‘And then Justin came. In his leper’s cloak, with his leper’s bell, just as in the old days. The children ran away. I nearly ran as well. But he spoke to me kindly and I realised I wanted kindness more than I feared leprosy. In those days of course I couldn’t read. I didn’t know how little I had to fear.
‘Justin lived on my hill. It was his hill then. They called it Leper’s Hill then, just as it’s the Giant’s Hill now. He took me home. He had a shack — just bits of wood propped over the boulders to make a roof. He didn’t have my strength,’ said Ma’m Alice, still matter-of-factly. ‘He was too weak to hunt, and the lack of food made him weaker still. But he did have books. He’d been a Manor Lord before the disease struck.’
‘A Manor Lord wouldn’t have been cast out if he had leprosy!’ protested Ethel. ‘They’d have kept him isolated, but his people would have looked after him.’
‘They did — till the T’manians came. The T’manians burnt his Hall, they — slaved his people — but not Justin. No one wants a leper as a slave. In those days the T’manians plundered, then they left. They didn’t try to keep the land as they do now. So when they’d gone Justin foraged in the ruins of his Hall and took his books high up on the hill, where he could see if T’manians came again. But they didn’t. He saw me instead, and weak as he was he came to rescue me.’
‘Did you live with him?’ asked Ethel.
Ma’m Alice nodded, the movement almost hidden by the night. ‘Justin had read about traps in his books, though he didn’t have the strength to make them. I did. First of all I dug pit traps; just big pits covered with thin bits of wood and with straw on top, so anything that walks on top falls through. But that way injured the animals … it’s a cruel way to kill them, and sometimes there were more than we needed, with broken legs perhaps so we couldn’t let them go. So I made snares instead.
‘I built the hut too, with Justin reading from his books and telling me to put this here, or that bit there, to fetch a tree trunk to brace the doorframe or how to tan skins to make more snares. Gradually I learnt to read as well. I don’t know what I would have done up on my hill without my books. Books don’t care what you look like. Books speak to anyone who knows their words.
‘When he was stronger from good feeding, Justin led me here, into the forest. He hadn’t been for years. He’d been too weak to walk this far. But the people were still here. Not the same people — even every month they differ. Some come every month, some live too far away to come too often; some come once and never come again, so you wonder if something has happened to them. Or if being with others who were different made them too aware that they were different too. Come, we must hurry now.’
‘But what happened to Justin?’ demanded Ethel.
‘He died,’ said Ma’m Alice abruptly.
‘Of the leprosy?’
‘Of old age. He was very old when he found me. But he taught me many things,’ said Ma’m Alice. ‘He taught me that by ourselves neither might have survived. But the two of us did very well. And that’s why the people of the forest meet.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Ethel softly.
‘You will,’ said Ma’m Alice. ‘Friends help each other,’ she added softly.
The moon was above the trees now, its beams piercing between the branches, reflecting from the distant pools, the shadows sharp and flickering on the forest floor. Something shrilled above them, then was silent. A possum, Ethel realised, annoyed with the intruders in its world.
‘How far now?’ inquired Ethel.
Ma’m Alice pointed to a slight rise in front of them. ‘Just through here,’ she said.
Ethel squinted through thicker trees, their branches low to the ground, not high and silver trunked like the swamp gums. Fig trees maybe, or pittosporums. Ma’m Alice parted the branches and crouched low.
Ethel followed her, leading the unicorn behind her.
It was damp and sour smelling under the trees, with ankle deep water. Maidenhair ferns tickled her ankles. The unicorn snorted, or perhaps it was a sneeze. Ma’m Alice looked even larger, bent double as she squeezed under the trees.
‘Up this way,’ she instructed, and parted the branches again.
Light poured through. Moonlight, starlight, and firelight as well, red among the gold. Ethel held the branch up to let the unicorn through, then looked around.
They were on a rise above the swamp, fringed with dark trees all around. No one would see the firelight from here Ethel realised, though it was a small fire, the coals glowing red and smokeless; a pile of dry branches set to one side, and a large pot beside it, steaming in the firelight.
Ethel stared at the fire. It was safe to stare at the fire. It meant she didn’t have to look at the faces all around.
Slowly she lifted her eyes, and then she stared.
A face looked at her. But it wasn’t a face. It was half a face. The rest was … was what? Burnt away by flame, eaten away by illness, savaged by an animal. All that was left was bone and scar and a gaping hole where once there’d been a mouth. And the mouth was smiling. Or trying to smile. She could see a tongue, some teeth …
This wasn’t like Ma’m Alice. This wasn’t like Hingram, so small and so defenceless. This was a … monster, monster, monster shrieked Ethel’s mind. But it can’t be a monster, whispered another part of her. This is Ma’m Alice’s friend …
Her gaze shifted slowly from the ruined face and dropped with relief onto the person beside them. This was an old woman. Her back was bent in a sharp curve, so her face nearly touched her knees, then bent out again as though someone had tried to pull it straight. She was smiling, a strangely sweet smile though her face was lined with pain. That sweet smile gave Ethel the courage to look further.
A man, another giant, but not like Ma’m Alice. Where Ma’m Alice was tall and broad this man was simply tall, like he’d softened in the sun and been stretched like sticky toffee. His head was almost hairless, his lips were thick and his nose and chin were much too long. He blinked as though confused by the newcomers.
A boy sat beside him, an ordinary boy, till you saw his face was marked by circles, like raised pimples on his skin. And then a girl with sad brown eyes, and hair — thick hair across her face and even down her neck, her hands and feet were hairy. And another giant and another, even larger than Ma’m Alice, her face blank as the moon, until she smiled, the wide unthinking smile of a tiny child …
Ethel was going to be sick. She was going to run. As soon as her legs would move she’d run. She’d dive under the branches and mount the unicorn and she’d be gone …
Why was she here? She was the Lady of the Unicorn. She had no place with people such as these. Ugly people, people who had no home, monsters …
Suddenly her mind halted. They’d call Ma’m Alice a monster. But she wasn’t. You might even think she was ugly, till you knew her. The first time she’d seen her she’d been the giant; the second time Ma’m Alice who was big; and now she was Ma’m Alice and you hardly noticed her size.
And what would happen if she ran? No one would stop her, not even Ma’m Alice. But she would have lost a friend.
Slowly she raised her head again. The old woman with the hump still smiled at her. Her voice was soft but harsh, a worn out voice. ‘Welcome child.’
And suddenly it didn’t seem so strange, it didn’t seem so horrible. As though words had made a magic to make it all all right.
‘Hello,’ said Ethel softly.
‘So, you can speak,’ said the old woman. ‘And you look like anyone might look. Why have you brought her here, Alice? Why, if she’s not one of us?’
Ma’m Alice crossed to the fire and held out her hands as though to warm them, although the night was hardly cool. ‘She needs friends,’ she said slowly. ‘So I brought her to meet mine.’
‘To laugh at us?’ The harsh voice was firm. ‘To run away in horror? Look at her. She’s still in shock.’
‘But she hasn’t run,’ said Ma’m Alice. ‘Come closer
Ethel. Bring the unicorn.’
Obediently Ethel pulled at the reins. The unicorn moved closer to the firelight.
‘Ah,’ said the old woman. ‘I begin to see. You’re the new Lady of the Unicorn. Welcome, my Lady.’ The tone was only slightly ironic.
‘Welcome, my Lady,’ a voice echoed. It was the male giant. But the voice was empty, as though there was no meaning in his words.
‘That’s Philip,’ said the old woman. ‘He grew too much and his brains went as he grew. For some reason Ma’m Alice kept her brains. She’s the only one of the big ’uns who has. She uses them too. So girl, you are the Lady of the Unicorn?’
‘Yes,’ said Ethel, her voice steadier now.
‘Do you know who we are?’ asked the woman.
Ethel nodded. ‘You’re the people of the forest.’
‘Yes. We’re the people no one wants. We’re the people who have to hide away because we’re different.’
‘I know,’ said Ethel.
The old woman nodded. ‘Good, good,’ she said. ‘You did well to bring her, Alice. You did very well indeed.’
Ethel froze at the tone of her voice. ‘What do you mean?’ she demanded.
‘Why, nothing. Nothing,’ said the woman. ‘Just that I’m glad that you are here.’
‘What do you want of me?’ asked Ethel quietly. ‘You do want something, don’t you? I’ve learnt how people look at me when they hope that I can give them something.’
The old woman shrugged. The movement looked grotesque in the flickering light, her narrow shoulders protruding far beyond her head. ‘Hasn’t Alice told you why we come here?’
‘No,’ said Ethel.
‘We come to do what we can for each other,’ said the old woman. ‘Some,’ she gestured with an elbow toward the male giant, ‘just bring food, a couple of dead roos perhaps, enough food for some of us for days or weeks if we look after it. We look after those who have been hurt and don’t have the wits to tend themselves. Some of us exchange news. But all of us bring what we can.’
‘Ma’m Alice didn’t bring anything,’ said Ethel slowly.
‘She brought you,’ the old woman’s laugh sounded like bits of rusted metal scraping down a pot. ‘You’re the Lady. You’re the best that anyone has brought.’
Ethel turned to Ma’m Alice. ‘Is that true? That you brought me here to be of use to your friends?’
Ma’m Alice hesitated. ‘In a way,’ she said.
Ethel clenched her fists. All at once she was angry, angrier than she had ever been in her life.
‘What do you intend to do with me? Ransom me? Make Ma’m Margot deliver bags of corn or iron pots to the forest? Then you’ll deliver me to her?’
‘No,’ said Ma’m Alice. Her face was expressionless. ‘That wasn’t what I intended. But yes, I brought you here so you might help.’
Ethel shuddered. Desolation swept across her sharp and swift. ‘That’s the only reason you said you were friends with me wasn’t it? Because I’m the Lady! Because I might help you! Help your friends!’
‘No,’ said Ma’m Alice gently, but Ethel spoke over her.
‘I thought you were different! I thought you really liked me! But you’re just like everyone else! You just want my help!’
‘Would it be so very bad to help us?’ said the old woman sharply. ‘Friends help each other.’
‘I’m not your friend!’ cried Ethel. You want to use me — not be my friend!’ Her voice broke off. Acceptance, said the old woman’s eyes, the scarred half face, the pock-marked boy. Can you give us acceptance?
‘I’ll do what I can! I don’t know how I can help but I can try. If you send me a list of what you need …’ choked Ethel. Then she was running, running, under the branches out into the forest.
Dimly she heard the unicorn canter behind her. Someone must have sent him after her, lifted the branches for him. The old woman or Ma’m Alice …
The unicorn nudged her back. Ethel clasped him for a moment, her face against his neck, the old woman’s words thudding in her ears. Friends, friends, friends — friends help each other.
‘What if I need help?’ cried Ethel to the dark branches. ‘Then who will help me?’ The unicorn turned curiously at the sound of her voice, his ears laid back in alarm. Ethel shook her head. She didn’t need help. The Lady of the Unicorn never needed help. She had everything she needed.
Except friends.
Ethel mounted the unicorn. He lifted his head, as though to sniff the path, then picked his way delicately through the swamp, back into the cleared lands and the Hall.
‘And twelve pots of macadamia oil,’ said Ethel. She gazed around the storeroom, its thick walls roughly plastered with thick clay to keep it cool, the packed rubble floor, packed smooth with mud and straw, the dim light from door and taper. ‘Haven’t we done enough yet?’
‘There are still three more storerooms to be counted, my Lady,’ said Ma’m Margot calmly. ‘The Lady always takes stock of the storerooms once a year, to see what needs to be used before the new tallies. It’s tradition.’
Ethel sighed, a deep breath filled with the scents of withered apples and sprouted onions, heavy fruit cakes to store the eggs and fruit and nuts, jars of honey crystallised around the edges. Tradition. Just as the Lady always had to eat at the top table with everyone around, instead of eating as she read in the book room, thought Ethel dismally; just as the Lady had to learn the old tongue in case she met another Lady (who would probably rather talk in everyday speech too) or the Lord of Coasttown, instead of exploring the hills and forest on her unicorn …
What would Ma’m Margot do, Ethel wondered, if she just flung down the tally book and ran across the room, out the courtyard and rode away, up to the …
Up where? she thought bitterly. To Ma’m Alice? But Ma’m Alice was just like everyone else. If Ma’m Alice had met her before the unicorn, she’d have ignored her too. Ma’m Alice only wanted help for her friends — her real friends.
For a moment she remembered Ma’m Alice’s face in the firelight that night. The too-wide eyes dark, her mouth a straight line. She looked almost as if someone had struck her and she refused to show the pain.
But why should Ma’m Alice be hurt? The Lady of the Unicorn would help, if she could, when she could …
A flicker of guilt washed over her. She dismissed it firmly. No, she’d done nothing yet for the people of the forest. She’d asked them to send her a list of what they needed. What else could she do? She didn’t even know where they lived — the other side of the forest from the Hall, maybe. Except for Ma’m Alice and Hingram.
Hingram! He hadn’t been at the moonlit meeting. What had Ma’m Alice said? Every time he doesn’t appear, I worry that someone has hurt him. Or maybe not a person, an animal perhaps — a lion …
Hingram couldn’t write a list of what he needed. Hingram couldn’t even talk.
‘Ma’m Margot?’
‘Yes, my Lady.’
‘Is it possible to send a message to all the villages and farms?’
Ma’m Margot looked surprised. ‘Of course, my Lady. The last Lady did it all the time.’
‘Then I want it done now.’
‘Of course, my Lady,’ said Ma’m Margot cautiously. ‘What about?’
‘I want it to say …’ Ethel tried to think. ‘If anyone sees a … a strange boy, with fur down his back and long teeth and …’
‘A monster, my Lady!’
‘He’s not a monster!’ said Ethel fiercely. ‘Anyway, if anyone sees someone like that …’
‘They’re to capture it, my Lady?’
‘He’s not an it. He’s a boy. A different boy. They’re to … oh, I don’t know — to send a message here, at once. To leave out food so he’ll come back again — yes, that’s it! They’re to leave out food. And not to frighten him in any way.’
Ma’m Margot looked at her curiously. ‘And then what, my Lady?’
‘Then I will act as I see fit,’ stated Ethel. She didn’t have t
o explain to Ma’m Margot. She didn’t have to explain to anyone!
‘Yes, my Lady,’ said Ma’m Margot. ‘I’ll attend to it directly. Is it my Lady’s pleasure to keep on with the tally now?’
Ethel sighed. No, it wasn’t her pleasure. It was her duty.
One of the Grand Marshal’s guards entered the storeroom. What was his name again? thought Ethel. Tor, that was it. He coughed tentatively to attract her attention. ‘My Lady?’
Ethel blinked. ‘Yes? What is it?’
‘It’s a letter, my Lady.’ Tor offered it carefully. Letters were rare.
‘From whom?’
‘I don’t know, my Lady. A messenger handed it in at the gates.’
‘What did they look like?’ demanded Ethel.
‘I didn’t see them, my Lady. Neither did the gate keeper. He just looked round for a moment … only just a moment … and when he looked back someone had stuck it by the door.’
‘Open it, my Lady,’ suggested Ma’m Margot. ‘Then you’ll know. You may go, Tor.’
‘Yes, Ma’m Margot,’ said Tor regretfully, obviously hoping to hear the letter read. He shut the door behind him.
Ethel broke the seal and unfolded the letter. The paper was good quality parchment but yellowed at the edges, as though it had been stored for a long time before it had been used. Ma’m Margot looked carefully down at the store list, as though to indicate if Ethel wished it to be private she would not inquire.
The letter was brief.
My dear Ethel, There is smoke in the Coasttown and ships on the sea. The T’manians have come. I will help if I can.
Alice.
Ethel sat without moving. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t. The world couldn’t shatter as fast as this.
T’manians …
‘Bad news?’ asked Ma’m Margot gently beside her.
‘The T’manians,’ said Ethel stupidly. ‘The T’manians are coming.’
‘But … but how do you know?’
‘The letter …’ Ethel halted. How could she explain Ma’m Alice to Ma’m Margot? ‘It’s from a friend,’ she went on quickly. ‘From a lookout high on the hills. The T’manians are at the Coasttown.’
The Book of Horses and Unicorns Page 23