Winter Wood

by Steve Augarde

  ‘Home? To Elysse?’

  Aye, to Elysse.

  ‘Then you believe that Elysse exists.’

  Look upon me, Tadgemole. Am I of this world, do you think? Are you? Or any trapped in these woods?

  ‘No, we are none of us of this world. You are a believer, then, and so a rarer creature than even you seem. But if the Orbis were here now, we should still be as far from Elysse as ever. Perhaps you have forgotten this, or never knew it, but without the Touchstone the Orbis has no power. And now the Stone may depart these woods yet again.’

  If the Orbis were found, Tadgemole, then I would bring you the Stone.

  ‘You would bring it to me? How? Why? The Stone is in Maglin’s keeping.’

  Maglin has no faith in the Touchstone, nor the Orbis, nor in Elysse itself. He believes only in the strength of his own arm – and that strength is fading. So let us be joined together in this, you and I alone. Help me to find the Orbis, and I will keep my promise. I will bring the Stone to you, and it shall rest in your hand, not Maglin’s.

  ‘Ha. We may all make idle promises, Pegs. But come. Follow me into the warmth of our chambers, and you shall at least tell me what you want of me.’ Tadgemole led the way across the broad expanse of the main cave, and beckoned Pegs into the side passage that would take them down to the inner chambers. The lavender lamps threw wild shadows across the roughly pitted walls of the tunnel as they entered.

  Henty emerged from her hiding place to watch them go, listening as the distant tink-tink of hammered metal sounded an echo to the fading footsteps of the winged horse.

  In a daze she wandered over to the main cave entrance, her woollen shawl wrapped tight about her shoulders as she stared out into the misty night.

  The Ickri were leaving. Of all the words that Pegs had spoken, these were the only ones that held any meaning for her. Not this day, perhaps, nor the morrow, but within a moon . . .

  Within a moon the Ickri would be gone, and so Little-Marten would be gone with them. He would have no choice but to follow his own tribe. And now that he and she had been forbidden to meet, there might be no chance to speak before parting. Parting! She could never bear it. The thought of it choked her, plunged her into deep black waters so that she could scarcely breathe.

  Why was this happening? What harm was there in her and Little-Marten being together, and by what right were they torn apart? What did it matter that they were of different tribes? When Little-Marten had first come to the caves – seeking refuge from Scurl – her father had been kind to him, and had taken him in. And when Little-Marten had brought her back safe from the lands of the Gorji, her father had been grateful. But now that the two of them wished to wed, everything had changed, and her father would have none of it. ’Twas one thing, he said, to shelter an Ickri from his own murdering kind, but no daughter of his could ever be wed to a heathen. How she hated him for that!

  Perhaps she should go now, at this very moment. Perhaps she should defy her father, and run from here, and seek out Little-Marten, and . . .

  ‘Henty? Be that you?’

  Henty turned towards the dim light of the cave.

  It was Pank, the young tinsy-smith, walking towards her. Lately he seemed to be at her back whenever she looked round.

  ‘I . . . I came to see if ’twas you. Is all well?’

  Henty glared at him, angry that he should interrupt her thoughts.

  ‘Are you sent to spy on me, Pank?’ The words came out instinctively, with no special thought behind them, but she saw in an instant that they had hit home. Pank lowered his head and looked embarrassed. He couldn’t meet her gaze.

  ‘Your father . . . Tadgemole . . . he wondered where you might be.’

  ‘And so you be sent to keep watch over me. To see that I don’t stray too far. Be this now the way of it?’

  Pank put on an air of surprise, and seemed about to deny this, but then his shoulders dropped and he gave a little sigh. He ran his fingers through his long dark hair. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘You’m not so far wrong. Tadgemole says that I’ve to see thee safe about. But ’tis no task o’ my choosing, Henty, I can tell ’ee that.’

  Henty put her hands on her hips and took a deep breath. Anger welled up inside her afresh, but it was not directed at Pank. This was her father’s doing – and all her pain was caused by him. There was no reasoning against his stubbornness, and it was pointless to try. Let him be cursed, then, and she also if ever she spoke to him again. From now on she would make her own plans – and her own life.

  ‘Come, then, Master Pank. To your duty. If you’ve to see me “safe about”, then you may see me safe to my chamber and stand guard there the night, so that I be safe from myself. We s’ll see how quick about you be on your toes – and how many nights of sleep you may do without.’

  Henty swept down through the centre of the cave, her thoughts already leaping ahead of her, the stumbling footsteps of Pank already lagging behind.

  Chapter Four

  MIDGE AWOKE SUDDENLY in the night. She propped herself up on one elbow, and looked around her, startled for a moment by the unfamiliarity of her surroundings. The blue lamp glowed faintly at her bedside, the dimmer switch turned down low. It was OK. She was back in her old room again, that was all. Weeks and weeks it had been since she was here, and she had grown used to sleeping in with her mum. Now it felt strange to be on her own once more. That must be why she had woken up with such a start. Wasn’t it?

  Midge . . .

  A sunburst of pink and yellow exploded inside her head, softly spreading, like watercolour paint dropped onto wet paper. There was no sound.

  Midge sat bolt upright now, perfectly still, listening hard. Nothing but the faint rhythm of her own pulse, thudding in her ears.

  ‘Pegs?’ She whispered his name, half expecting the magical animal to step out of the wardrobe, or from behind the shower door. But no. All was silent and still. With her heart in her mouth, Midge drew back the duvet and got out of bed. She padded over to the window and peeped around the curtains, but could see only the dim shadow of her hesitant self, reflected in the pane.

  Midge . . .

  No, she had not imagined it. Certain, now, she undid the stiff catch and pushed at the window. The cold night air made her gasp as she leaned forward to look out into the darkness. And there he was. Standing by the balustrade wall, looking up at her, his mane silvery white beneath the winter moon. Pegs.

  All her memory came flooding back to her then, and all that had seemed so hazy and unreal was brought into focus. It had gone away for a while, this other world that she was somehow part of, but now it had returned to claim her and she was to be caught up in its dance yet again.

  ‘Pegs?’ She could see the whispered cloud of her own breath coming out of her. ‘What’s happened? What do you want?’

  I must talk with you, maid.

  ‘What, now? Do you want me to come down? But it’s freezing . . .’

  No. Meet with me tomorrow. Come early to the byre – alone, if you will.

  ‘The byre? You mean the pig-barn?’

  Aye. Where first you found me, look for me there again.

  The pale shadow of Pegs faded back into the night and disappeared. Midge remained at the window, watching, until the pain in her frozen fingertips brought her back into the present. She closed the latch. Her whole body was shuddering quite uncontrollably now with the cold. In two seconds she was across the room and back into bed, squirming beneath her duvet, buried in its warmth. She rolled herself up into the tightest ball possible against the chilly world and her own troubled thoughts. Hibernation. What a brilliant invention that was. If only it could be for humans as well as for hamsters.

  She found it easy enough to get away. Her mum was as distracted as ever with the business of Mill Farm, and Uncle Brian seemed to have made himself scarce sometime after breakfast. There was no reason for anyone to take much notice of Midge as she slipped around the corner of the old stable block and began to cross the Field of Thi
stles. The ground was still sodden from the winter rain, so that she had to keep one eye on where she was putting her feet, whilst keeping the other on her destination.

  The Summer Palace, she had called it – that shabby little barn – when she had first spotted it from her bedroom window. Perched up there on the sunny slopes of Howard’s Hill, it had seemed a good place for a picnic. Midge winced at the memory of it. Some picnic that had turned out to be. Her fear and amazement at what she had found there came flooding back to her, along with a whole gallery of images: the sliding door that wouldn’t budge, the dark interior of the barn that smelled of oil and hay and animal ammonia, and the strange and awful sight of the winged horse, Pegs, trapped and bleeding beneath the spiked wheels of the hay-rake . . .

  Midge reached the sheep-gate at the end of the Field of Thistles, and stopped there for a moment. It was a stiffish climb from here up to the pig-barn, but she hadn’t paused just to catch her breath. The low hamstone wall that circled the base of Howard’s Hill seemed like a barrier in more ways than one. It was the outer boundary to a foreign land, a line to be crossed or not. Once she stepped through this gate, she felt, there would be no turning back. Did she really want to do this? Was she really going to dive in headfirst all over again?

  She might have decided against it after all, but then a brief squall of wind buffeted her neck and shoulders, so that it felt as though she were being nudged forward, encouraged to carry on. All right then, she would. The sheep-gate clanged behind her, and she began the climb that would bring her to the barn, now temporarily hidden from view behind the brow of the hill.

  The little concrete building looked dismal and uninviting as Midge approached it. Part of the corrugated tin roof had come loose, a rusty sheet of metal that flapped and rattled in the early morning wind. The galvanized sliding door was still hanging at an awkward angle, just as it had been when Midge had last seen it. Not so very long ago, though it felt like years. She remembered how fearful she had been, creeping towards that door, ready to flee at any moment, yet drawn by the unearthly sounds from within. Some of that fear returned to her now, and she came to a halt.

  ‘Pegs?’ She called his name – not so much expecting a reply as warning him of her arrival. ‘Are you there?’ The wind had dropped momentarily, and there was silence.

  Midge looked at the gap at the side of the door, hoping that Pegs would appear, but there was no sign of him. She stepped onto the concrete platform upon which the barn was built and noisily scraped some of the mud off her boots, whilst keeping a hopeful eye on the entrance. Still nothing. Oh, all right then, have it your way. A final scrape of her Wellingtons, and she clumped over to the sliding door.

  ‘Pegs?’ She cautiously put her head through the gap and peered into the gloom. The old grey tractor was still there, more cobwebby than ever, still lurching sideways onto its punctured wheel. Beyond that she couldn’t see much.

  ‘Pegs . . .’ Her voice was a little shaky now. ‘You’re scaring me. Are you in there?’ She took a step forward and waited. A renewed gust of wind battered the eaves of the barn, and then – whoosh – the whole interior of the building was filled with sudden daylight as one of the tin roof panels flipped upwards. The rusty corrugated sheet rose as though it were on a hinge, teetered in the wind for a moment, then came crashing down again. Midge jumped at the sound of it. The barn was plunged back into darkness – but it was as though a flashlight had been turned on and off, a bright snapshot of her surroundings. The image remained. Dust everywhere. Thick grey dust. The blue plastic sheet, still laid out on the floor, just as she had left it. The heavy hay-rake with its spidery wheels, still jacked up at a crazy angle. The bits of stone, the broom and the bucket – every reminder of that incredible summer day was still here, all as it had been.

  And Pegs was here too. She had seen him – over by the far wall. He was standing next to . . . what? Something that hadn’t been here before . . .

  The effect of sudden darkness began to wear off, and Midge was able to pick out the shapes once more. She could see the hay-rake, and yes, there was Pegs, but she couldn’t quite make out . . .

  Do you come alone, maid?

  The word-colours burst inside Midge’s head and she blinked – still unable to take such a peculiar sensation for granted.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ve come alone. But have you?’ She felt wary, and certainly wasn’t about to move any closer for the moment.

  I have brought a companion. One who would speak with you. This is the maid, Tadgemole. A friend she has been to me, and is kin to the one who was friend to your kind. She is here alone, as I promised. Come, then, both. Neither need have fear of the other.

  Pegs stepped forward, towards the light that fell through the doorway, and Midge was shocked to see that there was someone with him – an extraordinary little figure, dressed in grey, different somehow from the others she had seen.

  But one of them, nevertheless. One of the Various.

  Midge began to back away. She had not been prepared for this. Visions of similar figures flashed before her – Scurl and his crew, with their bows and arrows, and their murderous little eyes . . .

  Maybe this one was different, though. He was certainly a lot older. White-haired, and gaunt about the face – and so pale, now that he stepped directly into the light. He carried no weapons that she could see.

  ‘Wh-what is it?’ she said. ‘What do you want?’ She was speaking to Pegs, but her eye remained on the strange little newcomer. Old he might be, but he wasn’t feeble-looking. There was a toughness about him that reminded her a bit of someone else. Yes, the leader of the Ickri – Maglin – that was it. They both had that same upright stance, the same proud and fearless way of looking at you. They could almost be brothers, if it wasn’t for the colour of their skin. And the fact that this one had no wings . . .

  Then she remembered something.

  ‘Tadgemole?’ she said. ‘Aren’t you . . . I mean, are you the one who gave me . . . are you Henty’s father?’

  The grey eyes looked up at her – a long careful study. At last he spoke.

  ‘I am,’ he said. ‘Henty is my child. To you she came, maid, when she was in trouble, and was brought safely to her home. I was grateful, and a gift I sent. Now I am here to see you for myself, and to join with Pegs in asking your assistance on another matter.’

  Midge was trying to take in Tadgemole’s words, but at the same time she couldn’t help wondering at how he spoke. Where on earth did he get that accent? He sounded so unlike any of the others she had heard. Even his own daughter didn’t speak in that strange formal way. What a mixture they all were – the pompous old Queen, and the Elders, and Maglin, and Little-Marten, and now this one, Tadgemole, the leader of the cave-dwellers. All seemed to have their own peculiar ways of speaking. And as for Pegs . . . well, Pegs was from another planet, no doubt about it.

  She tried to focus.

  ‘Well . . . what is it you want?’ she said.

  To be gone from here, maid. We must find what we have lost, and so return to our own.

  Midge turned from Tadgemole, and looked at Pegs. He seemed changed from when she had last seen him, not just older, but with an even deeper wisdom in his dark glistening eyes. And as Midge stared into those eyes she became hypnotized by the little pinpricks of light that were reflected there. Twinkling like far-off stars . . .

  A strange feeling slowly came over her. It was as though she were being lifted up and carried away from this place, rising into the darkness. She was floating, tumbling end over end among the milky heavens, a windblown straw in the vastness of the universe.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she whispered, and her own voice seemed to be coming to her from a long way off. ‘What is it that you’ve lost?’

  The Orbis, child. We seek the Orbis. Our time has almost come, and we must leave this world and travel to Elysse. If we stay longer we shall perish. Help us to find the Orbis. Do you know what it is that I speak of?

  ‘T
he Orbis? Yes . . . the Orbis.’ And again Midge could hear her own voice, echoing through the darkness. Then came a picture, a memory. She sat by water – a pool or a fountain – and held some object in her hand, felt the cool weight of it, the smooth curve of metal against her palm. A sun, and a moon and a star. The Orbis.

  ‘I . . . remember it.’

  You remember it. And now you must find it and bring it home.

  ‘But . . . where shall I look?’

  The picture-memory began to fade, and Midge was floating back through space, returning from wherever she had been. She blinked, and became aware of the wind rattling the rusty panels of the barn roof. Tap-tap . . . tap-tap . . .

  ‘Where shall I look?’ She said it again, and her voice was back where it belonged. But now her head felt all spinny. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m going to have to . . .’ She moved shakily over to the grey tractor, and perched herself against the front wheel. With a hand on each knee to steady herself, and her head lowered, she felt better. This was just too weird, though.

  Tadgemole, show the child what you have brought.

  Midge raised her eyes. What now? Tadgemole was reaching into his rough cloak and bringing something from it. A piece of paper – quite large. He carefully unfolded it, looked it for a few moments, then moved towards her, offering it to her.

  Midge automatically leaned forward to take the paper from Tadgemole’s outstretched hand, but now she felt self-conscious at being so close to him – and so huge and awkward by comparison. His head was only a little higher than her knee. She found herself staring dizzily at the silver-grey stubble on his face. How did he keep it so short? Did he have scissors? And where did he get his clothing from? He wasn’t dressed in the rag-bag of oddities that she had seen on others of the Various – the scraps of sacking and cut-down shirts and waistcoats that had so obviously started life beyond the forest. The material of Tadgemole’s cloak was coarse and loosely woven, but it fitted him properly and might have been made especially for him. Did they weave their own cloth, then? How? She caught his eye and realized that she was being studied in return, a look of grave curiosity that took in her hair, and the zips on her fleece, the blue charity bracelet that she wore on her wrist. And the sheer size of her, she supposed, would make her as much an alien to him as he was to her. Another wave of dizziness passed over her, and then receded. She shook her head and took a deep breath before trying to focus on the piece of paper.