The Various

by Steve Augarde

  Benzo shifted his stance slightly, and let fly. The arrow whipped past Little-Marten’s cowering head, so close that he heard the zing of the feathered flights.

  Scurl growled, and kicked out at Benzo from where he lay. ‘Leave ’un be, Benzo. ’Tis Fletcher Marten’s cub.’

  ‘Is it then? Well, I suppose ’twould be a sad day for a fletcher to see his cub come home stuffed full o’ feathers,’ laughed Benzo, sitting down and making himself comfortable once more. ‘ ’Specially feathers he’d tied hisself.’

  In truth, Scurl cared little or nothing for the wellbeing of Little-Marten, but he had caught sight of Aken and some of the North and East Wood hunters dipping through the branches on the other side of the clearing. Braggart though he was, he didn’t quite like to be seen allowing his underlings to fire arrows at an unarmed youth, even if it was only in jest. ‘Now then, Aken!’ he called, rising to his feet and dusting himself down, ‘What sport?’ He adopted the bluff brotherly tone he reserved for the captain of the East and North Woods, his equal in rank, but who nevertheless contrived to make him feel inferior.

  Aken strolled up to the baskets, flanked by two of his archers, Uzu and Raim. ‘Fair,’ said Aken, calmly. ‘A few finches. A pigeon,’ – he dipped his hand into his pecking bag, and looked directly at Benzo – ‘but no Woodpeckers.’ Benzo dropped his head, glanced sideways at his friends, and smirked. Aken turned to Scurl. ‘If I find anyone at that sport again, Scurl, then they’ll answer for’t. If not to you, then to I.’

  ‘Garn,’ muttered Scurl, ‘ ’Twas only chaff.’ But Aken had already turned away, having spotted Glim and his wife, Zelma, descending from the East Wood trees. He walked over to meet them.

  Feeling safer now that Aken and Glim were on hand, Little-Marten turned his attention to the crowd beginning to arrive from the Great Clearing at the far end of the forest. The Naiad, once a water-tribe, now farmers for the most part, came bearing fruit and vegetables, which they carefully placed in the baskets. Phemra, Spindra, Stickle, and two of their wives, Zophia and Fay, stood in a group and stared up curiously at him. Finally Zophia recognized him. ‘ ’Tis Little-Marten.’

  The others raised their eyebrows. ‘What? Be he Woodpecker now?’

  Members of the Wisp tribe, Peter, Tod, Will, Isak and Little-Isak, brought strings of eels, their catch from the previous night, and threw them in the fish basket. Two of the Wisp children, Etta and Lori, danced around the Rowdy-Dow tree and tried to catch Little-Marten’s attention – but Little-Marten was suddenly oblivious to their cavortings. A hundred Benzos firing a host of arrows could not have distracted him at that moment, for the Troggles and the Tinklers, so rarely seen by day, had appeared at the far end of the Royal Clearing.

  They made their way along the narrow pathway between the bushes that separated Royal Clearing from the Great Clearing beyond, a straggly line of hooded creatures, wingless, like the Naiad and the Wisp, but generally smaller and stockier.

  The muted chatter of the upper tribes gradually ceased, as all became aware of the approaching cave-dwellers. Even Scurl and his crew rose to their feet and watched in silence as the Troggles and Tinklers made their way to the middle of Royal Clearing. They stood in a huddle by the Whipping Stone, the age-old lichen-covered hamstone post that marked the centre of the clearing. Ghostly they looked. Their skin, what little could be seen of it, was very white. Dressed in drab grey cloaks, their huge eyes peered out from the cowls that they wore to protect themselves from the sunlight. Yet their heads were not bowed, and their bodies were not bent. They stood upright and gazed about them, meeting the stares of the curious onlookers – until it was the onlookers themselves who dropped their heads and stared uncomfortably at their own boots.

  Little-Marten, of course, was on the lookout for Henty, the Tinkler maid, whom he had last seen at the entrance to the caves – but the faces of the hooded figures below him were mostly hidden from his view. One of the hoods was suddenly thrown back, however, and the close-cropped head of Tadgemole, the leader of the Troggles, was revealed. Tadgemole was a stocky figure, broad in the shoulders, as befitted a miner – still strong and upright despite his years, although his face looked gaunt and pale. He left the group and walked over to the provender baskets, drawing something from the folds of his threadbare cloak, a large dead animal which he held, cradled, in his short powerful arms. It was a hotchi-witchi – a hedgehog. The gathered crowd watched him in silence. Tadgemole leaned over the meat basket and put the hotchi-witchi into it – not tossing it in casually, as the Ickri hunters might have done, but placing it carefully on top of the pile as though it was the most precious object he possessed – which may have indeed been the case. Such a thing was unheard of! A soft ripple of sound ran through the crowd, and Little-Marten heard Grissel muttering to Benzo, ‘Vurst useful thing ’e’s done this day. Or any other.’ But Aken, who was standing directly below the Perch, hissed up at Little-Marten. ‘Maglin!’

  The Ickri General had appeared from the direction of the Counsel Pod, the wicker construction that hung from a low outer branch of the Royal Oak. Little-Marten just had time to beat his arrival on the clavensticks, as the old warrior landed and took command.

  ‘Circle the clearing!’ shouted Maglin.

  The Tinklers and Troggles moved away from the central Whipping Stone towards the edge of the clearing and joined the circle that the Naiad and the Wisp had already begun to form. The Ickri stayed more or less where they were, spreading themselves out a little until their numbers joined with the first of the Wisp. Soon the outer rim of Counsel Clearing was lined with all members of the five tribes – Ickri, Wisp, Naiad, Tinklers and Troggles.

  Maglin strode towards the Whipping Stone, his dark eyes scanning the semicircle. ‘Where’s Maven-the-Green?’ he growled. Silence. Nobody had seen the old hag for a moon or more. Maven was a law unto herself, mad as a pike and almost as dangerous, with her poisonous darts and fearful incantations. She was given a wide berth by all – the youngsters were frankly terrified of her, and even the Ickri hunters were glad to avoid her. If she was missing, then so be it. Nobody would be very inclined to go and seek her out. Maglin decided to let the matter pass. He turned in the direction of the Rowdy-Dow tree and shouted up to Little-Marten, ‘Woodpecker! Sound the Counsel!’

  The clavensticks drummed on the hollow beech, drrrr–drrrrrrr–drr, and the entrance cloth to the Counsel Pod, just visible among the shadows of the Royal Oak, was drawn aside. Out stepped the three ancient Counsellors – Crozer, Ardel and Damsk, eldest members of the Ickri, Naiad and Wisp tribes. They slowly negotiated the little willow ladder that had been placed at the entrance to the pod and made their way unsteadily to the ground, where they stood waiting – three grey and wizened figures, leaning heavily on their hazelwood staffs.

  Little-Marten wiped his hands surreptitiously on his leather jerkin and grasped the clavensticks in readiness once again. He knew what was coming next, and bit his lip as he rapidly ran through the patterns in his head. Queen’s Herald. He kept his eye fixed on Maglin, who for some reason was walking over to the edge of the circle where stood the Tinklers and the Troggles. Maglin said something to Tadgemole, the Troggles’ leader, and then returned towards the Whipping Stone. Little-Marten’s eye was still fixed on Maglin, waiting for his signal, but he was aware of some movement among the Tinklers and Troggles. He glanced at them quickly, and saw that they had all thrown back their hoods, their dark hair and delicate skin exposed to the day. How very pale they were. Their faces were the colour of moonlight. Just like moonlight . . .

  Then Maglin shouted up at him, ‘Queen’s Herald!’ and made him jump. For a horrible moment his hands fumbled and one of the clavensticks turned a somersault into the air – but he caught it and beat straight into the pattern of Queen’s Herald, the woodpecker rattle sounding clear and true through the evening stillness of the forest. He was good, and was conscious of the many faces that had turned their attention from the Royal Pod to look at him instead. His fing
ertips flew like the wings of a sparrow as he reached the final long crescendo of Queen’s Herald. Drrrrrrrrrr–tappity–drrrrr–tappity–tap–tap–tap. He stopped abruptly. A pause. Another short rattle. Pause. Three more quick taps. Finish. Perfect.

  He glanced over to where his father stood, along with Petan, and the approval on their faces made him feel very happy. He tried not to look directly at the Tinklers on the far side of the clearing, but couldn’t help peeking slyly over to see if Henty was there. He saw her eventually, half hidden behind the shoulder of Tadgemole, and his heart jumped as he recognized her. She was holding the hand of a tiny Tinkler chi’ – a brother perhaps? Her hair was tied back and she was looking less wild than when he had first seen her. Fragile she seemed now, and ghostly in the slanting shafts of sunlight. And yet still so beautiful. She was not looking at him.

  There was silence as all waited for the Queen to appear. Long moments passed. Benzo yawned, rolled his eyes, and laid his head in mock weariness on the shoulder of Flitch – only to be kicked by Scurl and told to stand aright. The three Elder Counsellors stood bent and motionless, grasping their staffs and staring sadly at the ground. Some of the children started to fidget and scratch themselves as the evening midges began to bite. Little-Marten, high up on the Perch, wondered whether he should begin again, and looked down at Maglin for a sign, but Maglin remained in the centre of the clearing, calmly looking towards the entrance of the Royal Pod. He knew Ba-betts of old. She’d be out when she was ready, and not before – though she was probably watching them all even now, through her little spyhole in the wicker wall of the Royal Pod. Or, more likely, getting Doolie to watch for her and report what was happening.

  Finally the painted oilcloth was drawn aside and Ba-betts, Queen of the Ickri, and therefore of all the Various, appeared. She was dressed in blue – a light blue gown, and a dark blue cape, tipped with squirrel fur. In her right hand she carried the red Touchstone – a sure sign that this was a serious occasion. Doolie, the Queen’s maid, helped her mistress over the lip of the circular entranceway and thence to the edge of the little platform which had been added to the Royal Pod once it had become clear that the Queen was no longer capable of using her wings to reach the ground. Here was suspended, by simple ropes and rough wooden pulleys, a wicker chair, once painted sloe-blue but now rather faded, with carrying handles at either end. It was known as the Gondla, though nobody could remember why.

  Doolie lent an arm to Ba-betts as she clambered heavily into the Gondla, which swung to and fro rather alarmingly. Once the Queen was safely seated, she was carefully lowered to the ground by two of the Ickri guard, the wickerwork creaking slightly under the strain. Then, with one guard at each end, the Gondla, with its royal occupant, was lifted by its handles and transported to the edge of the clearing. Here the Queen was placed, in full view of her gathered subjects. She raised the Touchstone high, her white mottled arm quivering slightly with the effort. The rays of the evening sun caught the polished surface of the red jasper globe, and for a moment it seemed as though the squat little figure in the wicker chair was holding aloft an orb of fire. Ba-betts lowered the Touchstone once more. She was ready.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘YOUR QUEEN,’ BEGAN Ba-betts, in the rather high singsong voice she adopted when looking for sympathy, ‘is not a well Queen.’ She turned to look at the three Counsellors, who stood with their heads bowed, and continued. ‘Your Queen has been taken from her sickbed, and brought into the chill of the evening – which will surely do her more evil than good – in order to attend,’ and here she reverted to her more usual harsh tone, ‘to some trifling matter of runaway goats.’

  ‘Not run away, my Lady,’ began Crozer, the Elder Ickri Counsellor, ‘and not goats. If you remember . . .’

  ‘If I remember?’ cried Ba-betts, rising from her seat and brandishing the Touchstone threateningly. ‘If I remember? I’ll thank you, Crozer, to remember your station. I’ll thank you to remember that the Queen remembers everything! Certainly she remembers you, Crozer, for the snivel-snitched little toady you ever were!’ She waved the Touchstone in the direction of Damsk, the Elder Wisp, who looked suitably alarmed. ‘You!’ she cried. ‘Remind all those whose wit may be feeble, of the reason we are Mustered on this inclement eve. A full account, mind, that all may understand why,’ she sank back into her chair once again, ‘your Queen appears before you, in her suffering.’

  Damsk bowed and, steadying himself with his staff, he took a step forward. He had an awkward task ahead of him. The truth was that the Counsel had acted, in the matter of the winged horse, without the Queen’s knowledge. Only Maglin and the other tribe leaders had been informed of their decision – and they had been against it. He was now aware that rumours of their action had begun to filter downwards, and it was possible that the Ickri captains also knew, or guessed, what had happened: the Elder Counsel had decided that Pegs, the Naiad horse, should fly to the Far Woods to see if it was possible for the Various to leave their home and start anew. There was no real hope that the distant woodlands would prove to be as protected – by briars and brambles and Gorji neglect – as the Royal Forest, but all possibilities had to be explored, even those that were remote. And the horse had been willing to go. The Queen’s approval should certainly have been sought, but that could have taken a full season perhaps, and time grew short. Now he needed her to believe that she had been a party to that decision. Her memory was so erratic, that he might just persuade her that her approval had been given.

  ‘As you know, my Lady,’ he began, diplomatically addressing Ba-betts first, then gradually turning to face the crowd, ‘and as all here know, the last few winters have been hard. The forest is not what it was and game grows short. Neither does the Great Clearing bring forth as once it did. The people have suffered,’ here he turned to the Queen, ingratiatingly, ‘and my Lady has suffered with them. Aye, and for them. Summer is here, and once again the times are more plentiful, but if we, the Various, are to face another such winter as the last, then we’ve to find new pastures, or new ways to make our woods rich in provender once more.’

  Damsk paused, and considered his next words carefully. ‘It was decided, as my Lady will recall, that Pegs, the Naiad horse – bred by Spindra of the Naiad, and a strong flyer – would go to search for fresh pastures, to explore the far woodlands at night . . .’

  ‘What foolishness was this?’ interrupted the Queen. ‘To explore what lands, pray? All lands are Gorji lands, but for the Royal Forest. Did you think to move the Various, unnoticed, into the very midst of the giants? I knew nothing of this. Why was I not told?’

  Damsk sighed inwardly. This was the danger with Ba-betts. One moment she was like a sick chi’ with a wandering mind, and the next she was as sharp as an arrow. He knew, as the Counsel had known when they had discussed it, that to send Pegs off to explore other areas of woodland, with the idea of transporting the Various thither, was hopelessness indeed. The Gorji were everywhere nowadays. But the Counsel had needed to find a solution, or to at least act as though they believed that there was a solution to be found. Yet they knew, and Maglin knew, and the other tribe leaders knew, that the Various were facing a slow extinction. Not this year, nor the next perhaps, but eventually it would come. Who would openly say it though? Not he.

  ‘We believed, my Lady, that the horse might return with news of the other woods hereabouts, which we can see from our own treetops, not so very distant, and which . . .’ Damsk began to improvize, ‘ . . . which, as you so wisely suggested, could be visited, rather than inhabited, and perhaps then harvested under cover of night.’

  No such plan had been discussed, either by Queen or Counsel, but it sounded just plausible – a possibility. There was a faint murmur from the crowd. What confusion was this? For the most part they believed that Pegs had simply disappeared. What was this expedition into the Gorji lands?

  Ba-betts was confused again, having lost the thread, but thought that she might remember a meeting . . . ‘Ah ye
s,’ she said, ‘harvesting at night. And what does the horse say? Yay, or nay?’ There were some stifled sniggers from the crowd at this, and even old Damsk was struggling to keep a straight face, though nobody knew it save he.

  ‘The horse has not returned, my Lady. Pegs has been two days gone. It is my belief that we should send a party to seek him out.’

  Glim snorted with exasperation. This was foolishness upon foolishness. To send Pegs in the first place had been an addle-headed notion – for what possible lands or forests could now be found which were not thick with the Gorji? It was obvious that some ill had befallen Pegs, and for that he was sorry, but to now talk of sending more of their number . . . he caught a warning look from Aken and restrained himself, with some effort, from speaking out.

  Crozer, seeing that the wily old Damsk had managed the Queen rather skilfully, felt that he should support his fellow Counsellor. ‘I am certain that Damsk is right in this,’ he said, quickly searching for some arguments to support this statement, ‘for Pegs may still be alive, perhaps captured, and may lead the Gorji to us . . . wittingly or unwittingly. We must discover the fate of the Naiad horse, ere we may sleep easily again.’

  Ardel, the Elder Naiad, thought that perhaps he might be able to carry this idea a little further. He addressed the Queen. ‘May I have permission to speak, my Lady?’ Ba-betts nodded, but muttered, ‘Though let us not still be here at moon-wane, Ardel. The Queen’s patience is short, and your tongue is apt to be long.’

  The old Naiad moved falteringly into the circle of the clearing, gripping his staff, his dark brown cloak brushing the ground. He raised his head and stood, twisting the end of his white beard between the tips of his fingers, as he prepared to address the crowd. Ardel, it was true, liked to speak – and opportunities like this were not to be missed.

  ‘There are two paths,’ he began, his high steady voice sounding much younger than might have been expected, ‘which we may choose from. Where either leads, we cannot foretell, but choose we must. We can choose to act this day, or we can choose to do nothing. Let us consider each of these paths.’