CONTENTS
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Part Two
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Steve Augarde
Copyright
ABOUT THE BOOK
Our time has almost come, and we must leave this world and travel to Elysse. If we stay longer we shall perish . . .
Life is changing for Midge, and she has little time to think about the extraordinary events of last summer. Her discovery of the hidden tribes is like a dream to her now, their existence all but forgotten.
But the voice that calls out to her in the winter darkness one night is real enough and the hand that comes rapping against her bedroom window cannot be ignored. This is no dream. The Various have returned, and their desperation has made them all the more dangerous . . .
The only way that Midge can help the little people is by tracing the whereabouts of her great-great-aunt Celandine. But Celandine must be long dead, surely?
In this final part of Steve Augarde’s enthralling trilogy, we see how the past and present are connected, the interwoven threads drawing the reader on towards an astonishing series of revelations. A story of danger and magic, friendships and betrayals, this is fantasy writing at its very best.
WINTER WOOD
Steve Augarde
To Bella and David, with thanks.
And relief.
PART ONE
Chapter One
THE TIP OF the bright orange float bobbed just once, no more than a twitch, a tiny bird-peck of movement, but it was enough to send a ripple circling over the water – and a jolt of excitement through George’s heart. He leaned forward, gripping the butt of the rod in his left hand, willing the float to go under properly and for good. Come on . . . come on . . . I know you’re down there, you old monster . . .
He turned the handle of the wooden reel, keeping it smooth and steady, winding in the line until most of the slack had been taken up.
Nothing more happened. The float drifted around the slowly eddying pool at the side of the weir, but remained stubbornly upon the surface.
Eventually George had to blink. He let out a little more line and allowed himself to fall back into his original dreamy trance, lost in the hypnotic roar of the weir beneath him and the strange chattering sounds that seemed hidden away in the background somewhere, like faraway voices.
The constant flow of water made him want to pee again, but he couldn’t be bothered to move. He just sat on the planks, swinging his legs to and fro. Each time the float approached the main current it seemed certain to be whisked away downstream, but then it was somehow repelled, forced back towards the bank to begin its cycle once more.
George was happy to watch and wait. He resisted the temptation to interfere. This was still the best place. Down there among those tall reeds . . . that’s where Old Whitey would be, if he were anywhere, silent and massive in his winter lair, biding his time. Old Whitey . . .
So old, they said, that the pigment had faded from his leathery skin and turned him into an albino. So old that he was half blind. Yes, and that could be the trouble. Pike would take just about any bait, but they had to be able to see it in the first place, surely? Maybe a bit of gristle left over from the Sunday lunch just wasn’t visible enough. Maybe it was time to try the spinner after all.
George shook himself out of his reverie, and began to rummage about in the ancient canvas bag that sat next to him on the plank. The leather straps were thin and frayed, and the brass buckles were all crusty with green stuff – too far gone to be cleaned up, George thought, even if he had the inclination to try. He liked the bag, though, and he liked the rod and reel too. In the flat days that followed Christmas it had been fun to help clear out the attic and so come across all this antique fishing gear.
‘It’s actually a very good make,’ his dad had said of the rod. ‘A split-cane Hardy. Expensive, even back in its day. Put that on ebay and you’d get a bob or two for it. And the old reel – a Shakespeare, no less. Beautiful. Worth something now.’ George didn’t give a hoot what they were worth; he wanted to keep them.
He found what he was looking for, the spoon-shaped spinner with its three rusty hooks, and he held it in the palm of his hand to examine it. The metal was very tarnished, black almost, with age. Maybe he ought to try and give it a polish before using it . . .
‘Hiya.’
George turned round and squinted up into the wintry sunshine.
‘Oh. Hi, Midge. How’re you feeling?’
‘OK. Bit better.’
George watched as his cousin began to make her way across the twin planks that spanned the little weir.
‘Careful,’ he said. ‘That one wobbles.’
‘Blimey. It does too.’ Midge put a steadying hand on one of the big iron stanchions, part of the rusted winding gear that controlled the flow of water over the weir. ‘Oh, great,’ she said. ‘Trust me to find the bit with grease on it.’
She sat down next to George, glanced at her blackened hand, and wiped it on the worn edge of the plank.
‘Hey! I’ve got to sit there!’
‘Sorry.’ Midge rubbed her palms together, in order to spread the dirt around a little. ‘Had any luck?’
‘Not really,’ said George. ‘Just one bite. Well, I think it was a bite. I don’t mind, though. Glad to get away for an hour or two, actually.’
‘Yeah, I know what you mean.’
Now that Christmas was over the builders were back at Mill Farm, and the air was once again filled with the noise of major conversion work – the clink of scaffolding, the rumble of diggers, stone cutting, wood sawing, cement lorries continuously coming and going. Midge was sure that the headache she’d had all day was from the noise of the builders.
It wasn’t so bad for her cousins, George and Katie, who were only visiting their dad for a couple of days, but for Midge the constant racket had become a nightmare. ‘It’s driving me nuts,’ she said. ‘I was really excited about it to begin with, but now I just wish they could have left everything how it was. I liked it better that way, in any case.’
‘Me too. But then they’d have had to sell the place, and so that’d be no good. Be worth it in the end, I s’pose. Is your room nearly done?’
‘Huh. I’ve given up asking. They keep saying it is, but it didn’t seem like it to me, last time I looked. And in the meantime I’m still sleeping in with Mum. You’ve got to be back before dark, by the way. Your dad said to tell you four o’clock at the latest.’
‘Oh yeah. Sent you to keep an eye on me, more like. Make sure I hadn’t drowned myself, or something.’
Midge didn’t reply to that, because it w
as exactly what her Uncle Brian had said: ‘Go and make sure George isn’t floating face-down in the weir, Midge. He’s daft enough for it.’
She looked across the patchily flooded wetlands towards Howard’s Hill. The shape of it was quite different from this angle, much longer than it appeared from her window back at Mill Farm. The tangled trees that crested the ridge were winter-bare, a stark dense line silhouetted against the pale blue of the January sky. The Royal Forest, she called it. An absolute stillness hung over the place, as though the hill were poised, a tufty-backed creature crouching on the landscape, waiting. No birds circled above it, no breath of air stirred those high distant branches.
Midge turned away and watched George’s float for a while. She had found, lately, that she didn’t want to think about Howard’s Hill very much.
‘So how old do you think he is?’
‘Who – Old Whitey? Well, Dad says he used to come here and fish for him when he was young. Before he was married to Mum, anyway. He reckons pike can live up to twenty-five years, maybe even more. Somebody down at the pub saw him not long ago, Dad said – Old Whitey. Big as a pig, almost.’
‘Hm.’ Midge was unconvinced. It sounded like yet another of Uncle Brian’s little stories. ‘What would you do if you caught it, anyway?’
George laughed. ‘Run a mile probably.’
Midge picked at a bit of moss that was growing out of a crack in the ancient planks, and flicked it into the water below. It disappeared into the tumbling foam, lost for ever.
‘School next week,’ she said.
‘Yeah. Hey – stop throwing stuff in the water. You’ll scare the fish away.’
‘Sorry. Can I have a go? With the rod?’
‘OK.’ George sighed, but handed the rod to her. He was nice like that, always willing to share whatever he had. ‘You don’t have to do anything,’ he said. ‘Just keep an eye on the float.’
‘But what if it goes under?’ said Midge.
‘Give me back the rod, quick. It’d be just my luck for you to catch him, after all the work I’ve put in.’
‘Can I wind the windy thing?’
‘The reel. Go on then, just a bit. No . . . the other way. That’s right. Whoa . . . that’s enough.’
They sat together for a while and said nothing. Midge found her attention straying from the orangey tip of the float. She glanced towards the bramble bushes that tumbled along the far bank. There was something creepy about this place, she decided. Not just the dark waters of the weir, but a feeling that everything around her was drawing a little closer, edging up on her as evening fell. Something watching, and waiting . . .
She was glad when George said, ‘I’m bored now. And I’m getting cold. Come on, you can wind the reel in if you like, and we’ll go back. Just give it a quick tug to make sure there’s nothing there.’
‘Like this?’ Midge swished the rod up into the air, and the float leaped straight out of the water. It dangled and bounced about wildly before wrapping itself around the end of the rod a couple of times.
‘Hey – look out!’ George ducked away from her. ‘You’ve got it all tangled up now. Give it here.’
‘No, I can do it.’ Midge pointed the rod downwards, gave it a little shake, and the float freed itself, tumbling down into the water once more. She began to turn the handle of the reel and wound in the line until the float had almost reached the tip of the rod. Then she handed the whole lot back to George.
‘Is it OK?’
‘Yeah, it’s fine.’ George was frowning, but not in an angry way. He looked puzzled.
‘Where’s the thingy?’ said Midge. ‘The bait? Isn’t there supposed to be something on there for the fish to eat?’
‘Yes,’ said George, ‘there is.’ He grabbed at the dancing piece of line and examined it. ‘There’s supposed to be a blimmin’ hook there, as well.’
‘Maybe you didn’t tie it on right.’
But there were no kinks in the end of the nylon line, as might have been expected if the knot had simply come undone. It was as clean and straight as if it had been cut by a pair of scissors.
‘Nothing wrong with my knots,’ George said.
‘So what’s happened to it then?’
‘Dunno.’ George flicked his hair out of his eyes, and began to dismantle the rod.
It was a good twenty minutes’ walk across the squelchy fields to Mill Farm, and in that time the sun had begun to sink behind the looming bulk of Howard’s Hill, turning the winter skies above it to orangey pink. There was a lonely feel to the darkening landscape, a sadness at the dying of the day. It had been warm for the time of year, but now Midge felt shivery, and she zipped the collar of her fleece a little closer to her chin.
‘Do you ever think about it much?’ she said.
George didn’t reply for a while, but eventually he said, ‘No. Not really. Try not to, anyway,’ and Midge knew that he’d understood her question. The events of last summer had been so overwhelming that at first they could talk of nothing else, but after a while the memory began to fade, as though none of it had ever truly happened. It was like some weird dream, scary-weird, a dream that you didn’t want to remember. And it was easy to forget, what with having so many other things to think about – the move down from London, a new school to cope with, and all the disruption of converting Mill Farm into something different. Something less wonderful than it had been, Midge felt.
She didn’t like what was happening, and she wasn’t as blissfully happy as she’d imagined she would be. It had seemed such a great idea at the time – moving to the dilapidated old farmhouse with her mum, dividing the property with Uncle Brian, her mum’s brother, and turning it into something new and exciting. But it wasn’t exciting, it was just a mess. They’d ripped the roofs off the old stables and the cider barn, knocked walls down in the house and changed the shape of the rooms, put in new staircases and smart kitchen units, tarmacked the cobbled yard. Nothing was the same any more. And her mum seemed even more distracted and stressed than when she’d been a musician. She was like a whirlwind, on the go from morning till night, haranguing the builders, nagging at Uncle Brian over this detail or that. It made Midge tired to think about it. Sometimes she wished that they’d just stayed in London.
Trudge trudge trudge. The two of them walked in single file along a rough track between a hedge and the bank of one of the open ditches – or rhynes – that criss-crossed the Somerset wetlands. The track was narrow and the hedge overgrown, so that they occasionally had to duck beneath the branches of the stunted willows that grew along the bank of the rhyne. Not so far to go now. Midge followed automatically in George’s footsteps, the clump of her Wellington boots keeping in time with his. And it was no good – there was a stone in one of those boots, niggling at her. She lifted her leg and pulled off the boot, hopping about and trying not to put her foot on the muddy ground. ‘Hang on, George . . .’ Midge turned the boot upside down, shook it, and then stooped to pull it back on again. George had either not heard her or taken no notice. He was still walking ahead. Midge struggled with the boot, stumbling forward and almost overbalancing. As she did so, she heard a kind of whizzing sound and a thunk in the hedge beside her. She peered at the hedge, but could see nothing unusual – just leaves and twigs, a couple of feathers. Weird. It hadn’t sounded like an animal, quite. A little surge of panic ran through her. ‘George . . . wait for me!’
George turned round, and looked surprised. ‘Huh?’
Midge ran to catch him up. ‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘Stone in my boot, that’s all.’ But she couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder.
‘Oh, right. Sorry.’
They walked on in silence. Midge looked up again at the shadowy mound of Howard’s Hill and at the jumbled barrier of trees and briars that kept the outside world at bay. They guarded another world within, those thick and thorny brambles, and other existences, secrets beyond all imagining. People lived up there – tribes of little people, wild and extraordinary.
The Various.
But although Midge had met them, and knew their names and could still picture their faces, she could no longer make any of it real somehow. It was too much to carry, too much to cope with. She knew that her cousins felt the same. George had seen the little people, and Katie too – and their lives had been put in real danger – but they seldom spoke about it any more. That terrifying day when Scurl and his archers had actually mounted an attack upon Mill Farm should have been impossible to forget, and yet it was becoming more and more difficult to put the sequence of events into any order.
Why was that? thought Midge. Finding Henty and Little-Marten in the cider barn . . . burying Tojo in the lagoon . . . hiding in terror on top of the wardrobe – all of these things she remembered as though they had happened to someone else. Katie with the water cannon. Scurl’s wretched crew being hauled out of the muck under Maglin’s stern and unforgiving eye. And Pegs . . . the amazing and wonderful little winged horse . . . whose voice spoke to her in soft bursts of colour. She could never forget him, how she had found him, and made him well again, and carried him back to the forest. But it had all become such a blur, such a confusion of vague images, like a film once watched a very long time ago.
Celandine’s cup – that was definitely real, thought Midge. It stood on her bedside table. Sometimes she picked it up and looked at it, studying the figures that were engraved upon it, the little people, with Celandine herself standing tall amongst them, and all of them open-mouthed, singing, singing. The cup had been a gift from Henty, but it was a struggle to say when that had been exactly. Was it before or after the day of the battle? Midge couldn’t remember. Perhaps she didn’t want to remember. Perhaps she didn’t want to remember because whenever she tried to do so another thought would take over – the thought that came to her in the darkness sometimes, and made her reach out to touch her mother’s bed for reassurance. There was more to come. There was more for her to do. It wasn’t over yet . . .
George had stopped to open the gate to the old paddock – the Field of Thistles, as Midge liked to call it. He turned to wait for her, smiling as he pushed his fair hair out of his eyes.
Winter Wood Page 1