by Toby Forward
“You keep following me,” she said.
He pointed to the sword handle.
“I haven’t moved.”
It was time to try something different.
“Do you know where the door is?” she asked.
“Oh, yes. Of course.”
“Show me.”
“Please.”
Tamrin wanted to slap him.
“Please,” she said.
He didn’t move from his barrel.
“You’re not saying it as though you mean it,” he said. “But I suppose it’ll do.”
Tamrin waited for him to move.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“I don’t want to tell you.”
“I can’t show a stranger the door, can I?”
“Tamrin.”
“Hello, Tamrin. I’m Solder.”
She nodded.
“You mean Megasolder,” she said. “All roffle names begin with Mega.”
She smiled to show she had won a point from him.
“Well,” he said, “my real name, in the Deep World, is Megapolitifricabilitihitti. You can call me that if you like. But most people call me Solder.”
Tamrin scowled at him.
“You have to say, “Hello, Solder,” he said. “It’s polite.”
He was cheerful. And that made him even more irritating. Tamrin forced herself.
“Hello, Solder.”
He hopped off his barrel and hauled it on to his back.
“This way.”
Tamrin didn’t follow him.
“Are you coming with me?”
“That’s not the way.”
He sighed.
“How do you know?”
Tamrin pointed to her glowing footprints.
“Oh, that,” he said. “You shouldn’t have followed those.”
“They’re the way I came in,” she said.
“If you follow me, I’ll tell you what’s wrong,” he offered, and set off.
Tamrin watched him disappear round the corner. She hesitated. There was no other way she could think of, so she ran after him.
“Wait.”
She caught him up.
“What’s wrong with the footprints?” she asked.
“You think they’re showing you the way you’ve walked, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“They’re really showing you the way you will walk in the future.”
“That’s not the spell I made.”
“No, it’s the reflection of the spell you made. It bounced back at you, like a hammer—”
“Like a hammer from an anvil,” she finished his sentence.
He grinned at her.
“You’ve been talking to Smith,” he said.
“Yes. Yes, I have.”
“What do you think of him?”
The piles of scrap metal were different here. Household junk – the mangles, the oven doors, the lamp brackets, pots, pans and hinges – were less frequent. Broken swords, dented helmets, shields, breastplates, twisted armour took their place.
Tamrin stopped and ran her finger over the articulated iron of a knee-protector.
Solder waited.
“Is this stuff older?” she asked.
“Some of it.”
He found a spearhead and prodded the pile.
“We’ve been walking a long time.”
“It’s a big storeroom.”
She looked up at the roof, cruck-beamed, oak. The piles were so high she couldn’t see far enough along the gable to the end walls.
Solder pushed the spearhead back into the stack and trotted on.
“Are you sure you’re taking me to the door?” she asked.
“Look at this,” he called. “You’ll like it.”
He led her into a side room with high windows far above her head. A waterfall of light splashed down and bounced from a hundred mirrors leaning and hanging all around the walls.
Tamrin looked at herself looking at herself. She saw herself disappearing, endlessly repeated into the distance. She saw the top of her head, the side of her face, her back, her front. She raised her arm and a thousand Tamrins raised their arm. She stepped back and out of the room.
“Come on,” he said. He stood on his barrel and waved his arms, watching himself wave back.
Tamrin hesitated, stepped back in.
It was like being confronted by a poisonous snake or a wolf. She was fascinated and fearful.
“Never seen yourself before?” he asked.
Tamrin shook her head.
“What?”
“No. Not really.”
“Never?”
“In a window,” she said. “Reflected in water. In the bowl of a shiny spoon. There’s a small mirror, a glass one, in my friend’s kitchen. But you can only see your face, and not really all of it at once.”
She moved slowly as she spoke, watching herself bounce back, reflected into infinity. The question elbowed its way back into her mind.
“Who are you?” it whispered.
She looked at the endless Tamrins.
“Who are you?”
“Some of these are glass,” said Solder.
He jumped from his barrel and found a round looking glass, just within his reach if he stood on tiptoe and touched it with his fingertips. “Most of them are polished metal.”
“How do you get them so bright?”
“You’ll have to ask Smith about that.”
“Did he make them all?”
“You’ll have to ask him. I think he did. But there are other people who used to make them, before there was good glass and they learned how to silver the back of it.”
Tamrin stood in front of one that showed the whole of her from tip to toe. It was buckled about a third of the way down so that her face seemed to be disfigured. She reached out her hand and touched it.
“He collects them,” said Solder. “Or Winny does. With her cart.”
“Why?”
The light in the room was greater than the amount the windows let in. It was as though the mirrors caught it, kept it and threw it back to be caught and kept and thrown out again, over and over, getting brighter all the time. Like lighting a thousand candles from a single taper.
Tamrin stood quite still and waited and watched. She wanted one of the other Tamrins to move on her own, independently of the others. They all stood and waited with her.
“Yes, but why does he collect them?”
“You’ll have to ask Smith that.”
Tamrin was getting tired of this answer. Especially as Smith wasn’t there to ask.
She wondered what magic would be like here. She raised her arm and pointed straight up. She took a deep breath and her lips parted.
“Don’t say a word!”
Smith pushed into the room and nearly knocked her over.
“Don’t. Not a word.” ||
Tamrin stepped aside
to avoid Smith’s rush at her.
“Why did you bring her in here?” he demanded.
“I thought you wanted her to see it.”
Solder didn’t seem to mind that he was being told off. He was as cheerful as ever.
“I’ll decide when she sees this,” said Smith.
“Too late, Smith. I’ve shown her.”
“Has she done any magic yet?”
“I think she was just about to.”
“And do you think you could have stopped her? And what would have happened then?”
“We’d have found out if you hadn’t come in,” said Solder. “Wouldn’t we?”
Smith glared at him.
“Roffles,” he said. “You’re all the same. You’ve no sense of danger. She could have killed herself. And you. You know that?”
Solder began to answer but Tamrin interrupted.
“Hey,” she said. “I am in here, you know. You’re talking about me as though I can’t hear you.”
Smith turned the full gaze of his anger on her. Tamrin glared
back, not to be intimidated. He held her stare and she found herself growing afraid. He had more authority in his look, more danger, than any of the teachers in the college who had tried to overcome her with a stare. She turned away. He still stared at her, a thousand times reflected in the shining metal. She looked back at him, looked again at the reflections.
Face to face, Smith looked old enough to be Winny’s father. In the middle of life. In reflected light he was old. Older than it was possible to live. Not old as a person grows old, weak and enfeebled, prey to death. Old as a tree is old, worn, weathered and strong. Old as stone is old, shaped by the weather, moulded by time.
She looked from reality to reflection and lost track of which was which.
Smith spoke softly now.
“You see me?” he asked.
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
“He doesn’t,” said Smith, pointing to Solder.
Winny arrived and hesitated at the door. Tamrin caught just a glimpse of her in the mirror before she stepped back. Enough to see that she had been Smith’s daughter for longer than a lifetime.
“We should not stay in here,” Winny called in.
“No,” agreed Smith.
Tamrin was glad to be led out and back among the stacks of scrap.
“Will you come to look at the forge?” asked Smith. “Or do you have to be running after your tailor straight away?”
“I’d like to see the forge,” she said. “Please.”
He nodded.
“I’ll show you the way,” said Solder. He pushed in front of them, lifting his pack and trotting ahead. “Follow me.”
Smith went next, Tamrin following, and Winny last.
“You weren’t taking me to the door, were you?” asked Tamrin.
Solder turned left and stopped. He gestured with his left arm. It was a door. Low, narrow and closed. Not the wide door into the barn.
“Here it is,” he announced.
“I mean the door out,” said Tamrin.
“You didn’t say that. You said the door.”
Winny laid her hand on Tamrin’s shoulder, her delicate fingers cool on the girl’s neck.
“You can never trust a roffle,” she said.
Tamrin looked straight into her eyes.
“I don’t think I can trust anyone,” she said.
“Perhaps not. Perhaps it’s best you don’t, just now.”
This wasn’t the answer Tamrin had expected and she turned away. Smith took out a key and unlocked the door. He stepped through; Solder followed. Tamrin stayed where she was.
“Are you going in?” asked Winny.
“If I don’t?”
“I can show you the other door. It’s quite close. You can leave if you like. But you said you wanted to see the forge.”
Tamrin stepped through.
Tim wished he was somewhere else, anywhere else. Smedge lined up the children outside Frastfil’s office, Tim at the front.
“Remember,” said Smedge. “Tell him.”
They nodded.
He knocked and waited. Tim noted this. He had expected him to go straight in.
“Come in.”
Frastfil sat behind his desk, failing to look important. Dr Duddle stood as far away from the window as he could. Five other teachers looked uncomfortable in the centre of the room. There was Miss Plang, who taught the little ones when they first came to the college; Dr Frescing, the art teacher, who taught picture magic and making clay pots for spells; Mr Fouller, who was a specialist in writing out spells in exactly the correct way so that they meant what they were supposed to mean and nothing else; Miss Makawley, the old-spells teacher and the expert on wizards from the past; and there was Mr Faraway. Mr Faraway had a white coat and he had lost all of the hair on the right side of his head just that morning when a new spell had exploded. He was in charge of the laboratory for dangerous new spells and one had gone wrong. Again.
Smedge closed the door.
“Thank you for coming to the meeting,” said Frastfil. “As heads of departments in the college you need to know about a very serious development.”
They all listened carefully except for Faraway, who was rubbing the bald side of his head and looking at the bookshelves.
“There has been a serious case of bullying,” said Frastfil, “and you need to be aware of it.”
Smedge took over and instructed the other boys and girls to say that they had all seen Tamrin bullying him at different times. Tim tried to keep quiet, but Smedge made him add his account of the block of ice.
“So,” concluded Frastfil, “I tried to expel Tamrin and send her home with her guardian, Shoddle, the tailor, but she ran away from the college and has disappeared.”
“Eh?” said Faraway, as though he had just started listening.
Frastfil frowned.
“So,” he continued, “it is most important that if she returns you make sure I am informed as soon as you see her.”
“She wouldn’t do that,” said Faraway.
“I beg your pardon?” Frastfil glared at him.
“Tamrin. She wouldn’t bully anyone.”
Frastfil pointed at the line of witnesses.
“Did you listen to any of these children? Did you hear what they had to say? They all saw her do it.”
Faraway tapped his finger against his teeth.
“Any of you been bullied by her?” he asked.
They shook their heads.
“Just him?”
He indicated Smedge.
They nodded.
“And you all saw it?”
There was the smallest pause before they nodded again.
Faraway spoke to Tim. Tim had been trying to avoid his eye but it was no good.
“Tim Masrani, you saw her bullying Smedge?”
Tim nodded.
“You sure?”
Tim hesitated. He wanted to explain properly. He felt ashamed at what was happening. He didn’t want to be part of it. Making sure he didn’t look at Smedge, in case he lost his courage, he started to explain that Tamrin was only sticking up for the little ones, helping them against Smedge’s spite and cruelty.
“Woof,” he said.
They stared at him.
Tim felt fur growing on his arms and on his back, under his shirt. He felt his toenails turning to claws. It was hopeless.
“Sorry,” he said. “Just clearing my throat. Yes. I did.”
He saw the look of disgust on Faraway’s face and knew that the man knew he was lying. He hung his head. The fur disappeared, and the claws retracted.
Frastfil finished the meeting quickly.
“Tell all your colleagues,” he said. “We won’t have bullies here. No bullying at Canterstock.”
Tim hated him. Hated the lying. Hated the stupidity. Hated the way Frastfil gave in to Smedge.
Frastfil couldn’t wait to get rid of them.
“Goodbye. Thank you.” He jumped to his feet, coins jangling in his pockets, clapping his hands, grinning and bouncing. “Well done. Goodbye. Yes.”
Tim slipped out first and ran down the corridor. He felt as though he had vomited black sick on the carpet and left it there, stinking and steaming.
Smedge was turning the whole college against Tamrin. She wouldn’t be the strange girl who hung around the place any more. She would be seen as a nasty bully, someone to fear, someone to hate. And Tim was helping. Because he was afraid not to.
He found his way down the steps to the store areas. He needed to tell Vengeabil what had happened. He pushed aside the curtain and saw that the door was there. He could go through to the passageway that led to the kitchen. He put his hand to the door and drew away again.
The thought of telling the man what he had done was too much for him. He climbed the stairs slowly, back to the damp corridors and stinking staircases of the college. Back to lessons. ||
Smith tossed lumps of charcoal
on to the fire. Solder ran round the back of the furnace and pumped the bellows, shooting
jets of air into the embers. They glowed with new life. More charcoal. More air. More heat. Tamrin was attracted to the fire and repelled by it at the same time. It fascinated her and filled her with dread.
“Why is it so hot?”
She felt it was a stupid question and wished she could take it back. Smith smiled.
“You’re right,” he agreed. “It’s not like a normal fire, is it? The forge concentrates heat, builds it up so that the iron melts.”
He thrust an iron bar into the depth of the fire to demonstrate.
Tamrin had never felt so useless. She had always learned everything so easily that it was not like learning at all, more like remembering. She couldn’t learn how to use the forge, how to strike the metal, how to twist the hot iron.
Smith stood back and folded his arms.
“I’ve never seen anyone so bad at it,” he said.
Tamrin clamped her teeth tight shut to stop herself from saying something angry.
“No magic,” he had said. “Not in here. If you try, it will hurt you. Badly. Understand?”
“Of course I understand what you’re saying. I just don’t understand why you’re saying it.”
And now they looked down at the things she had fashioned without the aid of magic. They were hopeless. Poor, twisted and uneven things. However hard she tried the hot metal would not move the way she wanted it to. It seemed to twist away from her like a snake. The hammer was heavy in her hand. The heat from the furnace made her brow sweat and turned her face red. Her hair grew wet and stuck down to her head. She looked and felt wretched.
Smith leaned his backside against a workbench and tapped a file against the top.
“You’re like a cat in a river,” he said.
Tamrin had had enough of failure and was in the mood for an argument.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He didn’t laugh at her.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not judging you. Cats are good creatures, but they can’t swim. They can run and hunt. They can fall from a tree and land on their feet and be all right. They can climb where dogs can’t. But, put one in the river and it’ll be dead in no time. Cats and water. That’s you and fire. It’s not a good thing or a bad thing.”
“I tried.”