Winter Wood

by Steve Augarde

  ‘Better slow down a bit,’ she said.

  George looked behind him. ‘Huh? Oh, right. OK. I felt like a right idiot, with those three blokes watching us. Think they suspected anything?’

  ‘What are they going to suspect – that we’re smuggling little people around?’

  ‘Ha. No, s’pose not. God, this feels weird though.’

  They managed to cross the first couple of fields without mishap, but at the gateway to the third field it was clear that they would have to stop and think. The ground was all churned-up and muddy – great furrows across it where tractors had been in and out – so that there was no chance of dragging the toboggan through without it overturning.

  ‘We’d better get him off,’ said George, ‘and risk him walking this bit.’ He glanced around him. ‘Can’t see anyone about.’

  ‘No, let’s just pick the whole thing up and carry it.’

  ‘Do you reckon? All right, then. We can give it a go, anyway.’

  The toboggan was easy enough to lift, but not so easy to keep level. With George at one end and Midge at the other, they staggered and stumbled their way across the deep muddy channels, and more than once there was a nasty lurch that threatened to tip Little-Marten into the mire. But they got through in the end, carried the toboggan onto firmer ground and laid it down.

  Midge crouched beside the toboggan and lifted a corner of the pillow.

  ‘Are you all right under there?’ she whispered.

  ‘Aye.’ A muffled little sound.

  ‘We need to go that way.’ George pointed towards a line of willows. ‘Then follow that rhyne along till we get to the weir . . . oh—’

  He stopped talking, and Midge straightened up to see what was the matter. At the far end of the field a group of men were working. It looked as though they were stacking wood onto a tractor and trailer. One man was standing on the trailer itself, and the others were heaving logs and branches up to him.

  Midge and George watched for a few moments.

  ‘It’s OK,’ said George. ‘We’ll just keep going. They won’t bother us.’

  ‘Do you want me to pull the toboggan for a bit?’ said Midge. She stood up.

  ‘Yeah, if you like.’

  George put his hands in his pockets, and the two of them walked side by side. Midge tried to keep to the smoothest ground she could find, continually looking over her shoulder to check that Little-Marten was still with them.

  ‘Tell you what, though,’ said George. ‘I wish I’d brought a knife or a hatchet or something. How stupid is that? We haven’t got a clue what we’re going to find, or what we might need—’

  ‘Oh no!’ Midge stopped pulling the toboggan. ‘I’ve just realized – the Orbis! I’ve left it behind!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I must have put it down for a moment . . . in the Stick House . . . ohhhh . . .’ Midge groaned and looked back the way they had come. ‘I can’t believe it! We’re going to have to turn round.’

  ‘Well, hang on a minute.’ George was staring over her shoulder, giving this some thought. ‘It’s not as though we’re going to need it for the moment, and anyway it’ll be safe enough for an hour or—’ George paused, and Midge saw his eyes widen. ‘Oh hell,’ he muttered. ‘Here’s something we don’t need.’

  Midge spun round. There was a dog – a big black-and-white thing – bounding up the field towards them. A man’s voice cut sharply through the still air. ‘Ginny! Gin! Come ’ere!’

  One of the workers down by the trailer had separated from the group, and was hurrying after the dog.

  ‘Ginny!’ The man shouted again, but it was clear that the dog wasn’t going to stop. Midge took a couple of steps sideways, so that she was in front of the toboggan and bracing herself for trouble. In another few moments the dog was upon them, a flurry of black and white, barking and scampering wildly about, mad with excitement.

  ‘Get away!’ George shouted and waved his arms around, trying to head the dog off in another direction, but already the creature was snuffling at the toboggan. There was a squawk of alarm from beneath the pillow, a wriggle of movement, and this set the dog off into an absolute frenzy of barking. Midge was terrified that Little-Marten would simply jump up and make a run for it. She screamed at the dog and tried to grab its collar – a stupid thing to do with a strange animal, but she didn’t care. The dog danced away from her, still barking, then rushed in again, desperate to get at whatever was beneath the pillow.

  ‘It’s all right! It’s all right – she won’t hurt you!’ The man came running up, red faced and pouring sweat. ‘Ginny! Ginny! Come here!’ He chased after the dog and managed to get hold of its collar. ‘Phew! Sorry about that. Blimey . . .’ The man was young, but quite overweight, and he had to pause for breath, running the sleeve of his thick checked shirt across his brow.

  ‘Now just calm down, whoa-whoa-whoa. Shush!’ The idiot dog was still barking and trying to get at the toboggan. It was clear that the man had very little control over it and Midge was furious.

  ‘What’s the matter with the stupid thing?’ she shouted. ‘Get him away from us!’

  ‘Hey-hey-hey! She’s only playing. Just curious, that’s all.’ The man was looking at the toboggan, very obviously curious himself.

  ‘I don’t care!’ Midge yelled. ‘You should keep it on a lead if you can’t . . . if you can’t . . .’ She felt like giving the dog a good kick; the man too.

  ‘It’s OK, Midge.’ George stepped in, and put a hand on her arm. ‘It’s all right. There’s no harm done.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said the man, and he was beginning to look angry himself now. ‘No harm done. But what are you kids hanging round here for anyway – looking for free firewood? This is private property. And what have you got under there, eh?’ He nodded at the toboggan. ‘Not an axe is it, by any chance? Or a saw?’

  ‘What? No, we’re just . . . we’re just going on a picnic, that’s all,’ said George. ‘We’ve got some sandwiches. Chicken,’ he added. ‘She probably smelled it.’

  It sounded very lame, and the man said, ‘A picnic? In February?’ But the dog was wriggling around and whining, still trying to get free, and the effort of holding her back must have been tiring on the arm. At any rate the man said, ‘Well rather you than me – and you don’t exactly look like log rustlers, I must say. But go and do whatever you’re doing somewhere else, OK? We’re trying to work here. Come on then, Ginny. Back to it, eh? Come on, gal.’ He dragged the dog away and started to walk her down the field. After a few yards he stooped and picked up a stick, let the dog sniff it, and then hurled it in the direction of the tractor and trailer. The dog went careering after the stick, overshot by a mile, and had to double back in order to retrieve it.

  ‘Ruddy thing,’ George muttered. ‘I thought we’d had it then.’

  Midge watched as the dog brought the stick back to the man in the checked shirt. Her heart was banging in her chest and she couldn’t say anything for the moment. The man threw the stick for a second time, and away went the dog. Once she felt sure that the wretched beast had forgotten them, Midge sank down onto her heels and rested her hand on the toboggan. Another glance down the field and she risked a quick peek beneath the pillow.

  She could actually feel the material quivering. Little-Marten squinted up at her, plainly scared out of his wits. He was shaking, huddled into a ball, his hands clasped together. His face looked very white beneath the streaks of dirt.

  ‘I casn’t . . . I casn’t . . .’ he mumbled, his voice tiny and breathless.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Midge whispered. ‘They’ve gone. We’ll be OK now – promise. Just hold on a bit longer, and we’ll soon be there.’

  How soon, though? Midge stood up and looked back the way they had come. Should they turn round?

  George said, as though he’d been reading her thoughts, ‘We’re about halfway. We might as well keep going.’

  Midge shook her head and sighed. ‘OK.’ She stooped and grabbed hold of
the toboggan rope. ‘You were great, though. Brilliant, actually. I’d never have thought of saying that about a picnic.’

  ‘Don’t think he believed me. Come on, then. Over there, by those willows.’

  They reached the bank of the rhyne at last, hauled the toboggan up it, and walked parallel to the broadening stream. The grass on top of the bank had been trodden down by the feet of fishermen, so that there was a fairly smooth pathway leading towards the weir.

  Long before they got there, they could hear the roar of water, and George said, ‘It’s up pretty high, I reckon.’

  And so it turned out to be. Midge and George stood on the banks of the weir for a while, gazing at the pounding arc of water, hypnotized by the gouts of froth that endlessly circled the dark pool below.

  ‘Too risky to drag the toboggan across the planks,’ said George. ‘Or carry it. He’s going to have to walk this bit.’

  ‘Yes. How far’s the barn, then?’ said Midge.

  ‘It’s just over there.’ George pointed to a belt of trees beyond the weir, and Midge followed the direction of his hand.

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ She could see a reddish-coloured roof, curving above the treetops. Not far.

  They took a good look about them, made sure that there was nobody in sight, and then Midge knelt down to gently lift the pillow from Little-Marten. He was still huddled in a ball, and looking more vulnerable than ever.

  Midge reached out and touched the small hands, gently enfolding them in her own. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘We’re at the weir. It’s really not far to go now, but you’re going to have to walk across the planks, Little-Marten? Can you do that?’

  As Midge brought Little-Marten’s hands away from his face, she was horrified to see that there was a great red welt around his throat. The skin was raw and bruised, little pinpricks of blood showing beneath the exposed flesh. In the darkness of the Stick House she hadn’t noticed it, but out here in open sunlight it was unmissable. Something, or somebody, had very nearly strangled him. Was this how Henty was caught? Snared?

  ‘What . . . what’s happened to your neck?’ Midge sat back on her heels as Little-Marten hauled himself upright. He got painfully to his feet and stumbled from the toboggan, looking wildly about him, pushing back his long brown hair with trembling fingers. His breathing was fast, and his dark eyes looked distracted.

  ‘No. No. I casn’t do this . . . casn’t do it. ’Tain’t right.’

  ‘What? You mean the water? No . . . don’t worry. We’ll make sure you’re safe.’ Midge was aware of George standing beside her. ‘Tell him, George. We’ll look after him, won’t we?’

  But George said, ‘What’re all those marks on his neck? What’s happened to him? Did the dog get him?’

  The dog? That hadn’t occurred to Midge. It didn’t look much like a dog bite, though.

  ‘Little-Marten . . . Little-Marten . . . listen.’ Midge reached out and caught hold of Little-Marten’s wrist. ‘You have to tell us what’s going on. What happened to your neck? Is that . . . is that what’s happened to Henty too?’

  Little-Marten’s eyes met hers. He stared at her for a moment, and nodded. ‘Aye . . . aye . . . to Henty. She’m tied . . .’ But then he was pulling away, struggling to escape her grasp.

  ‘Tied? You mean tied up? But how?’ Midge hung on as one more question occurred to her. ‘Who? Little-Marten – tell me who’s done this?’

  Little-Marten yanked his arm free. ‘Scurl! ’Tis Scurl! He’ve got her . . . over in that gurt byre . . . and I be supposed to take ’ee to ’un . . . but I casn’t. I casn’t do it! Don’t ’ee see?’

  ‘Whaaat? Scurl’s not . . . he can’t still be . . . Wait! Just wait a moment!’

  But Little-Marten was backing away. He dodged past George, turned, and scuttled towards the planks that spanned the weir. Midge jumped up and ran after him, still clutching the pillow, with absolutely no thought as to what she was doing.

  ‘Hang on a minute, Midge!’ George’s startled voice called out to her, but Midge took no notice. By the time she set foot on the weir bridge, Little-Marten was already halfway across, arms and wings outstretched for balance. Midge took a couple of hurried steps forward, then saw that there were still some patches of ice on the wooden boards ahead of her, the last remnants of the snowfall. Sense prevailed and she slowed her pace, taking each step carefully and trying to ignore the pull of the rushing water beneath her.

  She looked up as she reached the metal stanchions, and saw Little-Marten weaving his way into the bramble bushes that spilled across the other end of the plank bridge. Then she stopped. What was that? George was yelling at her – ‘Get down, Midge! Get down!’ – and there was some sort of scuffle going on in the brambles up ahead. She couldn’t see properly – the heavy locking gear was in the way. What? More voices . . . shouts and curses . . .

  Midge hesitantly reached out for the nearest of the stanchions and drew herself closer to it, peering through the angled gap between the twin uprights, trying to watch the movement in the bushes that spread along the far bank. ‘Agh!’ Little-Marten reappeared away to the left, stumbling forward onto his knees, as though he’d been pushed. Midge ducked behind the machinery, then peeked out again.

  And then, as she moved sideways in order to get a better view, she saw Scurl.

  He emerged from the bushes and began picking his way along the opposite bank. He had a bow and arrow in his fist, and he was looking straight at her.

  Midge clung to the cold metal for support. Her legs felt too weak to hold her up. Scurl! It couldn’t be . . . it just couldn’t . . .

  Chapter Twenty-five

  PANIC JOLTED THROUGH her, and her muscles came back to life. For a moment she was tensed and ready to run – but then the heart went out of her and she was helpless once more. Running would do no good. The locking gear was her only protection, and if she moved away from it she would be more exposed than ever. Yet if she simply stayed where she was, Scurl would eventually reach the end of the plank bridge and so have a clear view of her.

  He was getting closer. The brambles snagged at his tattered clothing, caught at his legs and ankles as he edged along the weir-side bank, but he kept his eye fixed on hers and his bow and arrow drawn. Midge clutched her pillow to her and shrank behind the rusting stanchions, waiting for the inevitable.

  No. She must think. Think. Maybe she could reason with him. But one look at Scurl’s wild appearance told her that this creature was beyond all reasoning. His hair was long now, pushed back from his bony forehead in great straggly hanks, and his grey beard looked matted with filth. Not once did he blink or allow his gaze to falter, but held her in his eye like a bird of prey . . . a snake . . . a look that was as hypnotic as the swirling waters of the weir-pool below . . .

  Midge tore herself away and glanced behind her, searching for George. He was lying on his stomach, flat out in the rough wet grass near the end of the plank bridge.

  ‘Get down!’ He signalled to her with his arm. ‘Down!’

  But Midge was still frantically casting around for ideas, some way out of this. She looked down at the weir-pool. What if she jumped? No, that was stupid. Maybe she should just turn and run after all . . . risk the arrow that would come flying after her . . . hope that it might miss. She looked back at Scurl and knew that he knew what she was thinking. He was standing still now, arrow full drawn, just waiting for her to break cover.

  And what other choice was there? Midge put her hand flat against the metal upright, ready to turn and push herself off to a running start . . . if only she dared do it. But then some slight movement off to the right caught her attention – a small figure, standing amongst the low briars, leaning forward to see what was happening. It was Henty.

  The Tinkler girl looked towards her, pale face solemn and anxious. There was something odd about the way she stood, awkward and unnatural, her hands clasped together in front of her. She hopped sideways, a clumsy movement, and her face twisted with pain as she did so. Then Midge
saw, and realized, what the matter was. Henty was tied up – her wrists and ankles bound in orange twine.

  Scurl’s work, obviously. What did he want? Midge’s fear began to turn to anger. Any thought she had of running away had gone. She couldn’t leave now. Both Henty and Little-Marten were at the mercy of this mad creature, and if she were to somehow escape he would surely take his vengeance upon them.

  So this had been a trap all along. Scurl had used Henty as bait, and had sent Little-Marten to lure her away from the farm . . . to find her, and bring her to this. If she had reached the end of the bridge without any warning, it would all have been over.

  Now she understood. But she still didn’t have a clue what she was going to do – and Scurl was on the move again.

  Midge peered around the stanchions, watching as Scurl continued to thread his way through the low tangle of briars at his feet. There would come a point, just before he reached the plank bridge, where the locking gear would block his view almost entirely. That would be the moment to run, thought Midge. Except that now she couldn’t run. Did Scurl know that? Was he guessing that she wouldn’t leave Little-Marten and Henty to their fate? And where was Little-Marten anyway? Midge looked around until she spotted him, just visible behind one of the bramble bushes. Still on his knees, clearly too terrified to move.

  Scurl was almost at the bridge. His eye was upon her, as it had been all along, but just for a second his glance flickered to one side. He was judging the distance that he would have to cross with her out of his sight. For the first time, Midge felt that she had some slight advantage over him – not because she intended to run, but because she had seen his moment of uncertainty.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she shouted. ‘I’m not going anywhere, you little creep!’ Her voice rang out above the roar of the waterfall, and she saw Scurl’s brief reaction – a twitch of surprise on his ugly face.