And so if you looked at it like that, she hadn’t really found the Orbis at all. It had simply turned up of its own accord.
This should have been such a wonderful moment, but instead Midge felt quite low and useless. It was almost as though she had been tricked.
Chapter Twenty-three
LITTLE-MARTEN COULD feel his insides quaking. He was as terrified for Henty’s sake as for his own. A dozen wild notions ran around his head, but though he might beg, or reason, flatter, or even attack, he knew that none of it would do any good. Scurl was mad. Easier to argle-bargle with an adder than deal with this one.
‘Have ’ee no word for an old friend then?’ Scurl’s bow and arrow casually swept from one of them to the other. Little-Marten glanced across the open byre towards Henty. She was backed up against a stack of hay bales, poised as though to run, her face pale in the gathering dusk. Little-Marten caught her eye and willed her not to do anything foolish. Now was not the time for any show of spirit on her part. He knew Scurl better than she, how murderous his actions were like to be if he were ever challenged.
Scurl looked Henty up and down and shrugged. ‘No? A pity. ’Tain’t so often I hears any voice but my own.’
‘We’ve quit the forest.’ Little-Marten spoke up – more intent upon distracting Scurl’s leery eye from Henty than with any real thought as to what he might say. ‘Driven out, as thee were once driven out.’
Scurl turned towards him, thick eyebrows twitching upwards in momentary surprise. ‘So? Did ’ee fall wrong-sides o’ that old wosbird Maglin then? ’Tis easy done, as well I knows. Ah . . .’ Scurl nodded as if he began to understand the situation. ‘I see how ’tis. Thee’d be together, but there be those that’d not let ’ee. All the worse then, to have run into I so soon – for ’ee’ve not been out here long, by the look of ’ee.’
‘No, not so long,’ Little-Marten blundered on. ‘We were hiding at the Gorji settlement, but then—’
He was cut short as Scurl spat on the ground in front of him. ‘Gorji! Do ’ee dare speak that word to me? Have ’ee forgotten what brought me to this? ’Twere that Gorji snip, and her like! ’Twere because of she that I were sent out here to die, and my company with me. Aye, and dead they now be – Dregg . . . and Snerk and Flitch. ’Tis she that I blame for that! And thee, Woodpecker – and thee, Tinkler!’ Scurl swung round and trained his bow upon Henty once again.
‘Well now I’ve the pair of ’ee, and I shall have t’other soon enough. That ogre maid’ll come straying away from the settlement one time too many, and then she’ll find me waiting for her. I’ve near put an arrow through her more’n once already.’
‘Could ’ee not shoot straight then?’
Little-Marten’s words tumbled out in desperation. His head was whirling, and his only conscious thought had been to say anything – anything – to deflect Scurl’s attention from Henty. And he had succeeded, if only momentarily, for Scurl’s ugly face turned slowly back towards him. But now its colour had deepened in fury and the sharp yellow teeth were bared in a snarl beneath the straggled beard.
‘Not shoot straight? Ha! I s’ll let thee be the judge o’ that, Woodpecker!’ Scurl flicked his head in Henty’s direction, and his voice lowered to a growl. ‘Choose theeself one o’ they pretty eyes then – whichever thee fancy – and then we shall see whether I shoot straight or no. Choose! Or I shall choose for ’ee . . .’
‘There’s another choice you could make.’ Henty spoke for the first time. ‘Which would you rather – that ’twas we who stood before you, or the Gorji maid here in our stead?’
‘What?’ Scurl lowered his bow a little, and some of the tension went out of the drawstring. He stared at Henty. ‘How could the Gorji brat be here in your stead?’
‘We might lead her here. Bring her to you. And then you might . . . let us go.’ Henty’s voice was quiet, calm.
Little-Marten shook his head at her. What did she think she was doing?
But Henty had Scurl’s attention now, and Little-Marten could only look on. He held his breath, waiting to see how this would play out.
‘Let ’ee go? I’ve birds in hand, maidy. I ain’t likely to let the two that I hold go a-chasing after one that I don’t. For how many dost reckon I’d end up wi’?’ Scurl’s voice was sneering, but the bow dropped a little lower still. He seemed interested, perhaps willing to listen for a few moments longer.
‘What if only one of us were to go,’ said Henty, ‘and that one to come back with the Gorji maid? Would you let us free then?’
Scurl took his hand from the bowstring, keeping the arrow loosely notched. He scratched at the underside of his filthy beard.
‘Well here be a sharp ’un,’ he said, ‘for a Tinkler. Is that what they learn ’ee, down in they caves – how to horse-trade? I thought ’twere only the Naiad as were up to such tricks. Now how could either of ’ee hope to snare that ogre?’
‘I reckon she’d come,’ said Henty, ‘if I told her . . . if I told her that Little-Marten was hurt. Trapped . . .’
‘Trapped? By me? Aye, I don’t doubt she would come. And bring men and hounds with her – I don’t doubt that, neither.’
‘No.’ Henty looked around the byre. ‘That Gorji machine . . . if I said Little-Marten was stuck under that thing, she’d come to help. She did the same for the Naiad horse, Pegs. And she’ve brought none of her own kind to the forest yet, nor told our secret that we know. She’ve been a friend to us.’
Scurl looked across at the heavy ladder-machine, considered it for a moment, then turned back to Henty.
‘And thee’d stand here and watch her die, would ’ee? This friend o’ yourn?’
‘I’d watch her die – if only we might live. She’ve brought us no harm, but she’s still Gorji.’
‘Henty . . .’ Little-Marten could hold his tongue no longer.
Scurl spun round and pointed a shaking finger at him. ‘Stay out o’ it, Woodpecker! This ’un might keep ’ee breathing a while yet! She’ve a sight more to her than thee!’ Scurl held Little-Marten in his wild gaze for a few moments longer, before turning away.
‘Now then. If ’ee were to bring the ogre to me, what makes ’ee think I s’d keep to my part?’
‘Your word on it.’ Henty looked at Scurl, a steady gaze that showed neither fear nor hatred. Little-Marten marvelled that she could remain so calm. Scurl’s back was to him, thinner and bonier than it had been, but still confident in its swagger – a back that shrugged off the possibility of attack, and Little-Marten felt weak and useless. This was between Scurl and Henty. It was as though he didn’t exist.
The tiny sounds of dimpsy-dusk came creeping into the darkening byre, faint rustles in the hay bales, the call of a heron from somewhere far out in the wetlands, the creak of the metal roof high overhead.
Finally Scurl sucked at his teeth, and said, ‘Well, thee’ve a head on they skinny shoulders o’ yourn, maid, I’ll give ’ee that, and wits about thee. Too many wits, I’m thinking . . .’ Then, in a flash of movement, Scurl drew back his bow and shot.
There had been no hint of warning. Henty squealed with pain and Little-Marten felt his heart explode at the sound. His knees sagged beneath him and he struggled to keep his vision in focus. He saw the black-and-white feathers of the arrow . . . their barred pattern mingling with the pale blur of Henty’s face . . . and realized that she was pinned to the bale behind her. By her hair.
‘What do ’ee say, Woodpecker?’ Scurl’s roar echoed around the byre. ‘Do I shoot straight enough for ’ee?’ Already Scurl had another arrow at the ready, and as he drew back the bow Little-Marten could only half raise his hands in a helpless plea. He had no voice to answer the snarling monster that stood before him, nor even wits to flinch from the arrow-point that met his eye. Deep into his brain that arrow would drive, a flash of magpie feathers the last thing he would ever see . . .
‘Pick me up some o’ that twine!’
What?
Scurl kicked at something with his r
agged foot, and Little-Marten tried to drag himself out of his shocked state. What? He turned his head towards Henty. She was struggling to untangle her hair from the arrow that was embedded deep in the hay bale beside her.
‘Twine, thee crack-nogged little zawney!’ yelled Scurl. ‘There . . . and there! Pick it up!’
Little-Marten looked around him. Lengths of orange twine lay scattered about the earth floor of the byre – long knotted loops that had been used to tie the hay bales. Yes, he’d noticed them before. He stooped to pick one up, and tumbled sideways as Scurl’s foot shoved him in the ribs.
‘Pick ’em up, dammee! More!’ Little-Marten scrambled away, and hastily began to gather up what he could find. From the corner of his eye he saw Scurl march over to where Henty stood, and heard her cry out again as Scurl yanked the arrow from the hay bale.
‘Get over there, and kneel down. There – kneel! Woodpecker, bring me that twine . . . give it to me. Now get down on your knees. No – away from she. Over there.’
The two of them were made to kneel on the earth floor, facing each other but some distance apart, at the foot of the tumbledown pile of hay bales. Scurl pulled a knife from his belt, long-bladed and heavy, some Gorji object. He wordlessly held it before them, raised it to his own hairy throat and drew it sideways in a quick slicing movement. His meaning was plain enough. They were to understand what this thing was likely to be used for, if they gave him any trouble.
Little-Marten watched as Scurl crouched down behind Henty, the knife blade clamped between his teeth. He took a length of the orange twine, looped it about her neck in a snare noose, then brought it down her back, keeping it taut as he wound it round and round her ankles. If Henty tried to straighten her legs out she would strangle herself.
‘Hands.’ Scurl made Henty hold her hands out in front of her whilst he tied her wrists.
Then it was Little-Marten’s turn.
‘Get back’ards.’ Little-Marten had been kneeling upright, but Scurl forced him down so that he was sitting on his heels. The reason for this became plain as the twine was looped around his neck, yanked tightly backwards, and attached to his ankles. There was to be as little play as possible. Little-Marten instinctively brought his fingers to his throat and tried to ease the pressure, but Scurl roughly pulled his hands away.
‘Hold ’em out – wrists together!’
Little-Marten did as he was told, and in a few moments was bound and helpless. He could still raise his hands to his neck, and by slumping his shoulders could loosen the snare noose just a little, but it was still a horribly uncomfortable and frightening position to be in. Scurl had been careful to tie his wrists so that the final knot was on the underside. Little-Marten knew that he would not be able to get his teeth anywhere near it, and that escape would be impossible.
Scurl picked up Henty’s bindle-wrap, untied it so that her few clothes and possessions fell onto the floor, and then tossed the oilskin towards her. ‘Cover theeself up,’ he said, and wandered across the byre to where Little-Marten’s bundle lay. He stood for a moment looking up at the hazy moon that now appeared among the bare branches of the trees outside. They could hear him muttering to himself.
‘I shall have ’ee . . . hmf . . . what do ’ee say, Ictor? Aye. Thee’m right . . . thee’m right . . . let ’em all come . . .’
Little-Marten looked at Henty, and puffed out his cheeks. With her bound wrists, she was struggling to get the oilskin about her shoulders, but she gave him a faint smile and a nod of encouragement. They were still alive, somehow, and for that at least they were grateful.
Scurl had picked up Little-Marten’s bindle-wrap, untied it, and discovered the soft Gorji material within.
‘What be this, then?’ He re-crossed the byre and dropped the oilskin in front of Little-Marten. Then he sat on a bale between the two of them in order to examine the red Gorji sack. It didn’t take him long to realize its purpose. He put his feet into it, and drew it up over his knees.
‘Stinks o’ the Gorji,’ said Scurl, but kept it where it was. ‘Now then . . .’ He looked at Henty. ‘Thee reckons the ogre maid’d come here to help Woodpecker, if thee were to ask her. But what of t’other way round? What if I sent Woodpecker to go and find her? If he said that ’twere thee as needed aid – would she come then?’
‘No.’ Little-Marten spoke up immediately. He could see where this was leading, and was horrified at the thought of leaving Henty alone at the mercy of Scurl.
Scurl swung round and raised the knife high, as if to hurl it at Little-Marten.
‘Aye!’ said Henty. ‘She would! I know she would . . .’
Scurl remained poised for a moment longer, then lowered the knife. ‘Hmf . . .’ He sat tapping the blade against the palm of his hand, scowling at it. ‘Hmf. Then ’tis which of ’ee to choose. Or neither. Which . . . or neither . . .’
Little-Marten reached out towards the crumpled oilcloth that lay before him. He was nervous of making any movement, but he was also freezing. The noose tightened at his neck as he leaned forward. He gasped and looked up at Scurl to see whether his effort to reach the bindle-wrap would meet with any threat of punishment. But Scurl still seemed to be lost in thought, and Little-Marten was able to drag the oilcloth towards him and flick it back over his head. He drew the cold stiff material about his shoulders, and tried to huddle himself beneath it as Henty had done.
Scurl was still tapping the knife blade against his palm, head lowered, muttering to himself. Finally he nodded. ‘Aye, so be it, then.’
A moment’s pause, and then Scurl raised the knife, holding it by the blade. In a smooth and practised movement he drew his arm back and hurled the object across the barn. Little-Marten’s flinch of terror came as a delayed reaction. The weapon had already flashed past him and struck its target. A deep thunk – the sound of metal biting into wood – and the knife was now protruding from the centre of the rabbit skin that they had noticed earlier. The tattered pelt, stretched across the wooden pallet on the far side of the barn, was obviously something that Scurl used for knife-throwing practice, a way of passing the cold and solitary evenings . . .
Little-Marten tried to swallow, but the tightness of the twine about his neck made it almost impossible to do so. He turned away from the knife to realize that Scurl was staring at him – at him and through him – wild red-rimmed eyes unblinking in the faint light. Scurl’s great bony forehead glistened, waxy, as though with a fever, and his unkempt hair and beard only made his appearance the more awful. He was as terrifying as that huge Gorji felix had been . . . more unpredictable, at any rate. And perhaps even madder than Maven . . .
Little-Marten shrank backwards as the eyes shifted slightly and focused properly upon him. Scurl’s brow furrowed into a scowl. ‘Bist hungry?’ he said.
Chapter Twenty-four
MIDGE WOKE UP to find George sitting on the edge of her bed.
‘Change of plan,’ he said.
‘Eh? What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t . . .’ Midge pushed herself upright and put her fist to her mouth as she yawned.
George flicked his fringe back. ‘My mum’s come across for a couple of hours after all, same as she did yesterday. Doing a bit more paperwork or something. Anyway, it meant that I could come too. Fancy another go on the toboggan? The snow’s mostly gone, but the slide’s still there . . .’
‘Uuuuggh.’ Midge yawned again, and tried to get her brain working. This wasn’t what was supposed to be happening at all. Today was going to be the day when she would hand over the Orbis. She was going to climb Howard’s Hill, find Pegs or Maglin or whoever she could, and just get rid of the thing. Today was going to be the day when it all finally came to an end, this whole ridiculous, amazing, impossible business. And now George was here.
Well, maybe it’d have to wait until later, then.
‘What’s the time?’ she said.
‘Dunno. About eight, I think.’
‘Eight o’clock? Ugh. Way too early . . .’ Midge flo
pped back down on the bed. ‘Go and get us a cup of tea or something, George, will you?’
‘OK. Are you going to get dressed then?’
‘In a bit.’
Midge stared at the ceiling, and listened to George’s footsteps clumping down the stairs. At least his absence gave her a moment or two to think. The sense of anticlimax that she had felt the night before was still with her. After all the trouble that she had been to . . . the secrecy, and the worry . . . it just seemed so much pointless effort now that the Orbis had literally tumbled into her lap. And even though it was such a beautiful object, the magic of it had vanished. Now that she had seen it and held it, the Orbis was like a Christmas present unwrapped: no matter how wonderful, or how longed for that present might be, it could never quite live up to the mysterious promise of its packaging.
She felt unreasonably angry, and when George came back into the room with a mug of tea in each hand she came to a decision. Well, why not? What difference would it make?
‘Can you go and get something out of the wardrobe for me?’ she said.
‘Huh? What am I – your blimmin’ servant?’ George carefully put the mugs of tea on the bedside cabinet.
‘You’ll like it. Go on. There’s a carrier bag at the back . . . a red one . . .’
Midge took a sip of her tea, and watched George as he walked across to the wardrobe and pulled the door open. Her anger was turning to excitement now, with that thrill of anticipation that only comes from giving away a deeply sworn secret. But there was also a spark of revenge within her. Somehow, somewhere along the line, she had been made a fool of. There had been no need for all the care she had taken, no need to have suffered alone. She could have told George everything right from the start, and brought no harm to anyone. And so now she would tell. Maybe he could even come with her when she delivered the Orbis . . .
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