It looked at him, turned away and settled at Tadpole’s feet. Martin laughed. “Hasn’t seen a roffle for a long time,” he said. “Anyway, there aren’t many memmonts Up Top, that’s true. But we always have one.”

  “You’re a weaver?” said Tadpole.

  “I am. And proud of it.”

  Tadpole had lots of questions and would have asked some of them if he hadn’t fallen asleep asking the second one and if they hadn’t taken him up to bed.

  In the morning he tried to eat them out of bacon, but Mrs Martin had more than enough for them all. His clothes had been washed and dried overnight. He still hadn’t asked his questions by the time that Dorwin told him to get his barrel and get ready to go.

  “This is good,” he said to Mrs Martin. “Thank you.”

  She hugged him.

  “Always welcome, Tadpole. Any time.”

  The memmont nuzzled against him.

  “Up Top isn’t so bad,” he said. “Here, anyway. I like it.”

  “Thank you.”

  The morning was clear and fresh.

  “If it was dark we could see the stars,” said Tadpole.

  “And if I was Tuesday I’d be a barber,” said Martin, who had appeared in the doorway.

  “And if you had a hat for a horse and hare for a hop you’d be a roffle,” said Tadpole.

  They laughed.

  “Goodbye,” said Martin. “Remember, roffles are always welcome here. Especially you.”

  He held out his arm and offered Tadpole the length of cloth that was draped over it.

  “Take it,” he said.

  “What are you doing?” asked Dorwin.

  “None of your business,” said Martin. “Go on, Tadpole. Take it. It’s yours.”

  Tadpole took the dark-green cloth and held it out. “It’s a cloak.”

  “It is. All one piece. I sat up all night weaving it.”

  “You can’t do that,” said Dorwin.

  Martin didn’t look at her. He smiled at Tadpole. “Look, here.” He took the selvedge and showed Tadpole. There was a small memmont woven right into the fabric. “To remind you of the Deep World.”

  Dorwin started to speak again, and Mrs Martin interrupted.

  “We won’t keep you here, though we hate to see you go.”

  Before Tadpole could stop her she had given him a kiss.

  “It’ll keep the rain off,” said her husband.

  “I’ll help with the cart,” said Tadpole.

  Dorwin kissed Mrs Martin, seized the handles and pushed off. “We’ll be quicker if I do it,” she said.

  Tadpole waved goodbye and trotted to keep up. His new cloak felt light and cool, and even hung properly over his roffle pack.

  “How far is it?” he asked.

  “We’ll be there by midday, if we don’t meet any kravvins or takkabakks.”

  “What’s a takkabakk?”

  “As bad as a kravvin. Though they stay nearer to home. They don’t wander far.”

  “Is there a plan?” he asked. “And how did Flaxfield’s house turn into the inn? And how do you know about that? And can someone go back from the inn to Flaxfield’s? And what about the others? Are they all right? And who is Smedge?”

 
; Tadpole didn’t ask all of these questions at once. He was finding it hard to keep up with Dorwin, so his breath came in short bursts. The road was dry now, and easy going. The cart travelled well over the ground.

  “Are you going home or staying?” asked Dorwin.

  “I’m going to stay,” said Tadpole.

  “How did you make up your mind?”

  Tadpole thought about this. Sleep restored his courage. And the good stew. And the breakfast. He felt braver now the rain had stopped, though he wanted to stand in the rain again. As long as he didn’t have to travel in it. And Tamrin. She was only a girl, only his age. And, even though she was some sort of magic thing with Sam, Tadpole thought that if she could fight kravvins, he could.

  They turned a corner, came out of a line of trees and Tadpole saw a house, outbuildings and a column of slender smoke.

  He stopped.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “We’re there.”

  Tadpole hesitated.

  “It looks like a forge,” he said. “Like a blacksmith’s.”

  “Of course it is. What did you expect? Come on.”

  Dorwin agreed to let Tadpole go up to his room as soon as they arrived.

  “My father will want to meet you,” she said.

  “I need to rest,” said Tadpole. “My head hurts.”

  She showed him a small room upstairs. It was simple, plain, comfortable. The bed was soft. The window looked out over fields and a stream. The chair was not too high for a roffle to sit in without discomfort. There were flowers in an earthenware jug and a small table with a marble top. It was all as neat and clean as a roffle room. Tadpole sat in the chair and rummaged in his roffle pack. He brought out the guide to Up Top. There was a list of topics. He had not read them all, but he knew which one he wanted now.

  BLACKSMITHS

  Blacksmiths came before magic.

  Before magic, the most wonderful thing Up Top was the fire in a smith’s shop. Fire melts metal. Fire wraps hard iron round in its arms and gentles it to a willing, moving thing. Fire fills iron with the power of change. And change is magic. And magic is change. In the arms of fire a lump of iron can become a plough, a hook, a brooch, a knife.

  The very first fire, in the very first forge, came from the Deep World. After that, the lessons learned, other fires were lit in other forges. But only one forge kept the roffle fire. It never goes out, day or night, and it’s always attended by a roffle.

  By mistake and by luck, by accident and by experiment, the smith learned that charcoal, added to the iron, heated and folded, heated and folded, would make stronger, sharper, brighter metal.

  And so, the first reflections appeared. In the bowls of spoons. In the blades of knives. On helmets and shields. Rounded, broken, imperfect reflections. Until one smith beat the iron flat, polished it and perfected it, first on a shield, and then, better, flatter, on a mirror, made for a king.

  It was from a smith’s forge that the Up Top people first saw what they looked like when they looked at themselves. The image bounced back at them, doubled and different.

  It was a blacksmith who first brought magic into the world, by the mirror, but that is a story that should not be written down, so I won’t say any more about it here.

  If, by a smith, magic first came into the world, and all the good that magic can do, so, by a smith, came all the evil that magic can work, too.

  Smiths bring good and ill and it is wise to be wary of them until you know them well. They work with fire every day, so they know that it is a good friend and a terrible enemy. Daily, they look into the forge and see the power of fire. Daily, they take metal, drawn from the earth, and make it bend to their hands.

  Without smiths there would be no ploughs, no harrows, no scythes, no shears, no seedtime, no harvest.

  Without smiths there would be no swords, no knives, no spears, no arrows.

  Without smiths there would be no magic, no spells, no double-sight, no looking back.

  Roffles and good smiths know each other and work together.

  If they can.

  If you need help Up Top, you can usually trust a smith.

  Usually.

  It’s different when you’re dealing with wizards, of course.

  It seemed to Tadpole that his ancestor could have been more helpful. That was the problem with this guide. It gave a roffle a lot of useful information, but it raised as many questions as it answered.

  For instance, how was a roffle to know the difference between a good blacksmith and a bad one?

  Dorwin had been kind to him. That was good. He wanted to trust her. But he was uncertain. She had scooped him up, like a tickled trout, and brought him here. She had even, when he dawdled, put him into her cart to get him here.

  He read the page again. It was no help. And another thing: Dorwin had hardly answered any of his questions. Even the wizards were better than she was, and they hadn’t told him half enough.

  Dorwin looked nice. Tadpole remembered Smedge and shuddered. Smedge had looked nice, standing in the doorway, neat and tidy in his uniform, until he had looked in Tadpole’s direction and smiled at Tamrin. Looks were no guide.

  After all, think about December.

  He read the page a third time, and was near the end when he heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. Closing the book quickly, he put it back into his roffle pack, shut the lid, hopped out of the chair and sat on the pack.

  A knock at the door. Three raps, followed by a pause and a fourth.

  “Yes?” said Tadpole.

  “Are you hungry?”

  This was a bit of a stupid question. Roffles are always hungry. Tadpole decided to play a trick.

  “No, thank you. I’m not.”

  “If you’re not hungry, you’re not a roffle. And if you’re not a roffle, you’re not welcome here. You’re some creature come to do us harm.”

  Tadpole cowered from the voice. Deep, resonant and calm, it should have soothed him, but the words promised danger.

  “And if you’ve come to do us harm, then I’d better harm you first.”

  The door flew open and Smith stood framed in it. He was broad and tall, sleeves rolled up to show thick arms. The scent of smoke flowed from his leather apron. He held a short hammer in his left hand.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked again.

  “Starving,” said Tadpole.

  Smith laughed.

  “I thought so. Come and eat.”

  Smith stood aside. Tadpole hoisted his roffle pack, dodged past him and scooted downstairs. He was sitting at the table, next to Dorwin, before Smith was halfway down.

  Smith laid the hammer on a dark-oak chest and sat at the head of the table. He carved a rib of beef with a long knife that was so sharp it passed through without pause or sound.

  “Eat some greens as well,” said Smith.

  Greens were not Tadpole’s favourite food and he took only a little.

  Smith ignored him after that and spoke to Dorwin as though Tadpole wasn’t there.

  “I wasn’t expecting a roffle,” he said.

  “No,” said Dorwin. “I thought it was a mistake, at first. Perhaps he’d just popped up from some roffle hole I hadn’t spotted. Then it was clear. He had come from Flaxfield’s, through the study.”

  “It seems wrong. I was expecting one of the wizards.”

  “Yes. Or, if things went badly, a kravvin.”

  Smith took his time to chew a large piece of red beef.

  “No, not a kravvin. I doubt they could come through the study. But Smedge.”

  “Yes.”

  “Or,” he said, “worse thing, even Ash herself.”

  “But it was a roffle.”

  Tadpole found it irritating that they were ignoring him and he ate with a sullen air. It did mean that he was learning things, though, so he kept quiet.

  “That was what made me decide it was right,” said Dorwin. “It was so unexpected that it had to be right.”

  “Did you wait for anyone else t
o come through?”

  “No. There was ill feeling at the inn, so I set off quickly.”

  “Good.” He cut more meat and put some on Tadpole’s plate without asking if he wanted it.

  “Have another batter pudding if you take more greens as well,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  Tadpole took the biggest batter pudding from the dish, and the smallest possible spoon of greens.

  “Did he tell you what happened?” asked Smith.

  “No. And I didn’t ask him. He was too frightened. Too shocked.”

  “I’d rather hear him tell it himself, anyway.”

  “Yes. But he did say it was awful. And he said that Tamrin told him to fight.”

  “Tamrin said that?”

  “Yes. That was how I knew I could trust him.”

  Tadpole pointed his fork at her.

  “You didn’t think you could trust me?” he demanded.

  “Don’t point your fork,” she said.

  “Sorry.” He lowered it. “Of course you can trust me. I didn’t know if I could trust you.” Tadpole gave a sideways look at the smith as well.

  “And you really don’t think you can trust me, do you?” said the man.

  Tadpole looked down. “No,” he said.

  “Stay like that,” said Smith. “It’s good protection.”

  “So I shouldn’t trust you?” asked Tadpole.

  “Not until you’ve got good reason. No.”

  Tadpole looked at Dorwin for help. He didn’t know what to do, what to say.

  “He’s right,” she said. “Generally. But, you know, sometimes, you just have to make up your mind about a person. How do they seem? Is there anything we can do that will make you trust us?”

  Tadpole thought about this. He reached into his jerkin and took out the tooth on the thong. He handed it to Smith.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  Smith looked at it, turned it over in his hand, sniffed it.

  “Who gave it to you?”

  “A friend.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  This wasn’t an easy question. Delver had given him a tooth, said to be a dragon’s tooth, which it wasn’t. So, he’d let Tadpole down. But did Delver know it wasn’t?

  “Well?” asked Smith. “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was it given to you as?”

  Tadpole blushed. This was getting worse.

  “I don’t want to say.”