‘Hey, Midge.’ Somebody tugged at her sleeve, and Midge instinctively jerked her arm away. ‘Don’t worry – I’m not going to bite you.’ It was Samantha Lewis. ‘I just wondered if you’d . . . if you wanted to . . . we could go round together.’
Midge stared stupidly at Sam for a few moments. ‘Oh. Yeah, sure.’ She looked over Sam’s shoulder and saw Rhona’s crowd moving off towards the entrance to the building.
‘They’re all paired up,’ said Sam, as though the question had been asked. ‘And anyway, I get fed up with them sometimes. It’s not a big deal – just that I can only talk about how gorgeous Carl Polegato is for so long. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘No, it’d be good.’
‘Come on, then. We can probably get through these stupid questions by lunchtime, and then do what we like.’
Midge was struck by a sudden pang of conscience. ‘I just remembered,’ she said. ‘I told Kerry Hodge I’d go round with her. Swap answers with her, at any rate.’ She looked about her, but couldn’t see Kerry anywhere.
‘Kerry Hodge? What are you – a charity worker or something?’
‘Well, you know, I felt a bit sorry for her. She can’t help . . . how she is, I suppose.’
‘Maybe not, but she could at least shtay out of shpitting dishtance.’
Midge couldn’t help but laugh at that. And it was good to have someone to laugh with, for a change.
Sam’s prediction turned out to be right. By midday the two of them had managed to complete their assignments. They’d wandered through the warm and slightly eerie rooms where the chrysalises were kept, peered in semi-darkness at the emerging gypsy moths that fluttered in vain against the netting of their cages, and answered all the questions on the life-cycle of Ephemera. They’d labelled their grasshopper diagrams, and identified all the European species of butterfly from the gorgeous specimens on display. Such beautiful things these were, yet sad somehow, in their neat little rows, each one daintily skewered through the thorax.
‘That’s it,’ said Sam. ‘We’re done. Come on, we can bog off and have our lunch now.’ They made their way back through the maze of tall display cabinets and out towards the main entrance hall once more.
Here they met the skinny figure of Miss Oldham, who looked as though she might have been on the prowl for absconders.
‘Aha!’ she said. ‘Finished already, you two?’
‘Er . . . yes, Miss,’ said Midge, and then wanted to kick herself. Always a bad idea to let a teacher know you’d finished your work ahead of time – because then they simply piled more on.
And she was right, because Miss Oldham took a quick glance at their papers and said, ‘Oh, you have worked hard. Excellent. Well, now you can do the quiz for me.’
‘Quiz, Miss?’
‘Yes. If you turn over the last page you’ll see that I’ve put together a little observational quiz for you. Just things that you might see as you wander around the house and grounds.’
‘Oh.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Miss Oldham gave them the hint of a smile. ‘I shan’t be marking it as such. Not as coursework, anyway. But there might be a merit point for those who complete it – and you could certainly do with a few more of those, couldn’t you, Sam? Yes. Run along and have your lunch, then. There’s a very pretty little enclosed garden, just behind those trees. Follow that gravel pathway down, and you can’t miss it.’
‘Huh,’ said Sam, once they were out of earshot. ‘If she thinks I’ve been grinding away all morning just so I can spend the afternoon doing extra work, she can think again.’
Midge made a vague noise of agreement. She actually quite liked quizzes, and would have been happy enough to tackle this one if it came down to it. Right now, though, she was hungry and tired of walking. ‘Where is this blimmin’ garden?’ she said.
They scrunched along the path, in the chilly shade of tall yew hedges, and finally came to a little arched gateway. This opened out onto a sunny garden, circular with a white fountain in the middle. There was a winged statuette on top of the fountain, a cupid, made of bronze. Sam said, ‘Look, we’ve got a bench. Let’s go and grab it before anyone else gets here.’ She hurried off, but Midge remained at the gateway for a moment, looking around her. A quick tingle of familiarity had passed through her as she entered the garden, almost as though she had known what to expect. Had she been here before? No, she didn’t think so. Perhaps she had been taken somewhere like this as a baby – it wasn’t such an unusual place after all. At any rate, the feeling had gone now. She followed Sam over to the bench and opened her lunchbox.
They were both starving, and nothing was said for a while as they munched through their sandwiches – a comfortable silence that made Midge think that perhaps they could be real friends.
‘I can’t believe this weather. It’s just freaky for January.’ Sam lay backwards with her dark head lolling against the wooden bench, eyes closed and soaking up the sunshine. She looked like a cat, thought Midge. A lazy and contented cat, happy and relaxed. Not much bothered by anything or anybody. That was a good way to be, wasn’t it? Confident and cool. Clever enough to get by without having to work too hard. Friendly without being frantically demanding. Normal.
Midge half closed her own eyes and allowed her dreamy vision to rest upon the silhouetted figure on top of the fountain. Cupid, with his bow and arrow. Yes, it was good to lie back in the warmth of the sun and just think of nothing, nothing at all. To sit on a bench, with someone who you liked, and be normal. Drift away, to the sounds of the insects and the birds. Float up into the blue and forget all about . . .
. . . the Orbis . . .
Midge jerked upright with such a violent start that Sam jumped too.
‘What is it? Wassamatter?’ Sam was looking about her, wide-eyed and startled.
‘Nothing. It’s . . . nothing. I . . . I think I must have fallen asleep for a moment. Sorry.’
‘Should think so too. Nearly gave me a heart attack.’ Sam folded her arms and tilted her head back once more. ‘And I was just getting comfy,’ she muttered.
Midge stood up and looked towards the fountain. She was sure she hadn’t been here before. Why did it seem so familiar to her, then? She wandered across the circular gravel path, and perched herself sideways on the edge of the fountain. Again some vague memory of this place washed over her. Sitting here, in exactly the same position. A blackbird singing, and the sun going down. And she was holding something in her hand . . .
No. It had gone again, slippery as an eel.
‘Come on, Midge. Let’s go and have a look at the gift shop.’ Sam was on her feet and calling to her.
‘’K.’ Midge sighed and stretched out her arms.
They met Kerry Hodge on the way back, wandering along the path towards the circular garden.
‘Oh Gawd,’ said Sam, beneath her breath. ‘Here she comes. Get your umbrellas out, everyone.’
But Midge didn’t laugh this time. She felt guilty and embarrassed.
‘Hi, Kerry,’ she said. ‘How’re you getting on?’ She tried to appear cheerful, but knew what a fake she must have sounded.
‘Not bad. I’ve done shix to ten, like we shaid. Now I’m doing the quizsh.’ Kerry drew level with them and came to a halt. Sam was keeping well to one side, Midge noticed.
‘Really? I haven’t even started on the quiz. It’s getting a bit late now. We’ll, er . . . we’ll go over the answers on the coach, shall we?’
‘If you want.’
‘Yeah. We’ll sit together, like we did on the way here.’
‘OK. Shee you.’ Kerry started walking again.
‘See you,’ said Sam, and then muttered, ‘Wouldn’t want to be you . . .’ once they’d moved away a few paces.
Midge groaned. ‘Now I feel really mean.’
‘Nah, you worry too much. And anyway, it is mean to pretend to like someone when you don’t.’
‘Think so?’
‘Yeah, I do. Leading people on, it’s called.�
�
She had it all worked out, did Sam.
The coach was quieter on the return journey. Sam had resumed her place at the back with Rhona’s crowd, and Midge was stuck next to Kerry Hodge once more.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘Let’s compare papers and see what we’ve got.’ She made an effort to sound friendly, in order to make up for the fact that she’d ignored Kerry all day.
Kerry had done a lot better than might have been expected – good enough in fact to cause Midge to make an alteration to one or two of her own answers. Maybe this hadn’t been such a bad deal after all. She handed her assignment over to Kerry, and watched her copy down the answers to the first five questions, noticing how she changed the wording here and there, made little improvements to her own efforts. Kerry’s hand was slow, but the finished result was clear and neat.
‘You’re really good,’ said Midge.
‘Biology’sh my favourite,’ said Kerry. ‘Biology and English. How did you do with the quiszh?’
‘What? Oh, the quiz. We didn’t . . . I didn’t really get round to it. Don’t suppose it’ll matter much.’
‘Want to copy mine?’
‘Um . . . don’t know. Seems a bit of a cheek. OK, let’s have a quick look, then.’
Midge took Kerry’s paper and glanced at the quiz page. She was surprised at the amount that Kerry had written.
‘Question One,’ she read. ‘What is Cupid shooting at?’
And beneath that was Kerry’s answer: A topiary heart.
‘What’s a top . . . a top-i-ary heart?’ Midge said.
‘Topiary. Thatsh when they cut a bush or a hedge into a funny shape. Like an animal or a bird. There was a heart cut into the hedge of that round garden. Above the gateway.’
‘Was there? I didn’t notice that.’
Midge moved on to the next question.
‘Tone Vale Butterfly Farm was opened in nineteen seventy-eight. But what was the building used for before that?’
Kerry had written, ‘It was a hospital for soldiers in the First World War. Then it became a clinic, and then it was part of the local art college.’
Midge yawned. ‘Where did you get all this stuff?’
‘In here.’ Kerry pulled a folded booklet out of her pocket. Midge read the title: Tone Vale Butterfly Farm. A Guide and History. ‘Look – Mish Oldham got all her queshtions from here. Nothing to it.’ Kerry opened the booklet, and Midge saw a blurry photograph of two men and a woman – a nurse – standing in bright sunshine on the front steps of the building: Dr Sydney Lewis and Dr Joseph Wesser, founders of the Tone Valley Clinic . . . Funny name, Wesser.
But the leaflet looked boring, and so Midge just said, ‘Oh, right.’
‘Borrow it if you like, and do the quizsh when you get home. You could get a merit point for it.’
Midge rubbed her eyes, and leaned back in her seat. ‘Nah, it’s OK, thanks. I can’t be bothered.’
She was tired now, and didn’t want to talk any more. It had been quite a good day, though. Kerry was not as awful as she had supposed, and it had been fun to go round with Sam. But there was still something about that place that niggled at her – the Butterfly Farm. Some connection that she couldn’t quite make.
Chapter Three
BA-BETTS, QUEEN of the Ickri, was dressed in her favourite white gown, her hair neatly combed and tied back, her face powdered and painted. Very peaceful, she looked, resting in the Gondla, her wicker chair, beneath the sycamores. The little wooded glade that they’d chosen for her was silent and secluded, yet open to the skies. The birds would see her soon enough.
Aye, it was a good place, thought Maglin, nicely suited its purpose. And Doolie had done her work well. The old queen looked better in death than she had in life. He glanced about at the quiet gathering, noting who was present and who was not. The entire Ickri tribe had turned out, as so they should, to listen in respectful silence to Crozer’s speech. Just behind Crozer stood the other two Elders, Ardel of the Naiad and Damsk of the Wisp, tribespeople to accompany them. He noticed Maven-the-Green lurking among the bushes, and that surprised him a little, for what had Ba-betts been to the mad old hag? Of the winged horse, Pegs, there was no sign.
Crozer’s voice droned away in the background, but Maglin was only half listening. His thoughts were more concerned with the immediate predicament of the tribes than with the Ickri Elder’s lengthy tribute to Ba-betts. There was the future to consider, and a new responsibility to bear, the weight of which lay heavy upon his shoulders. With no heir to succeed Ba-betts, her line was over. And without rightful King or Queen, a Steward must now govern instead. There had been but one choice. From this day on, he, Maglin, was ruler of the Ickri.
He had expected nothing less, though he knew well that the Elders would have picked another if they could. But as senior figure the Stewardship must fall to himself, and so now Steward he was, Keeper of the Stone – King in all but name, and all forest-dwellers should recognize his authority.
Aye, but who among them would? The woodlanders grew reckless in their hunger, and each now looked to his own. The Ickri hunters and Naiad farmers might listen to him for a while longer, but the fisher-folk of the Wisp lived largely by their own code and were seldom seen between dawn and dusk. There were few here today to mourn the Queen. And the cave-dwellers – the Tinklers and Troggles – they were rarely seen at all. Maglin doubted they would consider him their master, for although he was coming into power, yet that power was waning. Starvation brought rebellion, and with little to offer his people he could do little to hold them. The time had surely come for all to leave. He would talk to the heads of each tribe on the matter – beginning this very day with the one most likely to give him trouble: Tadgemole, leader of the cave-dwellers.
He must impress upon all the growing danger from the Gorji, and the urgent need of a plan. A full season and more the secret of the Various had been known to the Gorji childer. There was no reason to trust it was a secret still. And if that secret was out, then what hope was there that they could continue to live here in peace, or defend themselves from attack? How soon before full-grown giants came – and in what manner would they come? Not in friendly curiosity, that was certain. No, they would come to destroy, as was ever their way, to hunt down all that was unlike themselves. Maglin saw them in his troubled dreams, crowds of roaring men, ascending the hill with hounds and shovels, beating down the barrier of brambles that had protected the little people for so long. Aye, there was much to think on.
‘From seed we come, and to seed we go’ – Crozer was drawing towards the end of his speech – ‘. . . as we ever did, and ever shall. Let the birds now take of her, corben and magpie, as we take of them, corben and magpie. And so may she feed her people still, we who yet remain.’
‘So.’ The low muttered response from the crowd. A few moments more of silence, and the tribespeople began to separate and move quietly away through the trees.
Maglin walked over to where the half-dozen archers of the Guard stood, ranged in a semi-circle behind the Queen’s wicker chair. He spoke directly to Ictor, their captain – and sensed the animosity that lay between them. Ictor was brother to Scurl, the treacherous archer that Maglin had banished from the forest. Scurl was now presumed dead, along with his crew, and Maglin was well aware of Ictor’s resentment towards him – and towards the Gorji child who had played such a part in Scurl’s downfall.
‘I hold ’ee under my command now,’ he said. ‘The Guard shall have first vigil, as is right and proper, and for as long as ’ee will. Shoot whatever might come for her, be it bird, or fitch, or rat. There be little enough in these woods that we can afford to cast aught aside. All to be shared at Basket-time, mind.’
Ictor stared him in the eye, a long and deliberate pause. Eventually he said, ‘Just as ’ee command, Steward. I be in the right fettle for shooting a rat.’
The insult was plainly intended, and Maglin decided that this time he would not let it pass. Ictor had made several such rem
arks of late – slyly threatening, insolent, challenging. It was almost as though he sought punishment. Very well, then. Perhaps it was time to bring this captain down a rank or two. Aye, a spell as a lowly tunnel guard might help curb his tongue . . .
Royal Clearing lay silent and deserted below, as Little-Marten surveyed the scene from his high Perch in the Rowdy-Dow tree. The glade that had been chosen as the last resting place of Ba-betts was beyond his vision, hidden away in the bordering woodland, but he had caught some movement among the bare winter treetops and guessed that the tribute must now be over. Aye, and so it was, for there went one or two of the East Wood archers, Glim and Raim, returning to their work. Soon Maglin would come to give him orders, and then he hoped to say his piece.
Little-Marten shivered beneath his bindle-wrap, frozen hands tucked into his armpits for comfort. The day was bright, but none the warmer for that, and he was looking forward to drumming out Queen’s Herald, if only to get his blood moving. The clavensticks would be cold as ice, but their sound would carry well on such a still day. Crisp and clear in the winter air, the hard rattle of the woodpecker. Drrr-drrr . . . drrrrrr . . . drr . . .
He closed his eyes for a moment and ran through the rhythms of Queen’s Herald in his head. Drrr . . . drr-drrr . . .
Crack! Little-Marten sat up with a jerk as something thwhacked against the dead trunk of the Rowdy-Dow tree.
‘Be you awake, Woodpecker?’
‘Aye!’ Little-Marten looked down to see Maglin there, ready to hit the tree trunk with his spear again if necessary.
‘Aye, you are now,’ said Maglin. ‘Sound Queen’s Herald, then, to mark her passing. ’Twill be the last time.’ The old warrior began to walk on.
Winter Wood Page 3