The Beginning Woods

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The Beginning Woods Page 19

by Malcolm McNeill


  Then the road was widening, changing from packed earth to paved stone. Human life began to bustle around them. Building sites replaced the farms. On either side of the road, swarms of workers were digging trenches and laying foundations. One after another, they passed the timber frames of townhouses, each more complete than the last. Further along the wooden skeletons were being filled in with bricks and windows and topped off with tiles and chimneys. Finally, new townhouses stood shoulder to shoulder, covered with ropes and pulleys, tarpaulins and scaffolds, as painters and decorators added their finishing touches.

  Not one of the workers noticed the Wolf. They were themselves passengers on a beast of much greater size, caught up in the frenzy of the city’s growth as it uncurled a fresh tentacle towards the trees.

  At last the new road gave way to established rows of townhouses, shops and markets. Here the city was fully alive, the road jammed with tradesmen pushing barrows, shepherds herding livestock, and darting children. Horses were everywhere, stallions tacked to carriages and shaggy nags hauling wagons—the clatter of wheels and hoofs on cobblestones was deafening. Most of all there was mud, spattering the shop-boards, soaking the hems of dresses and spoiling the polished boots of well-to-do gentlemen.

  Through the city the Dozen Wolf ran, an intruder from the trees. Horses shied and dogs flattened themselves—but not one of the Forest Folk turned their heads in its direction. Like the builders, their attention was elsewhere. On themselves. On business. On clocks and shops. Only a troupe of battling schoolboys dropped their fists and raced after them, their eyes wide, their socks slipping round their ankles…

  The day the Wolf ran by!

  THE PEACOCK FEATHER CON

  The journey ended somewhere near Charing Cross.

  It was difficult to tell where exactly, in this Woods version of London, because the Dozen Wolf began moving through back streets, loping down one alleyway after another. When it finally stopped they were in a deserted passage shadowed from the sky by the close-leaning buildings.

  It trotted past two small establishments, a pie-maker’s and a feather-merchant (both with CLOSED FOR EISTEDDFOD signs on the door), and stopped outside a large window. Under a thin crust of frost, Max could just make out the black letters etched into the glass:

  He slid off the Wolf’s back, and it immediately loped away. Max felt Martha stir within him, but it was a dim, faint voice he heard.

  Where’s he going?

  He’ll be back. He wants to tell Mrs Jeffers about Gilead.

  Why?

  Because of the electricity. He says the Coven need to be informed as soon as possible.

  Oh.

  She sank away from him, pale and lifeless, more like a ghost than ever.

  But he couldn’t worry about her right now. The Dark Man had told him the owner of this bookshop had important information about the Dragon Fire. And if anyone knew about the Hot Air Balloons, this was the man.

  Except he wasn’t really a man, of course.

  He was a Wind Giant.

  Before going in, he flattened a gloved hand against the glass and scraped at the frosty pane. Peering through, he saw a display of beautiful books with polished covers. The golden thread of lettering glittered prettily as a lantern hanging from a chain cast its light over the mosaic of spines.

  The centrepiece of the display was a Storybook, lying open on a stand. He saw the handwriting with a jolt of recognition.

  Porterholse…

  Could it be that Porterholse was the Wind Giant he had come to meet?

  That unusual face he’d seen at the window of the Book House… he thought he’d imagined it. Had it been the face of a Wind Giant? Hiding upstairs, away from New Light?

  He moved quickly towards the door.

  Wind Giant or not, at last he would meet the creator of the Storybooks!

  A bell jangled, and then he was pushing through a musty curtain into a spacious, book-lined room. Candles guttered in the rushing exchange of warm air for cold, and he quickly reached back to close the door behind him. As he unbuttoned his coat and removed his gloves, his nostrils filled with the delicious smell of gingerbread, tea and burning logs, and the acidic pong of chemicals.

  It was a large, comfortable room, snugly furnished, with something curious in every corner. Apart from the shelves, which groaned under the weight of their books, rolls of parchment tied with ribbons were stacked neatly in pigeonholes along the walls. Between them, hand-drawn maps hung in wooden frames, and a heavy desk covered in papers, quills and inkpots stood imposingly in one corner. Round the crackling fire three armchairs waited complete with cushions, footstools and woollen rugs, lacking only people to sit in them. A silver tea service was positioned beside each armchair, loaded with sandwiches, cakes and biscuits, cutlery and china. And there, on the mantelpiece above the hearth, stood the sole survivor of the Book House—the iron pig, its butchery regions scorched from the flames.

  “Oh-ho!” said a voice. “You must be Max. Welcome to Briarback Books! You’re right on time!”

  It took him a moment to locate the speaker, as only half his head was visible, poked round one of the doors on the far side of the room. When Max did, he felt a moment of disappointment. This was not the face he’d seen at the window of the Book House. It was much thinner, to begin with, and very weather-beaten, like its owner had done a lot of exploring. All his hair seemed to have been frazzled away by the sun, apart from his eyebrows, which were bushy and white.

  “Endymion Rees, map-maker and ink-mixer, at your service,” the half-a-head announced. “At your service, at least, the moment I’ve finished straining these tea leaves. Lunch is nearly ready. No doubt you’ll be famished—I know what Furthingale’s breakfasts are like. Frugal doesn’t even begin to describe them!” The half-a-head looked past Max and round the room. “But where are Mrs Jeffers and Doctor Peshkov?”

  “It’s just me,” Max said. “He dropped me off.” He hesitated. “The Wolf did.”

  “The Wolf?” said Endymion, seeming startled. “The Dozen Wolf was here? In the city? Whatever for?”

  “We were… in a bit of a rush.”

  “But why didn’t you just take the carriage from the Dormitory? I sent one this morning. Didn’t it arrive?”

  “We didn’t come from Marylebone. We were at Gilead.”

  “Gilead? What in the Woods were you doing up there? No, don’t answer. Wait a moment.”

  The head twisted upwards, quartering itself to nothing more than a chin, and roared at the ceiling. “GUSTAV! STOP BLOWING AROUND UP THERE AND COME DOWN!”

  In the rooms above a window slid down with a crash and a voice cannoned back: “BLOWING AROUND? WHOOOSH! HOLD YOUR NOISE, YOU DOG!”

  Footsteps boomed across the ceiling and down some stairs, and with a CRASH that shook the shelves, a door on the far side of the room was flung open and a man of immense stature appeared, something like a cross between a Professor, Saturn, and a Polystyrene Bag.

  It was him.

  The man at the window.

  Porterholse, the Wind Giant.

  It was no wonder he had hidden himself away. His appearance would have caused mass panic in the World. His skin was alabaster-white with a slight translucence, like marble or quartz, and his black, neatly combed hair was so thin it seemed scribbled in ink across his scalp. Every thread and button of his clothes strained under the massive internal pressure of a body that had swollen far beyond its natural dimensions, and was swelling still.

  “HOW many times do I have to tell you, Endymion Rees?” he roared, each word a clap of thunder. “When I’m sending out the Wind I’m not to be disturbed. WHOOSH! What will the windmills do? And the kites and the clouds? HUFF-PUFF! And the birds that like to soar and glide? They will PLUMMET TO THE GROUND!”

  “But our guest is here, you great idiot, you useless, lazy, bag of nothing!” howled Endymion, turning purple and flapping his tea-strainer at Max.

  “Wh-what? Ah-ha!” cried Porterholse, all his
anger vanishing as he noticed Max for the first time. His features broke into a smile, and he advanced, hands outstretched. “Hello at last, dear boy! Oh my, what a day! HUFF-PUFF! Welcome to the Woods! WHOO-O-O-OSH!”

  Max leant forwards to stop being swept off his feet by the gale-force greeting. With every WHOOSH and HUFFPUFF gusts of Wind swirled through the room, disturbing sheets of paper, rattling the shelves and fluttering the pages of books.

  “STOP it—WILL you stop it!” screamed Endymion, hopping from one foot to the other and holding his head in despair. “For pity’s sake, can’t you STOP with that damnable hurricane-ing?”

  It was remarkable to watch. As the air huffed out of him Porterholse deflated and his clothes slowly sagged with relief, becoming loose and baggy.

  “You know I can’t help it,” he snapped, tightening his belt seven or eight notches and tucking his shirt tails back in. “The Wind Within gets agitated whenever I do. It’s the way the Wizards made me.”

  “Well… learn a bit of self-control,” Endymion grumbled. “Go to a psychomotherapractologisteopath! Anything!”

  Porterholse ignored him and pumped Max’s hand enthusiastically.

  “Welcome to our little bookshop, welcome! Sit by the fire, you must be frozen! Lunch is ready, just as requested!” He looked round, frowning suddenly. “But where are Mrs Jeffers and Doctor Peshkov? They’ve not gone for victuals, have they? I gave them strict instructions to do no such thing. The shops are closed in any case.”

  “They’re not here at all,” Endymion said. “For some reason this one’s been up at Gilead.”

  “He’s been where?” Porterholse asked indignantly.

  “Gilead,” said Endymion. “It’s an isolated little village, about a day out of London. He came here on the Dozen Wolf.”

  “What in the Woods are you doing loping about on that Great Golloper?” Porterholse asked, turning to Max. “We sent a perfectly good carriage to collect—”

  “I TOLD HIM THAT ALREADY! Aren’t you listening? He hasn’t come from Marylebone! And take a look at him! He’s filthy! If anyone has been in the Woods, this one has!”

  Porterholse looked at Max as if seeing him for the first time.

  “My dear boy,” he whispered, “is everything all right? Sit down, sit down, and tell us all about it!”

  By the time the last cakes had been demolished and the teapot drained, Porterholse and Endymion knew it all from start to finish. What shocked them most of all was that New Light had come to Gilead.

  “I told you so!” Porterholse said. “Didn’t I tell you? WHOOSH! Something is happening in the Woods. HUFF-PUFF! The Winds bring strange tidings every day.”

  “Pooh! Those Winds of yours are the worst gossip-mongers and storytellers of the lot!”

  “This is different. You’ve heard the rumours.”

  Endymion flapped his hand. “They’re not about electricity. They’re about—eh—” he hesitated and glanced at Max “—they’re about the… Arboghast draconium.”

  “Indeed they are! And what’s he just told us? A Dragon only a few miles north of Marylebone?”

  “It’s nearly time for their annual migration. The Dragons all head south during migration.”

  “Not until the Full Moon they don’t!”

  “You know how stupid Dragons are. Maybe they’re… lost.”

  “Lost?” Porterholse exclaimed. “LOST?”

  “Or hiding from this electricity.”

  “We can’t have Dragons coming near villages, it would be a disaster! Who knows what would happen? One breath from a Dragon and you’re—”

  Endymion coughed loudly and glared at Porterholse.

  “Ahahaha! WHOOSH! But not dangerous for YOU, dear boy!” the Wind Giant added hastily. “NO! HUFF-PUFF! You, of course, have nothing to fear from the Dragon Fire. Nothing at all!”

  Max leant forwards in his chair. This was what he’d really wanted to get to. “Boris thinks so too. He says he’s sure.”

  “We are all sure,” said Porterholse, nodding. “Fairly sure.”

  “Quite sure,” nodded Endymion.

  “How, though?” Max asked.

  Porterholse stared at him. “But—don’t you know?” He glared at Endymion. “Has nobody told him about the Soul Searcher?”

  “THAT’S WHAT THIS ENTIRE LUNCH WAS SUPPOSED TO BE ABOUT!” Endymion burst out in exasperation. “You insisted YOURSELF on telling him. Because the whole thing was YOUR IDEA! And you wanted to COVER yourself in glory!”

  “What nonsense!” Porterholse retorted. “I insisted on no such thing.” He seemed mightily upset by the suggestion and took a moment to collect himself.

  “Wait for it…” muttered Endymion.

  “The situation being what it is, however,” Porterholse continued, folding his hands across his stomach.

  “Here it comes…”

  “I can see it falls to me to explain our plan. To remedy any confusion.”

  “How convenient,” Endymion said. “Just keep it short, will you?”

  Porterholse turned to Max, smiling fondly.

  “All of us, dear boy, Mrs Jeffers and I, Doctor Peshkov and Endymion Rees here, have long pondered the question of how to draw back the veil of mystery that shrouds your beginning. Our first idea, for which I claim no personal credit even though I thought of it, was to ask the Soul Searchers for assistance. They work for the Dragon Hunters, but they live in the World. They are odd folk. Half of the Woods. Half of the World. Truly at ease in neither. Perhaps this is what makes them so good at what they do.”

  “What do they do?” Max asked.

  “That,” Porterholse said, “is a secret so secret I couldn’t put it in the Storybooks, and it’s so terribly important it remains secret that I must ask you to take an oath before all you hold sacred—”

  “Cut the drama!” Endymion howled. “It’s a secret! Enough! Good Heaven’s above get on with it you big Wind Bag!”

  “Very well,” said Porterholse stiffly. “Max, I will give you an example. There is a little Indian woman, an old thing shrivelled up like a walnut, sitting outside a Tottenham Court Road Tube station in London. She sells peacock feathers. Most people pass her by without noticing her. But now and again someone sees her and decides to buy one of her feathers, if only to fall into conversation with this interesting character. ‘How much for a feather, please?’ they ask, and they wait for some piece of wisdom to drop from her lips, a word of ancient knowledge passed down through generations. ‘A buck and a half!’ she snarls, really sticking it to them with the half. Worse, she starts to complain, just some moaning nonsense about the weather, or her bones, or the noise of traffic. She snatches their money and produces, from a hidden location among the beautiful feathers, the thinnest, mangiest feather imaginable, and they carry on their way, bitterly disappointed. What they don’t see is that the little Indian woman is no longer sitting down with her bundle. No, she’s writing something in a notebook she keeps tied to her wrist with an old bootlace.”

  Porterholse stopped suddenly, beaming and blinking.

  “You have to ask him what she’s writing,” Endymion muttered, clasping his forehead.

  “What’s she writing?” Max asked.

  “She’s making notes about their soul,” Porterholse said. “While they stand there listening to her complaints, she takes a good, long look into the depths of their being. She’s able to tell what sort of stories their soul is crying out for. When her notebook is full, off she goes to the Beginning Woods, to report to the Tuileries, the headquarters of the Dragon Hunters. And they see from the Soul Searcher’s notes what kinds of stories are needed in the World.”

  “And then they make the Storybooks?”

  “Yes. In great secrecy. We don’t know where, and nobody knows what happens to the Storybooks afterwards. But every story ends up in the World, where it begins to do its work.”

  “And you sent a Soul Searcher to look into my soul?”

  “We did. At the opening of the B
ook House.”

  Max remembered the pale, brown-eyed man who had spoken to him as he sat on the windowsill.

  “What did he see? Did he see where I came from?”

  “No. He saw something in the other direction, as it were. Where you were going. A prophecy. A great and terrible prophecy!”

  “What of?” Max asked.

  “He saw you facing a terrible monster with gleaming teeth. He said you would do something so brave it would change the World for ever.”

  “And when I faced this danger, I would survive?” Max asked intently.

  “Yes. He said that part of it was very clear. Not only would you survive, but your survival would be a kind of miracle.”

  “He didn’t see anything about my Forever Parents?” Max asked quickly. “Or about Balloons?”

  “Oh Lord,” Endymion groaned. “Please don’t ask him about Balloons.”

  “No, do!” Porterholse beamed. “I love Balloons! I love to huff and puff them across the land! Nothing is better to gust at than a big colourful Balloon! WHOOSH!”

  Max quickly explained about his dream—about the Hot Air Balloon, his Forever Parents and the Panthalassa Ocean. Porterholse and Endymion listened closely. When he’d finished, they glanced at each other.

  “I’ve never heard of anyone called Panthalassa,” Porterholse said. “What do you think, Endymion?”

  “I’ll tell you straight off what I think,” said the map-maker, looking directly at Max with a serious gaze. “If the Panthalassa Ocean is your other avenue of investigation, I’d take your chances in the Dragon Fire.”

  “Why?” Max asked. “Is it dangerous?”

  “Not especially. From your point of view, it’s something worse: it’s enormous.”

  Endymion lifted one of the framed maps off the wall and passed it to Max. It was just like the Pangaea map he’d seen in the school geography textbook. At the top in beautiful scrolled letters was the title: The Beginning Woods. Underneath was a single continent, divided only by thin passages of water. Leaning over him, Endymion drew a finger around the gigantic continent.

 

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