Rotherweird

by Andrew Caldecott

  Somehow Ferensen had managed to keep still enough to avoid electrocution, and he, like Orelia, watched the proceedings with horrified fascination. In the eerie silence Orelia felt extraneous, redeemed of any further obligation to intervene. The cage was in place and the boom swung towards the mixing-point as if drawn by the magnetic pull of the stones. Seconds before the cage disappeared, Sir Veronal flung wide his arms and roared.

  Then silence. The chain juddered and went slack. Nobody moved. Even the cataclysmic sky seemed peripheral.

  Minutes later the boom swung out again of its own accord, as if the mixing-point knew its work was done. The cage was intact and Sir Veronal apparently untouched.

  ‘Down!’ he shouted. ‘Down! It’s done. I felt it! Down! Down! Then you’ll see—’

  Ferox yanked the rope and let the cage descend a few yards before yanking again. Despite Sir Veronal’s impatience, an air of anti-climax prevailed: nothing had ostensibly changed.

  Then, halfway down, Ferox abruptly halted the descent. Ferensen and Orelia could do no more than gape as the slit of Sir Veronal’s mouth turned into a vertical O. With a strangled cry of ‘What’s happening?’, his ears and nose retracted into his face and his fingers merged, one with the other. As his clothes burst away from his body, other features dissolved and mutated: fur changed to hide to scales – and then, as quickly, he returned to normal, screaming at Ferox, only for the process to resume: tusks, teeth, beaks, legs, wings and talons came and went at extraordinary

  speed.

  Soon he had no recognisable body, only a heaving mass of different parts, fleetingly conjoined. As the monstrosity grew, the cage swung crazily from side to side. The titanium bars started buckling and twisting before the cage fell apart, and the ever-changing mass that was Sir Veronal Slickstone fell too.

  At the last mutation Sir Veronal briefly reappeared, diminished and naked, on all fours. ‘But Wynter—’ he hissed, ‘—how?’

  Then he slid into nothing but gore and gristle.

  Nobody had moved. The horrific process had been too swift and too savage.

  Ferox’s face wore a chilling smirk, as if he had known all along how the frantic sequence of transformations would end. He retrieved the stones from the remnants of the cage. Orelia sensed a malignant hand from the past, and some deeper mystery, but she could not work out who or how or why.

  Ferox suddenly made an extraordinary keening noise, an animal cry of victory, before bounding away across the snow, sometimes upright, sometimes dipping to all fours.

  The lightning round Ferensen flickered and died. He went to Orelia and released her. ‘Are you all right, dear girl?’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I don’t know – everything here is in flux.’

  ‘But Ferox – did you see Ferox?’

  ‘I fear nothing is quite what it seems. We will have to unravel.’ He paused, his face sliding into panic. ‘But first I have business to attend to. Avoid the forest, whatever you do. There was a cave at the end of the meadowland – look for that.’

  Ferensen was looking distracted, as if Sir Veronal’s death were an irrelevance.

  ‘But what happened?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . later . . . later.’ Ignoring his own instruction, Ferensen ran off towards the forest and was soon swallowed up by the snow-covered grass.

  Orelia had dreamed of an epic battle: her youth against Slickstone’s lightning, revenge for the death of her aunt. Instead, she had been a mere onlooker. She did not relish staying near the mixing-point, but equally she had no intention of returning to Ferox’s cave. Fine silvery lines were crisscrossing the sky like veins on a pottery glaze.

  She was marooned in a world on the edge of self-destruction with no way out. She saw only one course of action. Skipping lightly across the snow, childlike, she set out to explore.

  *

  Back at the stream at the forest edge, Ferensen took stock, preoccupied only with his sister. Where would Morval go? If he knew she was here and alive, the converse must be true. Perhaps she was not yet ready to face her own kind; perhaps she feared she would endanger him. Perhaps, maybe, perhaps. He settled on a destination: his own place of martyrdom, the grim lake high in the forest.

  The spider, anxious for a first kill in its old form, watched. It recognised the face from the domed ceiling. If it could not have the woman, it would have her mate. But the man was nimble and carried a weapon. Stalk him, it thought, stalk him until he tires. And then . . . like the others so long ago . . .

  *

  When Salt awoke, the snow had slackened to a few isolated flakes. The cold had pockmarked the outside with tiny crystals. He scraped the bubble’s skin and took off, but soon the crystals reformed and he was riding blind. With regret at vandalising an invention that had served him so well, he kicked out the entry door. He now had an open view, but at a cost: eyebrows and hair turned white as sensation dwindled. He clenched and unclenched his hands, moving his head from side to side. He lifted first one leg and then the other; he had to keep moving if he were not to freeze to death.

  Thanks to Ferensen, he knew where to go. He kept the forest on his left until he came to an immense tree with ropes hanging from its highest branch. Nearby, the telltale patch of sky slid this way and that. He landed the bubble, and as he did so, the power finally failed.

  The bloodstained snow suggested much activity, but he found no body and nothing alive, only two shattered cages. He didn’t investigate; time was running out. He advanced towards the mixing-point, pausing briefly when a high reedy noise made him look up. The hairline fissures in the sky appeared to be widening from horizon to horizon, and reddening too. Armageddon.

  By the tree, Salt despaired. The single pulley had broken and the lower branches were too high to climb, even without the handicap of the fragile stem entwined around his arm. He saw no way to access the mixing-point.

  He flinched as his upper arm prickled and the bud quivered. Half in wonder, half in horror, Salt saw the mixing-point come to him: slivers of light, oscillating, grey-green in colour, detached themselves – a few at first, but soon the whole mixing-point was on the move, ribbons of light dancing around him. He was transfigured, numinous. He felt no pain, just a rearrangement of his being – muscle and stem, plant and man, merged and mixed. He felt the single bud explode and multiply as thought gave way to sensory awareness. He could no longer see ground or sky, but felt them instead – the texture and taste of earth, the movement of air, temperature.

  He and the midsummer flower were one. He was the Green Man, Lost Acre’s last hope.

  The veins in the sky were now crimson. In the open meadowland, a column of red rose from the ground like a fiery door. Salt felt the warmth calling him. Slowly the Green Man edged towards it, more tree than plant, all foliage and twisted branches covered in flower.

  13

  The Play’s the Thing

  Rhombus Smith surveyed the tiers of seats. They’d been well tenanted already by parents, staff and children for the Prizegiving; now they were filling to capacity with those who had only come for the Midsummer Fair play. The Inner Circle, the clump of oaks in the centre of the Island Field, surrounded the auditorium, offering shade to the upper tiers. Beneath the trees, roped-off areas protected the Rotherweird eglantine from trespassing feet in accordance with the Botany Regulations.

  The Headmaster heaved a sigh of relief. His ghastly duties were almost done. Opposite, in the middle, Snorkel and his retinue sat in an enclosed area. A drape with the Mayoral arms hung beneath it: in all but name the Royal Box.

  ‘School Prize for Art – Miss Vine.’

  To the Headmaster’s displeasure, Art came last, Science first, for Science made the money. There remained but one award, the social kiss of death in perpetuity, which he reserved for the most obnoxious pupil in the School.

  ‘Last but not least,’ said Rhombus Smith in mock-heroic voice, ‘the Knapweed Good Conduct Cup goes to—’

  On the apron sta
ge behind him a large cave advanced on wheels, propelled by Gwen Ferdy and Ned Guley inside it. Gawgy’s costume hung from the roof. They stopped by the tiny cross Oblong had left on the stage – a professional touch, he felt – and turned their attention to the dry-ice machine.

  Backstage, behind a plush purple curtain, Oblong gathered the rest of his cast as the unfortunate recipient of the Knapweed Cup made the long walk.

  The costumes of the Knight and his page, arranged by Sir Veronal, were splendid: shimmering chainmail emblazoned with weasels rampant, Slickstone’s gold, Collier in silver. They carried a long shiny box between them.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Oblong.

  ‘The Hammer.’

  ‘May I see it?’

  ‘You will, sir, you will.’

  Oblong smiled wanly. He could not afford a showdown, not so close to curtain-up. Angie Bevins, also fitted out at Sir Veronal’s expense, looked pretty as a picture in a yellow shift with a green girdle.

  ‘We’re gonna fight for you,’ said Rodney with a swagger.

  ‘Give that monster what for,’ added Collier.

  ‘Oh, Sir Rodney,’ Angie simpered.

  ‘Make believe, make believe,’ Oblong reminded his cast.

  Finch joined them in a long fur coat, moleskin breeches and leather boots. He looked like a rat-catcher. As Rhombus Smith bowed to modest applause, audience conversation dwindled to an expectant hush. Oblong’s poetic interests were known; expectations were high. His doomed dalliance with Cecily Sheridan suggested an artistic temperament.

  Oblong ambled on stage, as by tradition the Form Master did the introductions. ‘The Monster and the Midsummer Maid,’ he declared.

  A rhythmic beat started, quiet at first, but gathering volume. Smoke poured from the mouth of the cave as Finch inched forward like a pantomime villain. Oblong wondered if he had been wise to allow the Herald to miss rehearsals, but Marmion Finch brought true surprise. Nobody had expected an adult, let alone the most mysterious recluse in town. Even Snorkel sat up.

  Marmion Finch exploited the expectation to the full. He glared. He licked his lips like a vampire come to dine. His delivery was offhand, yet compelling.

  ‘Beyond Civilisation’s cultured reach

  In a cavernous lair of moss and stone,

  Uncomforted by laughter, love or speech,

  A dark eyed monster sits – and broods – alone.

  The air is so still in the midsummer heat –

  A tune from the band you see standing there

  Drifts all the way to the monster’s retreat.

  Where its heart is touched, and the soul laid bare –

  Time to be going to Rotherweird Fair.’

  The band struck up a haunting tune. Through the smoke Gawgy emerged, a dragon stained dark by its own smoke, and did a circuit of the stage before returning to the cave. More dry ice, and mild applause.

  Marmion Finch turned stage right.

  ‘As a village beauty passes the hours,

  Wreathing a necklace of daisy flowers . . .’

  Angie Bevins, a model of adolescent angst, did a passable imitation of Ophelia mad, gathering imaginary blooms with one hand, still grooming her hair with the other.

  ‘I gather willowherb and rue,

  Bindweed and the cornflower blue . . .’

  Collier passed by, warning Angie Bevins of the danger. She checked for split ends by way of response.

  Re-enter Gawgy, its plyboard jaws clacking open and shut. Guley and Gwen had rehearsed hard, and the creature had an air of predatory menace. Angie screamed with irritating coyness, the monster closed, and the audience hissed. A reassuring sign of engagement, thought Oblong, peering from behind the curtain.

  Inside, the costume was stifling. ‘They’re coming,’ whispered Guley from the head. Crouching with her hands on his hips, Gwen could do no more than grunt. In the wings Oblong flapped his arms, pointing frantically. Collier, still carrying the wooden box, looked more railway porter than equerry. Finch continued, unaware of developments behind him.

  Rodney Slickstone eyed the monster with loathing – countrysiders, peasants with airs and graces. He had also scanned the audience – no sign of either of his stand-in parents. They clearly thought him incapable of a worthwhile performance. He would show them. He would teach Gwen Ferdy the meaning of respect.

  He took out the Hammer and flicked a switch. The Hammer whined like a chainsaw, the edges glinting as they spun.

  The music stopped sooner than Oblong’s direction dictated. Through Gawgy’s narrow slit eyes Guley could not see the knight.

  ‘Help!’ shrieked Gwen, ‘What’s that noise?’

  ‘Run!’ shouted Guley, ‘Right! Jump left!’ They did so as Sir Rodney’s first swipe took off Gawgy’s right ear.

  Megan Ferdy, well placed in the front row, fumbled desperately for the remote control as the knight closed for the kill.

  Guley could see himself being cornered in the wings. He had to keep central. ‘Reverse!’ he cried.

  Angie Bevins finally achieved what her director had striven to conjure for weeks – an earsplitting scream – and the audience froze. These were high-level special effects. The music stuttered again as Sir Rodney lunged at Gawgy, and Megan flicked the switch onto maximum power.

  The Hammer flew from the knight’s hand in a shower of sparks, and Rodney swore as saw-teeth, still spinning, gouged the stage. Then Gawgy’s electrics fused, smoke and sparks engulfing the inside of the costume.

  ‘That’s enough, Rodders,’ stammered Collier, but Rodney ignored him. He retrieved the Hammer and closed for the kill, fending off Finch with a scything swing. Gwen and Guley, twisting and turning to locate their adversary, tripped over each other, and Gawgy fell in a cat’s cradle of sparking wires and the ribbons of a shredded costume.

  Nobody moved. This fight was too primal for intervention.

  Oblong, gaping in horror at the wreckage of his masterpiece, sensed an alien presence behind him before he heard it – the threshing of leaves in a gale, and a dragging sound, as if a giant broom were sweeping the boards. Past the make-up tent came an apparition: a walking tree, or almost a tree, with boughs where arms would be, a division in the lower trunk for legs, and a ball of dense foliage for a crown. The whole was wreathed in flowers.

  Oblong moved to intercept it when he remembered Ferensen’s note – ‘expect surprises in the theatre, allow all entrances and exits.’ He checked and drew the curtain back to allow the treeman to pass.

  The effect was electric. Even Rodney Slickstone stopped and gawped. His finger slid off the power switch and the Hammer went silent. Only Marmion Finch made a positive move: he opened his right arm in a gesture of reverence.

  The fragrance of blossom settled on the audience, soothing and rich. Then came a hum, the hum of bees, suddenly everywhere, moving from the flowers of the Rotherweird eglantine in the shadier patches of the Inner Circle to the tree and back.

  Megan Ferdy had watched the Green Man pass in astonishment. She had warned her husband of the need for perfect timing. She left her seat and ran to the tent, its sign now up.

  Salt in his new extrasensory world could neither hear nor see the bees, but he felt a profound sense of fulfilment as pollen was exchanged between the blossom he carried and the flowers of the Rotherweird eglantine, a millennial marriage recorded in the church tower fresco.

  Rodney recovered his bearings. This ridiculous creature with its effeminate flowers and twisted human shape must be the god of the countrysiders. He must bring it down. He did not bother to restart the Hammer. He lifted the weapon and plunged it into the trunk.

  Rodney Slickstone had stabbed his share of innocents and had never been worsted, but he felt a flicker of foreboding as the Green Man staggered back, sap bleeding from the wound. A spasm shook the tree. The Hammer, wrenched from his hand, fell to the stage, twisted and useless. Pain knifed through Salt, spiritual as well as physical.

  Rodney Slickstone turned to bellow his triumph
to the audience: the monster vanquished, countrysiders cringing, their god slinking off in defeat.

  But no words came – bees flew into his mouth and nostrils; they did not sting, because they had no need. Air was denied him. His cheeks turned blue, as he tried desperately to cough and spit out his attackers, but they adhered like glue.

  Within minutes the bees departed, back to their ordered lives, leaving a body entirely without blemish.

  The Green Man had already departed, its gait fast and urgent. A doctor clambered onstage, checked the boy’s pulse and shook his head gravely. The audience came to life, most reinterpreting events by stereotype: the tree man as the monster had surely attacked the boy, who had responded in self-defence. The bees had been largely missed, so sudden and violent had been the action. Men and women hurried down from their seats; one grabbed the twisted shaft of the Hammer and others brandished chairs.

  ‘Now!’ cried Megan Ferdy, peering from the opened flap of the tent, and they rushed out, clasping an open barrel of the sacred Hammer. The unique aroma of the Hammer mixed with the lingering scent of the Green Man’s blossom – all the allure of lotus, ambrosia and forbidden fruit. Gwen and Guley followed behind, carrying trays laden with tiny thimbles of the same brew. Ferdy allowed himself a minute of wonder as he watched the Green Man head for the river.

  Snorkel looked at the chaotic scene, appalled – one dead juvenile and a grotesque production, directed by an outsider, where the monster appeared to have won.

  Ferdy needed no call for calm, for the aroma was beginning to work its magic. The stage cleared for him. ‘The Journeyman’s Gist is open backstage. A little for everyone, and children too – first come, first served.’

  ‘A tot for the tots,’ added the Herald, ‘and they’ll sleep like angels.’

  He and Oblong, immune to the Hammer’s siren charms thanks to prior exposure, assisted in its distribution.

  Snorkel’s political nostrils processed the scent. He seized the megaphone as his own resistance faded, just managing to declare, ‘Drinks courtesy of the Town Hall!’ before joining the surge backstage.