Winter Wood

by Steve Augarde

  ‘And then what ’ee be left wi’, maister? No eel. And no spear, neither.’ Maven shrugged her skinny shoulders. Her mouth cracked open into a horrible grin – a flash of pink against the green of her encrusted face.

  She stood her ground, waiting almost, as Maglin recovered himself from his shock to come roaring down upon her.

  ‘Dost think to make a mock o’ me, you old drab?’ Maglin lunged forward, grabbed Maven by the arm, and shook her from side to side. ‘Here’s what I be left with – a bundle o’ dry twigs as I might snap into kindles! A handful o’ last season’s nettle-stalks as I might trample down just to hear ’em crackle! By Elysse, I’ll have ’ee tied to the Whipping Stone for this!’

  But Maven, instead of struggling to escape, yanked herself closer to Maglin – clung to him so that her face was thrust up against his cheek, her breath hissing into his ear.

  ‘Dost think I be mad, maister? Dost reckon me witless? That I be mazy in the head? No! ’Tis thee, Maglin, that be too crack-nogged to reason aright. ’Tis thee that’ve lost all sense. Do ’ee not see where the true path lies? Then let me show ’ee . . . let me aid thee . . .’

  ‘Get . . . get away from me!’ Maglin managed to wrench himself free of the bony green fingers that clutched at his tunic. He sent Maven staggering back against the trunk of the beech, and raised his head to shout up at Little-Marten.

  ‘Woodpecker! Do ’ee just bide there gawking? Get me my spear!’

  Little-Marten, sitting astride the Perch, began shuffling further along it in order to try and get at the weapon. He hooked one of his legs beneath the broken tree limb, and gave an awkward push at the spear with the ball of his foot – very nearly unseating himself in the process. The spear swung sideways, dislodged itself and tumbled downwards . . . end over end . . . to drop straight into the waiting grasp of Maven-the-Green.

  With astonishing agility the old hag snatched the spear from mid-air, and had it pointed at Maglin before he’d even begun to move. Little-Marten gawped down at the scene, barely able to see how such a thing could have come about.

  ‘Maven – none o’ your games! You give me that!’ Maglin advanced towards the crone, arms outstretched, snarling with fury.

  ‘Don’t ’ee wish thee may get it, then?’ Maven retreated, but kept the spear pointed at Maglin, feinting, thrusting, holding him at bay. From left to right Maglin dodged, always advancing, but never able to move quickly enough to get around that vicious jabbing blade.

  Away from the Rowdy-Dow tree and back across the frosty clearing the two of them moved, locked together in their circling dance, the still air alive with the threats and roars of the one, and the mad cackling of the other. Always Maven was too quick to be caught – yet Maglin could hardly give up and allow himself beaten. He was Steward of the Ickri!

  Little-Marten watched dumbfounded as Maven-the-Green finally backed into the dead undergrowth that surrounded the clearing, and Maglin continued to pursue her. Occasional bellows of outrage were audible for some time after the two of them had disappeared into the trees.

  Was there no one else to hear all the clamour? Little-Marten turned wide-eyed towards the plantations of Great Clearing, and yes, here were a few of the Naiad farmers peering through the gap that separated the two clearings, come to see what the matter was. But now the noise had ceased and all was silent again. The Naiad looked about them for a few moments longer, glanced in Little-Marten’s direction, and then withdrew. If the Woodpecker was on his Perch and had sounded no alarm, then all must be well.

  Should he be sounding an alarm? Little-Marten was at a loss. There was still no sign of Maglin – but surely such a great warrior as he would be able to retrieve his spear from a feeble old crone without the need for drumming up companies of archers? Maglin might not thank him for sending aid, at that. He would not want to be seen as a laughing stock.

  Aye, Maglin would soon be back, Little-Marten felt sure, and then he could get on with sounding the Muster . . .

  The Muster! In all the mayhem he had forgotten the nature of Maglin’s order and what it meant. The Ickri were leaving. He had heard the talk and had refused to believe it – hadn’t wanted to believe it. But now that Maglin himself had said that it would be so, then so it would be. The Ickri were leaving, and he would be forced to leave with them. And without Henty.

  Little-Marten dropped his head. He tapped one of the clavensticks lightly against the barkless stump of the Perch as he tried to think. Could he refuse to go – or beg to stay behind? But even if that were allowed, what then? There would be no home for him here. Tadgemole would never let him near Henty, and he would be all alone. Could he take Henty with him, then? No, for his own were as against the cave-dwellers as the cave-dwellers were against his kind. Henty would have no life among the Ickri.

  What could he do, then? What could he do?

  Tap-tap . . . tap-tap. So often he had sat here, and for so long, that the sticks had beaten a smooth hollow in the weather-bleached limb before him. The Woodpecker. How proud he had been of his post and his work. Here he had dreamed his dreams, high above the world, scorched by summer sun and drenched by autumn rain. Dreams of all that might be. And were they now over? What did he have to offer Henty? If not a future together, then perhaps she would give him up. She might already have done so. He’d not seen her for days. If only he could truly fly, like his namesake the woodpecker, then he would carry her far away . . .

  Some skirmishing movement in the bushes on the far side of the clearing caught his eye; a figure, pushing aside the low branches. Maglin, returning? No, it was . . . Henty! Henty? What was she up to?

  Across the clearing the Tinkler maid came running, skirts hitched up, long dark hair streaming in the wind – but then another figure appeared behind her, stumbling through the rough tangle of undergrowth. It was that little tinsy-smith, Pank! What was he doing so far from the caves, and in broad daylight?

  Little-Marten sat open mouthed as Henty made straight for the Rowdy-Dow tree. She passed directly beneath the Perch, but didn’t stop or even look up at him. She muttered a few breathless words, and kept right on going.

  ‘Come to the caves at moon-wane – and be ready to journey. Whistle me down. I’ll be waiting.’

  ‘Eh?’

  But Henty was away, with never a pause and no other acknowledgement. Little-Marten turned in wonder to watch his old friend Pank come bringing up the rear, pink in the face from his exertions.

  ‘See what I be brought to, Woodpecker? This be all your doing, you great zawney! I hopes you can keep up wi’ her, for I be troggled if I can.’

  Pank passed beneath the Rowdy-Dow tree also, and made off across the clearing without stopping.

  Little-Marten blinked. Some wondrous sights he had seen from this position, but never anything as likely to tumble him from his Perch as all this. First Maven-the-Green and Maglin, then Henty and Pank . . .

  A cold gust of wind sprang up, billowing around his oilskin wrap and lifting its corners up like broad wings. Little-Marten leaned back against the trunk of the Rowdy-Dow tree and smiled to himself. Let the wind blow, then. Let icy rain and hail fall from the skies and soak him to the bone. His heart was warm again. Henty had not given him up, and he was sure now that she never would. She had risked the wrath of her father to come and find him, and to let him know that their future was to be together come what may. He was to meet her at moon-wane, ready to journey, perhaps to fly away after all. Whatever plan she had in mind, he would gladly follow.

  Little-Marten looked out over the clearing, watching the low strip of cloud that rose over the bare treetops. Soon it would be dark, and his duty would be over. He would sit here till then, waiting for Maglin. And for moon-wane . . .

  ‘There. Thee may take it, then. I’ve done playing wi’ it.’

  Maglin saw the spear being tossed towards him, but he missed his catch, and the weapon landed in the dead leaves a little behind him. He turned and pounced on it, furious that he should have to retriev
e it in such a shameful manner.

  It was in his hand at last, though – and now that old witch would pay for her insults!

  He whirled round to face her, spear drawn back in readiness to strike . . . but Maven was not there. Or not where he had expected her to be. She had moved around to his right. Maglin was forced to step sideways in order to shift his balance, and in that moment he saw that Maven was holding a weapon of her own. It was pointing straight at him.

  He had never actually seen the thing before, but he knew instantly what it was – and what it could do. One dart from that witchi little blowpipe could drop a grown archer straight into the dust. Both Tulgi and Benzo had fallen to its effect, and neither of them had ever got up again.

  Maglin remained motionless, spear poised high, for just a little longer. Then he slowly brought his arm down, letting the spear-shaft slip through his fingers until the blade rested upon the earth.

  ‘Be this your purpose then, Maven? To see me dead?’

  Maven took the slim blowpipe away from her mouth, but kept it upright, holding it in both hands, still pointed directly at him. She could fell him in an instant if that was her whim. Maglin looked along the deadly pipe and into the black eyes of Maven, trying to fathom her tangled mind, seeking for some way out of this. Why had he not properly dealt with this creature before?

  ‘I’ve watched ’ee since ’ee were a wean, Maglin. From a wean to what thee be today – Steward of the Ickri. Thee’ve a brave heart, and a true ’un. No, I’ve no wish to sithee dead.’

  ‘Then I be glad to hear it.’ Maglin was puzzled. A subtle change had come over Maven. She seemed calm, normal almost, in her speaking. Was she as mad as she appeared? ‘What do ’ee want of me then?’

  ‘To show ’ee something. And to tell ’ee a tale. To help ’ee.’

  ‘To help me? Is this a help, then, to rob me of my spear, and dance me into the trees where thee may put a dart in my neck?’

  ‘Would ’ee have listened to me, without you were made to?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you listen to me now.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Then listen, while there be no other ears to hear. Thee’ve a greater power than ’ee do reckon, maister. Now that ’ee be Steward, the Stone be thine to hold. And yet thee pays it no mind. Dost think to take it from here when thee goes a-journeying?’

  ‘The Touchstone? What’s that to you, crone? Aye, I shall take it, as’d only be my right and duty.’

  ‘You’m wrong, then, for ’tis your duty to bide here. And the Stone belongs here also. Turn theeself around, Maglin, and walk to the pods. I shall tell ’ee a tale upon the way.’

  ‘What’s this? You think to tell me of what my duty might be – and to give me orders?’ Maglin’s voice rose in anger, and he took a step closer to Maven.

  ‘Turn theeself around, Steward. I told ’ee that I’d no wish to see thee dead, but it may happen so yet.’

  The rawness had returned to Maven’s voice, and once again she seemed capable of any deed. Maglin growled in frustration, but did as he was told. He turned round and began to walk down through the silent woods, with Maven following at his back.

  ‘’Twere before your time, Maglin, when the Stone were first brought back to these lands, but I were there, on all that long journey . . .’

  Maglin could hear Maven’s low voice as he picked his way among the dark trees, but her footsteps were as light as a renard’s. No crackle of twigs or rustle of grasses echoed his own clumsy progress. Had she really been there, all those seasons ago? How had she survived for so long?

  ‘. . . aye, and for many a moon we travelled, four-season upon fourseason, down from the northlands. Avlon were King then, and ’twere he who vowed to join the Touchstone with the Orbis, as ’twere split from, when Ickri and Naiad first quarrelled. Avlon carried the Stone part way of the journey. But though the Stone were his to hold, there were one who understood it better – his daughter, Una. She were a wise chi’, witchi, and she had the true touch. I were a friend to she, and she to me. Aye, she learned much from old Maven. In Una’s hand the Stone showed its power, and so guided her to where it would be. The Stone led the Ickri to these woods – back to the Orbis, that waited here so long to be joined with its brother. Do ’ee see?’

  Maglin grunted, still raging at the ignominy of being herded along in this fashion.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I see naught but the mazy tale that were told us as childer.’

  ‘Ah, but ’tis a true tale, Steward, for I were there at the start and at the finish.’

  ‘How did it end then?’ Maglin couldn’t help but ask the question.

  ‘Avlon had a brother – Corben – who wished to take all for himself. Aye, and so he did. Corben poisoned his own brother, the King, and told all that ’twas Una who had done this thing, that she might gain the queenship. They believed him and sent archers to slay the child in the night. I saw she who were my friend die at their hands. Then Corben took the Stone. ’Twas he who first entered these woods, and brought the Touchstone home – Corben, King of the Ickri. Pah!’

  ‘And so he joined these things together – Stone and Orbis?’

  ‘No. The Orbis were wi’ the cave-dwellers. Corben would’ve robbed ’em of it, but they were too slippy for he. They sent the Orbis out into the Gorji lands wi’ a maid, and ’tis long gone. With the Gorji still, perhaps. We shall see. Bide there, Maglin.’

  They had reached the grove of oak trees where the pods of the Ickri archers hung. Maglin came to a halt and looked about him, half hoping that there would be some of his company here to aid him, half hoping that there would not. He hardly liked the idea of being seen in such a position as this. All was silent and deserted, however, the blackened willow pods hanging motionless from the spreading branches of the oaks. The light was already fading, but the archers would be at their work until true darkness fell, patrolling the woods for whatever game they could find.

  ‘The Stone, Maglin. Bring it to me.’

  Maglin turned to find that Maven still held the blowpipe pointed directly at him. By Elysse, but if he ever lived this day through, he would strangle the old crone in her sleep.

  ‘The Touchstone?’ He had to think for a moment. Was it still in the Royal Pod – Ba-betts’ old home? No, the Elders had brought it across, along with the mapskins, all bundled together in a pecking bag. The bag lay where it had been left, just inside the entrance to his own pod. He had barely glanced at the contents, such things being of little interest to him. Nevertheless it was his duty to protect the relics of Ickri power, and he would refuse to now hand them over to Maven, though it cost him his life.

  ‘The Stone ain’t for thee, Maven. Nor shall you touch it – blowpipe or no.’

  ‘Ah, there speaks the true Steward. And you be right, Maglin. The Touchstone were never for old Maven. I’ll make ’ee a vow, then. Only bring out the Stone, and I’ll not lay finger on it, nor try to take it from thee. But I would show ’ee what it can do.’

  Her voice had grown softer. Maglin tried to look past the twisted hanks of hair that covered Maven’s eyes, but could divine nothing of what might be going on in that wild head. Sometimes she seemed deadly dangerous, and sometimes the madness seemed temporarily to slip away from her. He would play her game a little longer, and perhaps in doing so the opportunity would arise to snatch that blowpipe from her. Then she would see what ’twas like to be on the other end of such a thing.

  ‘’Tis in my pod,’ he said. ‘But I warn ’ee, Maven, I’ll not let go of it. Not while I be Steward and ’tis trusted to my keeping.’

  ‘Lay the spear aside, then, and fetch out the Stone. I s’ll not take it from ’ee, though I could have had ’un for myself long ago, if so I wished.’

  Aye, that was true enough, thought Maglin. The Stone could have been taken a hundred times over for all the attention he had paid it. Ba-betts had always kept the Queen’s Guard close to her pod, but he had not thought such protection necessary. In future h
e must post a couple of archers also, if this was to be the way of things, rather than send them all to hunt.

  Maglin moved across to his pod, aware that Maven was still close behind him and that the blowpipe was pointing at his back. He rested his spear against the wickerwork, drew aside the stiff oilcloth and reached his arm over the curved lip of the entrance. The pecking bag was still there, just to one side. It was heavy. Maglin looked at Maven as he gripped the leather straps of the bag. He was tempted for a moment to swing the thing out of the pod and hurl it straight at her. The heavy stone would crush her skull if he caught it aright. But no. He would never be fast enough to beat one of those deadly little darts of hers. One quick puff from those stained green lips and he would be joining Benzo and Tulgi, wherever they might be.

  He slowly brought the pecking bag out into the evening light.

  ‘Here ’tis, then,’ he said. ‘What would ’ee have o’ me now?’

  ‘Fetch out the Stone.’

  Maglin reached into the bag, fumbled around for a moment among the sheaf of mapskins, until his fingers closed upon the Touchstone. He had never handled the thing before, and was surprised at its weight as he drew it forth.

  ‘What do ’ee think to it then, Steward, now that ’tis yourn to hold?’

  Maglin looked at the Stone, hefted it in his rough palm, still inclined to view it as a possible weapon. The surface was highly polished, a deep orangey red, with flecks and veins of darker colour here and there. Two small indentations had been cut into the globe, at opposite poles, so that he could just grip the whole between thumb and middle fingertip. He turned it on this makeshift pivot a couple of times, saw how it might fit within some other device and thus rotate.

  ‘A bauble,’ he said. ‘And a pretty thing, no doubt. For a chi’.’

  ‘Aye, a pretty thing.’ Maven’s voice had dropped to a low murmur. ‘And a pretty weight for a chi’ to carry – as a chi’ once did. For many and many a season.’