Celandine

by Steve Augarde

  Micas raised his arm toward her, and she thought that he meant to shake her hand. She reached out uncertainly, but Micas merely brushed his fingertips against her palm and turned to go. He had said nothing. As her eyes followed him, she felt another brief touch, and then another – Elina … Bron … Mab …

  One by one, the cave-dwellers filed past her, each reaching up and touching the palm of her hand, almost as though they were placing something there for safe keeping. None of them spoke. She looked down at the bobbing procession of heads and saw how badly she had cut their hair – the little tufts and wisps that she had missed, the bald patches where she had cropped too close. It seemed to her that she had spoiled them, had made them look ridiculous, and more vulnerable than ever. The other tribes would laugh at them, she thought. And that would be her fault. Everything was her fault.

  The last of the tribe passed her by, and at the very end came Loren, carrying baby Tadgemole. Loren looked much healthier than he had done a few weeks previously. His cheeks had filled out and had a little more colour to them. The baby, too, looked well.

  ‘Goodbye, Loren.’ Celandine couldn’t just let them go without saying a word.

  Loren glanced back at her. He smiled, and then turned away once more – holding his little brother closer as he carefully picked his way down the bank of shale. He got to the bottom safely and hurried to catch the rest of the tribe as they disappeared down the winding path between the hawthorn bushes.

  The final glimpse that Celandine had of them was of Tadgemole’s tiny face peeping over Loren’s shoulder, the dark eyes wondering, but calm, untroubled. The cave-dwellers had no way of saying goodbye, she realized – no word for it. And if none of them had ever parted from this place, or from each other, then why would they?

  A terrible silence settled all around her. The cavern entrance felt cheerless now – no tink-tink of distant hammering, no snatches of song, no echo of laughter. There was nothing to be heard but the tiny sputter of a lavender lamp, somewhere back there in the darkness, the final pitta-pit of a spent wick, drowning in its dish of oil. Then nothing. Celandine was deserted.

  Her shoulders gave an involuntary judder and she stepped out onto the loose bank of shale at the cave entrance. The darkening woodland had also become depressingly quiet. No bird sang, and the air was growing damp and chilly. She had never liked this sad hour between evening and nightfall, when the light begins to fail and the day dwindles down almost to nothing – like a lamp wick. But tonight she felt completely desolate. There was such an ache of loneliness in her chest that it seemed as if the surrounding silence was pressing down upon her, squeezing the breath out of her.

  The thought of Fin came into her head, and she realized that she hadn’t seen him for days. Was she really to leave him without a word, and never speak to him again? Had she to keep this place a secret all her life, and to forget all that had ever happened?

  No. This was unbearable. She would not be driven from here by an enemy she had never even glimpsed. She would not simply creep away to the tunnel. She had to know what was going on.

  There were so many of them. Celandine had never seen the tribes all gathered together at one time, and now almost the entire area of Little Clearing was filled with the jostling murmuring crowd.

  The laurel bushes that she crouched among were obscuring her view. By gently parting the foliage and craning her neck this way and that, she was able to get a fragmented idea of the proceedings, but little more.

  Near the centre of the enclosed space stood the ancient beech tree that had been struck by lightning, deeply shadowed now against the summer evening sky. Around the tree were grouped the Various tribes, spreading out towards the edges of the clearing. Immediately in front of her were the Wisp. Celandine recognized the back view of Gwill and Moz, and a few of the others. The Ickren were apparently on the far side, and she couldn’t get a clear sight of them. Perhaps if she was able to get a bit higher …

  She put her foot onto a low branch, and cautiously hauled herself upwards. The big laurel bush shook a little, but all attention seemed to be elsewhere, and she wondered if she dare risk another step. Again she found a branch that seemed capable of bearing her weight, and by clinging to the main trunk she was able to pull herself up. Now she was about three feet above the ground, and she had a much better view. And there they were. At last she saw them …

  Yes, she saw them … but she had not been prepared for them. She had not been ready for this. The shock made her dizzy, and she had to lean against the trunk of the laurel, holding on tight, frightened that she would lose her balance and fall backwards. Because they were impossible creatures. The wings … those dark leathery wings … they were just as the cave-dwellers had portrayed them. And the bows and arrows … tall spears … the hard sinewy faces and the glittering gypsy eyes – she couldn’t take it all in. Black hair, braided with feathers, black and white … and most of their clothing black and white … pied, so that they looked like condors, vultures, things that belonged upon some dusty plain. These were not the shy little fishers and cave-dwellers and crop-gatherers that she had become familiar with, miraculous though they were. These were not the little people she knew. They were creatures of another species altogether, bat-winged hunters from a different world.

  Celandine saw their leader – unmistakably their leader – raise his arm into the air. There was something crow-like about him, dark-eyed, hook-nosed. His feather-braided black hair was swept back from his high forehead and his bearded cheek was gaunt and deeply lined. Around his neck, the one splash of colour amongst so much black and white, was a blue spotted neckerchief. What was he holding? It looked like a cricket ball.

  His arm remained raised, and the crowded clearing fell completely silent.

  ‘Here we be met, then – all in this place – and we be met to a purpose.’

  Celandine was still trying to get over her initial shock. All she wanted to do was gaze in wonder. But she had to concentrate, had to listen.

  ‘We be the Ickri – as were here of old. And this be the Touchstone as have been in our keeping since we left this place. The Stone be rightfully born by the kings of our tribe, and by none other. I am named Corben – King of the Ickri.’

  The voice was clear upon the still evening air, clear and hard.

  ‘The Stone holds great power, and have led us here through many seasons. Aye, but it would lead us further yet – far away from these Gorji lands – and we would take all here with us. We would journey to Elysse itself, my friends, the great home of all the travelling tribes. Too long have we been trapped among the giants. Too long have we lived in hiding, and crept in shadows for fear of being seen. We be not of this place, and nor be thee. Now, at last, we have a chance to return to our own, to rise above the stars, to cross the ages, and to find Elysse once more. Aye, it shall be so, mark me well. From Elysse we did once come, Ickri and Naiad, guided by this very Stone, and to Elysse we shall return, guided by the same. Who would not join with us, if so they could? Who would not lay aside their toil and travel free once more, to lands where there be no ogres, and where our childer would not be afeared?’

  A murmur of approval arose at this and the crowd pressed closer, eager to hear more.

  The leader of the Ickri raised his arms for peace and spoke again.

  ‘This very night, my friends, may bring such changes. This very night. And yet we come seeking your aid – for the Touchstone be not complete. Aye, there be a brother piece to it. ’Tis named Orbis. Some here will know of the tale. Long-seasons since, the Stone and the Orbis were broke each from the other, parted as the Ickri and Naiad tribes did also part. The Stone travelled with the Ickri, but the Orbis stayed here with the Naiad – upon these wetlands …’

  There was a sudden commotion from the high branches of the old beech tree – a squabbling band of rooks – and the Ickri leader broke off from his speech to look upwards. He watched as the birds settled themselves again, and then turned to his archers.
/>   ‘Tuz,’ he said. ‘Bring one down, for your king. Let us see some skill.’

  The youngest of the archers stepped forward and fitted an arrow to his bow. He stood with it lowered for a few moments as he scanned the shadowy branches of the beech tree, choosing his target. Then in one smooth movement, he raised the bow, drew it back to its full extent and let the arrow fly.

  There was an immediate scattering of birds from the treetop and a loud cawing as the rooks flapped away in all directions. But one did not escape. The crowd watched as the stricken bird dropped down through the foliage, a ragged bundle that twisted and tumbled amongst the lower branches to land in a feathery heap upon the rough turf. Awkward and misshapen it looked, one shiny black wing splayed out – the slim arrow, so neat and deadly, protruding from its back.

  ‘Prettily done,’ said Corben. He stooped, and gently placed the Touchstone upon the ground. ‘Now bring me the arrow.’

  The young archer strolled over to the dead bird, put his foot against it and calmly pulled out the arrow. He gripped the bloodied end and offered the other to his king.

  ‘The bow also.’

  Tuz handed the bow to Corben.

  Corben raised the weapons high – bow in one hand, bloodstained arrow in the other.

  ‘How shall the arrow find its mark, without it be sped from the bow?’ he said. ‘It cannot. And how shall the bow bring me meat, without it be strung to the arrow? It cannot.’

  Corben turned full circle, so that all tribes could see. Then he tossed the weapons towards Tuz and picked up the Touchstone once more.

  ‘As with the arrow, so with the Stone. As with the bow, so with the Orbis. The one hath need of the other. Orbis and Stone belong as one. And we too – Ickri and Naiad, and all tribes – belong as one, to travel together, far from here.’

  Corben looked about him, until his eye fell upon the cave-dwellers – partly hidden from his line of vision by the shattered trunk of the beech tree. He moved a little to one side.

  ‘I know that the Orbis be in this place, for the Stone and mapskins have brought us here,’ said Corben. His words now seemed directly aimed at Micas. ‘And I know that it be close to where I stand, for the Stone tells me so. Aye, the Stone speaks to me, and would lead me to the Orbis if I so asked. But I do not ask. I ask instead that the keepers of the Orbis do willingly bring it forth, to be joined with the Touchstone. Let them be restored to each other, this day, brother to brother. And let all tribes be restored to each other this day also, brother to brother. For is this not to the good of all? Who shall keep us apart?’

  There was more muttering from the crowd, and all heads turned towards Micas.

  After a few moments, Micas stepped away from the group of cave-dwellers and approached Corben. In his right hand he carried a staff. One or two of the archers raised their bows uncertainly – as though wondering whether this stout length of hickory should be regarded as a weapon, or merely as a means of support.

  ‘And if the Orbis were here,’ said Micas, ‘and were joined wi’ the Stone once more – then who wouldst carry it, maister? ’Twould need but one hand. Whose should it be?’

  ‘Mine,’ said Corben.

  ‘Ha. Thine. As I supposed. And so we’m all to follow thee?’

  ‘If not I, then who? Dost think it should be thee, Micas? We may quickly put it to a choice, if thee wish. Mark me now, all here …’ Corben raised his voice and appealed to the crowd. ‘When Stone and Orbis are joined – as they shall surely be – who wouldst the tribes have lead them forth; I, Corben, King of the Ickri, who have brought the Stone amongst ye, who have travelled through the lands and the very settlements of the Gorji, safely guided here by that which I already hold, and who know the ways of such matters? Or wouldst have Micas, a Tinkler, a cave-dweller, who hides in his mole-hole from the very kind he now seeks to lead – aye, and who would yet give shelter to the Gorji, the enemy of all travellers? Who should bear the Touchstone, he or I? Come, Micas, I give thee fair space. Make a claim in this. Let us hear thee speak.’

  Celandine awkwardly shifted her position. Her ankle was twisted against the trunk of the laurel bush, and it was beginning to ache. Nevertheless, she had to try and bear it. She had to be able to see, and to hear. An early moon had risen, but the sky was also streaked with heavy black rain-clouds. There might be a storm yet.

  ‘It matters not what choice be made,’ said Micas. His voice was bitter, resigned, as he in turn addressed the gathered tribes. ‘The Ickren be come but to take from us. These be not our brothers, nor shall we be fogged by such talk. These be robbers. If’n we do not give, then shall they steal, as they did first stealen the Stone from us. Aye, the Stone be ourn – but we shall never hold it again, without we murder them all. And so our choice be no choice at all: to fight to keep the Orbis – aye, and lose it, as we should against such as these – or simply to give it. Which shall it be? Shall we see our childer struck down like this bird, or shall we give to them what they have come to steal? Very well, then. I wouldst see no blood over this. We shall give up the Orbis. But when ’tis given, then shall we see whether these be our brothers or no. Bron! Tammas!’ Micas called across to the cave-dwellers. ‘Your aid in this. Come.’

  Why was Micas surrendering so easily? Celandine couldn’t understand it. And why didn’t he at least make Corben prove that the Touchstone had such magical powers as he had claimed? After all, if she had guessed rightly, the Orbis was only a few feet away from where the Ickri king stood.

  She watched as Bron and Tammas approached, and saw that they too seemed puzzled and disappointed – angry perhaps that Micas had not put up more of an argument.

  ‘The Orbis be here,’ said Micas, ‘hid in this very tree.’

  Corben glanced upwards at the beech, but his face remained expressionless. Perhaps he had known it all along, perhaps not. He nodded, and said nothing.

  Micas pointed out the hollow, high up on the lightning-scarred tree-trunk, and the crowd began to shuffle around as they tried to get a better view. Those who were in front of the laurel bushes where Celandine was hiding moved away from her, pushing themselves further forward. Micas directed Tammas and Bron to prop part of the fallen branch against the trunk of the beech. Bron then held the branch firm so that Tammas could scrabble up it.

  Tammas steadied himself at the top of the branch. He reached deep into the hollow, his arm disappearing almost up to the shoulder. Eventually, after a couple of attempts, he managed to bring some object forth into the fading light. Those at the back of the crowd stood on tiptoe, trying to see. A metal thing, a box by the seem of it, dulled with age.

  Micas laid his staff upon the ground and the box was passed down – from Tammas, to Bron, to him. There was a sombre and subdued air about the whole proceedings. The faces of the tribespeople looked apprehensive.

  For a few moments Micas studied the box, cradling it in his two hands. Then he raised it up, and turned from one group to another. ‘So be it then. And let what may betide, betide. This I now give to the Ickren, for the good of all. I put it in their keeping – and trust they will hold to their vow.’ He extended the box towards Corben.

  Corben was still bearing the Touchstone, and it was plain that in order to be able to receive the box and to open it, he would need both hands free.

  Micas said, ‘Let me help ’ee, maister.’ He balanced the metal box on the palm of one hand, and offered the other hand to Corben – a cool invitation to place the Touchstone there.

  The Ickri king looked into the impassive eyes of the cave-dweller. To relinquish the Stone would be to relinquish the very symbol of Ickri power, albeit temporarily. But to refuse a simple offer of help would only make him appear suspicious and foolish. It hardly seemed likely that Micas would try to make off with the Stone.

  Finally he smiled. ‘A kindness,’ he said, and slowly placed the jasper globe in Micas’s waiting hand.

  He took the box and turned it around in order to study the clasp. ‘’Tis well-fashioned,’ he
said. ‘By thee?’

  ‘No,’ said Micas. ‘Not by me, nor any I knew.’ He pointed to the clasp. ‘See? A turn there, and ’twill open for ’ee.’

  Corben unfastened the lid of the box and looked inside. He studied the contents for a moment and then cautiously put his hand in. With a brief questioning glance at Micas, he drew out a round bundle – something tightly wrapped in cloth. Protection, presumably, for the Orbis.

  Once again Corben seemed to find himself in possession of more objects than he could comfortably cope with. He thrust the metal box upon Micas and hurriedly began to unravel the cloth. Round and round his fingers flew, and the frayed strip of material grew ever longer. Not until the cloth hung in ribbons about Corben’s feet did the precious cargo finally emerge. It was an old pine-cone. Corben stared at it.

  For a few moments the silence held, the time it took for the stunned onlookers to believe what they were seeing, and then the tension began to crack. A stifled snigger, another, and suddenly the whole of Little Clearing was ahoot with mocking laughter. A piney-cone! Did ’ee ever see the like o’it?

  But Corben’s roar of rage quickly brought the crowd to silence again. He flung the pine-cone to the ground, reached forward, and yanked Micas towards him by the collar of his tunic. ‘Dost think to make a gull o’ me, thee old addle-pate?’ The two faces – one dark with fury, the other pale and calm – were almost touching. ‘Dost dare? I’ll have ’ee so full of arrows, Tinkler, as to turn ’ee into a furze-pig! What be this nonsense? Give me the Orbis!’

  ‘I thought ’twere wounden in the cloth,’ said Micas. He stood unresisting, his arms slightly outstretched. He was still holding both the Touchstone and the empty metal box.

  Corben dashed the Stone from Micas’s open hand, then shoved him away. His breathing was heavy as he swayed before Micas, wings spread, eyes narrowed as though he would bore through that innocent expression on the old Tinkler’s face to discover the truth beyond.