Ictor gazed up at the dark woodland with new eyes. All this would be his to rule. His and Scurl’s. And what a bloody revenge they would have on all who had served them so ill: Maglin, the Gorji child, the very giants themselves . . . all would pay . . . all would pay . . .
‘Do ’ee understand me, Scurl? Be your head clear?’
‘Eh? My head be clear as day, Ictor, don’t ’ee fret. I understand ’ee well enough. And ’tis good . . . ’tis good . . .’
‘Then we’ve a brother’s pact on it. But when this be done, I s’ll needs be gone from these woods afore the giants come. Do ’ee have a place for us to hide?’
‘Aye. I’ve a place to hide . . .’
Chapter Twenty-one
HENTY AND LITTLE-MARTEN slept deep into the following day, and when they finally awoke the world had changed yet again. Bright beams of sunshine came slanting in through the entrance to the hollow tree, and the glare of reflected light on the snow outside made them squint and shield their eyes. They could hear the drip-drip of water amongst the surrounding stacks of logs and branches, and knew that the thaw had already begun. The snow would disappear almost as quickly as it had arrived.
Little-Marten wriggled forward until his head was outside the tree-hollow. The air was clear and still, and the sky above as blue as a ruddock’s egg. A perfect winter’s day for those with full bellies and the ease to enjoy it, but for him and Henty there was no such luxury. They needed to find food and proper shelter. He looked across the white landscape towards the distant treeline of the Far Woods, a dark shape, threatening and unknown. Come nightfall they must make their way thence. Little-Marten shook his head at the thought of it. What comfort was there likely to be in such a place, and who could say what terrible creatures might dwell there? Brocks . . . renards . . . and worse, for all he knew. Aye, and he and Henty must arrive under cover of nightfall, when all such monsters were up and waking . . .
The deep thrumming sound of a Gorji contraption caught his ear, like that of the mighty machines that roamed the giants’ settlement. But closer.
Little-Marten crept further forward and peeped around the side of the tree stump. A field away, beyond the dividing hedge, he could see the bouncing heads of men as they rode upon some moving platform. The platform was hauled by one of their machines, a great red thing that belched smoke into the clear air. The machine drew up to a gateway and stopped, its clatter slowing to a steady growl. A man jumped down and walked towards the gate. Little-Marten waited to see no more.
‘Henty! Rouse up – there’s giants a-coming! Quick with ’ee!’
But Henty had already sensed the danger. She was gathering up their belongings, hurriedly stuffing everything away as best she could and with no thought as to order.
‘Ready?’
‘Aye. Away, then.’
A final glance about them and they left the shelter of the tree stump, dodging among the stacks of logs and heavy branches until they came to the last pile. Here they turned and looked back across the field. The Gorji machine was through the gap, and had again come to a halt, waiting for the man at the gate to close it. And now they saw something that made their hearts beat faster still: the gate-man had a black-and-white hound at his side. Horribly lively the creature looked, dancing around, full of excitement . . .
‘I reckon they’ve come for the wood,’ Henty whispered, and Little-Marten nodded. It would be easy enough to hide amongst these loosely stacked piles of timber, but if that was what the men were here for then they’d soon be discovered. He looked behind him, towards the rhyne that they had crossed the previous afternoon. That was their best hope, although there was a stretch of open land to be covered between here and there.
Henty made the decision. ‘Back to the ditch,’ she said. ‘We can’t bide here.’
‘Quick as ’ee can, then.’
Away they went again, stumbling through the snow-covered tufts of grass. The uneven ground made their progress seem horribly slow, and the distance far greater than it had at first looked. With each gasping step they expected to hear a cry go up from one of the men or the sudden baying of the hound . . .
But no, they were over the lip of the rhyne and scrabbling down the bank with no alarm yet raised. They kept moving, pushing their way along at the water’s edge, trying to get as much distance as they could between themselves and the giants in the field above. But the waist-high grass and reeds that grew on the steep banks of the rhyne made the going almost impossible, and they were forced into climbing a little higher, and then higher still. Eventually they risked peering out over the top of the bank. The field with the men in it was behind them now. They could see the entire group, sorting through the piles of wood, lifting the rough logs onto the wheeled platform. And they could hear the voices of the giants on the still air. Loud, in a way that the forest-dwellers could never dare to be. Careless and cheerful, fearful of nothing. What must that be like?
Little-Marten and Henty turned away and surveyed the bright landscape, trying to plot a pathway towards the Far Woods. Already they could see how they had overestimated the speed of their progress, and how hard-pressed they would be to gain those woods in what remained of this day. It was too dangerous to cross the open fields and so travel in a straight line. Instead they would have to check back and forth amongst the hedges and ditches in order to keep as close to cover as they could. The journey was likely to take a lot longer than it needed to.
Henty led the way for a while, walking as close as she dared to the top of the rhyne bank, keeping to where the grass was a little thinner and the snow less deep. She seemed calm and steady. Little-Marten was apprehensive, and grew more so as the day wore on. He followed behind, continually looking to left and right for signs of danger as the true nature of their situation began to sink in. They were hungry and homeless, and deeper into Gorji territory than even the Wisp would dare venture. And in broad daylight against such a snowy background they were horribly exposed, easy prey to whatever should happen to glance their way, be it man or beast. At any moment giants might step out from behind this hedge or that tree, men with clubs and shovels and slavering hounds . . .
Little-Marten glanced behind him, fearful that some great grasping hand might be about to fall upon his shoulder. Nothing there. Nothing but the trailing wake of their own footprints in the snow. Aye, footprints that might betray them yet. And even if they should safely reach their destination, what then? What kind of life awaited them in those black woods, where there was neither Ickri archer nor bramble thicket to keep the creatures of the night at bay? A monstrous sense of dread began to descend upon Little-Marten, a feeling beyond the natural nervousness of being caught upon Gorji territory. The sunny countryside, as cheerful as it might have been under other circumstances, now seemed to be hiding something evil behind its smile, a thing of utter darkness beneath its pretty winter mantle. Little-Marten became certain that every step they took drew them closer to a terrible and inevitable end. His instinct was so strong that he was ready to give up now, and turn back, but he knew that Henty would have none of it. Her very stride told him of her will and determination. She was unlikely to change her mind and go home just because he had a jittery feeling in his bones. Very well. They would find shelter for this night perhaps, but then he must talk to Henty properly, persuade her of his fears, make her return to the forest, even though it meant their separation. For himself he would risk all danger, but he would not see Henty walk to her death on his account – and death, he was now convinced, was where this journey was leading them. It was out there, waiting . . .
They could try again when the weather was warmer and there were easier pickings to be had. That’s what he would tell her. Or he would tell her that he was simply too scared to carry on, or even that he no longer loved her. He would say anything, do anything, to turn her from whatever lurked on that darkening pathway.
‘What is it?’
They could hear the roar of water up ahead. A steep bank confronted them
, above which rose the top of some piece of machinery, russet-coloured against the blue sky. They scrambled up the bank and found themselves at the edge of a waterfall, a dizzying rush of noise and tumbling movement.
Two snow-covered planks spanned the broad stream before them, and out in the centre was the big metal thing that they had first seen, tall columns with toothed wheels, and what might be a handle on the top. Beneath this the swollen torrent flowed, brown and sinuous, rushing forth in a great arc before pounding itself to foam in the pool below. Here great bubbles and flecks of mushroom-coloured froth circled one another, round and round in a hypnotic dance, eventually to be whirled away downstream.
The weir-pool looked dark and deep, a fearful place. The low rays of winter sunlight could not reach it and so it seemed more gloomy than ever. The horror of falling in made Little-Marten and Henty hang back from its edge, and yet there was a pull to that swirling current that invited them to come closer . . . just a little closer . . .
‘Ugh! Don’t like it.’ Henty stepped away, grabbing at Little-Marten’s arm as she did so. ‘Can we get across?’
They looked towards the treeline of the Far Woods, and saw that crossing the water would be their quickest way. Their only way, perhaps.
Little-Marten wondered whether this would be the time to tell Henty of his deep fear of going on at all. But no. She would only think he was frightened of the water. He put his foot on the end of one of the planks.
‘We s’ll try. I’ll go first.’ His voice was almost lost in the roar of the waterfall.
But Henty had heard him, and she still had hold of his arm.
‘No, we go together.’
Hand in hand they began to edge their way across. No one had walked this way since the snow had fallen, and so the crunch of the unbroken surface beneath their boots was reassuringly firm. Nevertheless they took it one step at a time, both of them careful to keep their eyes on the opposite bank, rather than looking down into that crashing foam. They were approaching the metal construction at the centre of the crossing. Little-Marten stretched out his free hand to gain some support . . . and then felt the plank beneath him tip sickeningly to one side. His stomach lurched in terror as he staggered forward, thrown completely off balance. He heard Henty’s squeal of panic, grasped her hand tighter than ever in response and was dragged to his knees by the sudden swinging weight of her. She was over the edge – he knew it – but still he hung on, falling flat on his belly now, all tangled up in his bindle-pack and hopelessly clutching at handfuls of snow as he felt himself being pulled after her. His desperate scrabbling fingertips found a gap between the two planks and instantly locked into it, gripping as though they would never let go. It was enough, just, to keep Little-Marten from sliding any further. He craned his head around, whimpering in fright, and saw that Henty still had one leg crooked over the edge of the boards. Her head and body were dangling above the torrent, but she was not lost to him yet. The realization gave him new strength, and with a roar of defiance against the triumphant clamour of the waters below, Little-Marten hauled himself sideways, rolling over onto his back so that Henty was dragged bodily towards him. She was safe.
‘Ah . . . ah . . .’ Henty lay on the slippery boards gasping for breath, but Little-Marten would give her no pause.
‘Crawl!’ he shouted, and began to do so himself, moving towards the far bank on his hands and knees. He was raging at the Gorji for building so treacherous a bridge, and at himself for putting faith in any of their works. What a fool he was to take such risks, and to allow Henty to do the same. He had nearly lost her. Well then, enough. He hawked and spat far out into the roiling froth. Aye, enough.
There were tangled clumps of blackberry bushes growing on the far bank, spilling across the end of the plank-bridge itself, and these had to be gingerly pushed aside before Little-Marten and Henty could feel themselves safely back onto firm ground.
‘Henty, this ain’t any good.’ Little-Marten’s words came tumbling out. ‘I be taking you home. No . . . no . . .’ He held up a hand as Henty opened her mouth to speak. ‘I be done with it, I tell ’ee. There’s nothing for us out here but trouble . . . and . . . and . . . danger. We’ve no food and nowhere to stay and there’s worse to come, I knows it. Far worse to come if we carry on like this.’
Henty said nothing, but moved in close and put her arms about his neck. She was shaking. Little-Marten drew her to him, but still he stumbled on, determined to say his piece. ‘I can’t bear it, Henty – can’t bear to sithee live so. Cold and hungry, and every step in fear o’ what the next might bring. We’m like mice in a hawk’s nest out here, and’ll come to proper grief afore another day’s out, ’tis certain. I just can’t watch ’ee do it. Not any more. So I’ll tell ’ee now – we’re going back.’
He waited for her response, looking over the top of her head at the pale countryside. Already the sun was past its strength.
‘But I’m with you,’ she said at last. ‘Don’t you know that’s all I care about?’
‘Henty, I thought I’d lost ’ee. I did true. Chance were with us this time, but what o’ next time and the time after that? I could be standing here alone now – or you could. What then? We must go back.’
She said, ‘But we’ve come such a way that we can’t turn round now. Why don’t we just get to the Far Woods and see how ’tis? All we need might be waiting for us there.’
‘Ha. I don’t know as I want to see what waits for us there. This don’t feel right, not any of it.’
‘Well I’m not going back tonight.’ Henty had stopped shaking and some of her spirit had returned. ‘Nor crossing that water again. And if you were so for giving up, then why come over to this side?’
‘Henty, I wasn’t going to start some argle-bargle with ’ee out in the middle o’ that lot! Listen . . .’ Little-Marten sighed and looked about him. ‘We ain’t going to reach the Far Woods this day, even if we did carry on. We’ll look for shelter now, before ’tis too late, and then talk on it.’
Henty nodded. ‘All right.’
It was a compromise that each was happy to agree to – each believing that a little rest might help the other see sense.
There was a byre, a huge red building, two or three fields away. It was partially hidden by trees, but Little-Marten and Henty could see that the object appeared to have no sides – just a massive curved roof raised high from the ground on tall metal stanchions. A roof was better shelter than nothing, though, and nothing was their only other choice. They began to make their way around the edges of the fields, doubly cautious now that they were approaching a building where giants might be present.
An air of disuse hung about the place. From beneath the cover of the last belt of trees Little-Marten and Henty peered forth in silence at the great open-sided byre, just a short distance away now, and a taller building than they had ever seen in their lives. It occupied the high end of a sloping field, and from here a rough snow-filled track ran down towards a distant gate. There were no other dwellings nearby, and no sign of movement.
The purpose of the byre had apparently been for storing hay. An uneven stack of bales still filled one corner, bales that had been long forgotten if their blackened appearance and sprouting tufts of grass were anything to go by. Low patches of brambles had spread from the surrounding field, and entwined themselves about the rusting stanchions. They had even begun to embrace a piece of machinery that stood half in and half out of the byre – some ladder-like object on wheels. It was plain to Little-Marten and Henty that the Gorji were not often in this place. They crept from beneath the trees and scuttled over to the building.
It was a better find than they could have hoped for. The floor was just bare earth, but quite dry – dusty even – towards the middle where snow and rain could not reach. And the hay bales that were beneath the shelter of the roof were also dry, though grey with age. Bits of Gorji rubbish lay scattered about here and there, things fashioned of wood and rot-metal and other less recognizable materi
als. Orange-coloured twine – there seemed to be a lot of that around. Little-Marten thought that he might remind himself to take a few lengths with him when they left.
They found evidence of Gorji butchery, or so they assumed it to be – a rabbit skin stretched out upon a wooden pallet. The square pallet was propped against one of the metal columns that supported the barn, and the rabbit skin was pinned to the centre of it, hooked over splinters that had been cut into the edges of the wooden slats. The pelt was uselessly ruined, slashed about as though with a blade. Why?
The two of them wandered away in different directions. Little-Marten noticed a few pale scraps of something lying on the earth floor near the ladder-machine and went over to take a look. Bits of . . . apple? No, it was the remains of a winter root, gnawed by some animal perhaps and then discarded in the dirt. It could be a wurzel, or a turnip.
‘Henty – look at this.’ Little-Marten stooped and picked up a piece of the grubby root, dusted the cleanest part of it on the front of his jerkin and took a bite. Wurzel! Hardly a luxury, but after two days without food it was welcome enough.
‘What is it?’ Henty was struggling to move one of the hay bales.
Little-Marten didn’t answer. He chewed thoughtfully on the scrap of wurzel root. It was half raw, but that was what puzzled him. He looked at the bit that remained in his hand, the bit that was blackened on the outside. Not grubby after all, but . . . charred . . . cooked . . .
Henty called across to him. ‘Marten, look – I’ve broke one of these bales open, and ’tis all good and dry. We can sleep on this.’
‘Aye, build theeselves a nest, my pretty birds. And I shall see as thee sleep sound enough.’
The harsh rasping voice froze Little-Marten’s scalp. He swung round, horrified, the piece of root falling from his hand.
A wild and ragged figure stood at the open side of the byre, a bow in his fist, arrow ready notched. The remnants of his tunic and breeches hung about him in tatters, and round his shoulders was draped a filthy piece of Gorji sacking, tied at the throat with orange twine. His hair had grown longer and greyer, and the once-stubbled chin was now full-bearded, but Little-Marten recognized his old enemy in an instant. Here were the eyes that could stop his heart from beating, and here was a name at last to the fears that had dogged him all throughout this day: Scurl.
Winter Wood Page 22