As the Ickri guards fixed their ropes to the Gondla, and prepared to haul it up into the Royal Oak, Ba-betts peered short-sightedly in the direction of the Rowdy-Dow tree.
‘Doolie,’ she said, curiously, ‘what is that thing over there in that blighted tree?’
‘ ’Tis but the Woodpecker, my Lady,’ replied Doolie. The Queen was obviously tired. Her mind was on a wander. The Gondla was raised jerkily to the little platform that projected from the Royal Pod, and Doolie helped her mistress out of the wicker chair and across to the entrance. The Queen’s boots were too big for her and caused her to move clumsily. She would wear the outlandish objects, though.
Ba-betts turned before entering and once more looked across to the dead beech. ‘It’s a very big woodpecker,’ she said. ‘I wonder the archers don’t shoot it.’
‘I believes one or two ’ave tried,’ said Doolie, drawing aside the painted oilcloth curtain.
‘I feel great sorrow for that farmer,’ said Ba-betts, as she lifted her blue gown and stepped carefully over the lip of the entranceway. ‘I do hope they find his goat.’
Chapter Eight
IT WAS ONE of those dreams, just below the surface of consciousness, where you know perfectly well that you’re dreaming. She was wearing a white nightie and floating, like a moth, through space. Space was dark, dark blue, and around her were many other moths, all flying in the same direction – towards a bright light, far away. The bodies of the moths were covered in a fine downy fur. A huge red planet loomed out of the darkness – it was like a red shiny ball in space – and from around the far side of the planet, the white horse came flying. It joined the moths, but it flew faster than they did and was soon disappearing towards the bright light. She tried to keep up with it, but she couldn’t.
‘Come in,’ Midge said, hearing the gentle knock on the door. ‘I’m awake.’ Uncle Brian had brought her some tea. She didn’t really like tea, but she hadn’t wanted to hurt his feelings the first time he had offered her some, and so she had said yes. Now she was stuck with it rather – although this morning she found that she was thirsty and actually quite glad to see the cup and saucer appearing round the door. ‘Gosh,’ she said, yawning, ‘You look smart.’ He did too, in an old-fashioned sort of way. He was wearing a tweed jacket and an open neck shirt, with a mustard-coloured jumper. The familiar yellow cords had been ditched in favour of a pair of brownish moleskin trousers.
‘Should have told you about this last night,’ said Uncle Brian, putting her cup of tea on the bedside cabinet. He had a scrap of tissue paper stuck to his neck, where he’d cut himself with his razor. Midge could smell aftershave. ‘But you were off to bed so quickly that I didn’t remember till after you’d gone. I’m going to pop into Taunton. It’s market day – don’t suppose you’d like to come, would you?’
‘Um . . .’
‘Not terribly interesting for you, I must admit – but you’re welcome to join me if you’d like to.’
‘Well, maybe not this time . . .’
‘OK. Don’t blame you. Bunch of old giffers talking about fatstock prices – not much fun, really. Actually I’m meeting an old friend, antiques dealer, for coffee. That’s the real reason I’m going. I used to have an interest in antiques, a few years ago – well I still do of course – but I mean I used to buy a few bits here and there. Thought I might take it seriously at one stage, and that’s how I met Frankie. We haven’t seen each other for a while now, and so it seemed like a good idea to have a get together. You’ll be OK, then? I’ll be back for lunch, probably.’ He was obviously itching to be away.
It was a bit much, thought Midge – although it actually suited her purpose very well to be left alone. She thought she might string him along a bit.
‘Well . . . I might come with you,’ she said. ‘What’s he like?’
‘Who?’
‘Frankie.’
‘Um, well, Frankie’s a she actually. She’s a woman, I mean. Francesca. Old friend, like I said.’
Hullo, thought Midge, you’re a dark horse. Thinking this reminded her of the white horse up in the pig barn, and all that she hoped to do this day. She said, teasingly, ‘Really, Uncle Brian, what are you like? I’ve a good mind to tag along and cramp your style.’ She sipped her tea. It was too sweet. Maybe she would like it better with less sugar. ‘But don’t worry – I’ll stay here. I’ve got lots to do – try and get my clothes sorted out for a start. Would you bring me back some postcards? I keep meaning to write to people.’
‘Consider it done, old thing,’ said Uncle Brian, looking rather sheepish. ‘I’ll, um, see you later then.’
‘OK.’ She let him get to the doorway, and then said, ‘Uncle Brian?’ He turned. She pointed to her neck. ‘Tissue paper,’ she said.
Under the big old sink in the kitchen she found a plastic bucket and a sponge. There was a torch and various cleaning products, but Midge decided that washing up liquid would be all that she would need, so she put a big squirt of that into the bottom of the bucket. The tap by the side of the barn was useful, but hot water would be better, if she could carry some up there. She boiled a kettleful on the Rayburn, then, seeing how this only filled the bucket up a little way, she put on a second kettleful. She lifted the bucket experimentally. Two kettlefuls would be all that she could realistically carry – and besides, she didn’t want to splash it around and perhaps burn herself. She dropped the sponge into the bucket and watched as it slowly sank into the steaming foam. The rest of her supplies were in a carrier bag, and she checked to see that she hadn’t forgotten anything – food, a plastic bottle of water, a couple of tea towels, a small aerosol canister of iodine from the first aid box in the bathroom cabinet, some scissors, sticking plasters and a bandage, tightly sealed in its cellophane packaging. She wasn’t sure that the plasters and bandage would be much use, but still. She picked up the bag and the bucket of hot water. Time to go.
Outside the pig-barn, she had a worrying premonition that the horse would no longer be there. Maybe it had all been a dream, or just her imagination. A large bird suddenly flew over her head, startling her as it landed on the tin roof of the building, its feet making a clattery scratching sound on the metal. She glanced up at it as she caught her breath – it was a magpie. How big it looked, so close, how white its breast and how bright the flashes of bluey-green on its wings and tail feathers in the morning sunlight. The bird took off again almost immediately, and flapped away in the direction of the Royal Forest. For some reason Midge felt reluctant to enter the barn straight away – she was sure that disappointment, or anti-climax, awaited her – and so she watched the magpie as it flew lazily up to the woods and coasted in to land on one of the high branches. One for sorrow, she thought, automatically. The magpie had barely settled when it gave a sudden squawk, clearly audible even at that distance, and tumbled, fluttering, down through the branches. It disappeared into the darkness of the lower foliage. Midge watched and waited, but nothing more happened. The air was silent. Midge felt creepy around her neck and shoulders and she shuddered slightly. What was that all about? It was a relief to pick up her bag and bucket once more, and sidle through the doorway of the barn.
The horse was still there. Midge had been so sure that it wouldn’t be, that the sight of the small animal lying, half covered by the potato sack, made her heart pound. Nothing had changed. The hay-raking machine was still jacked up at a crazy angle in the gloom, and in the foreground lay the winged horse, on its square blue mattress, pinpointed by stray shafts of light from the holes in the roof – like something on a theatre stage. All was quiet. Little flecks of dust floated in the beams of light, and the sharp smell of ammonia still lingered, mingled with musty straw and ancient tractor oil. Midge gently put down the bucket of hot water and the carrier bag, which crackled in the warm silence. The horse stirred at the sound, and lifted its head slightly. It turned to look at Midge, the soft dark eyes still haunted, but less agonized than before. For a few moments it gazed at her, as if rememberi
ng, then, with a sigh, the head was lowered once more. Midge crept forward.
‘It’s me,’ she whispered. ‘I said I’d come back, and I have.’ The horse made no sound, but continued to watch her.
Midge bent down and gingerly tested the water in the plastic bucket. It was still hot. Good. She found the metal pail that she had used the previous day, and took it outside to swill it under the tap, leaving a little clean water in the bottom when she had finished. Back inside the barn she added hot water from the plastic bucket to the cold water in the metal one, until it was lukewarm. Then, picking up her soapy sponge, she walked across the makeshift mattress towards the horse, her feet sinking deep into the blue plastic sheeting. She kept one hand on the bucket to steady it, as she gently knelt beside the animal. Its eyes were open and it regarded her every move.
‘I’m going to clean you up,’ said Midge, quietly. ‘If there’s anything you don’t like, or if you want me to stop, then let me know. I promise I won’t do anything to harm you. I promise.’
There was still no sign from the horse, so Midge squeezed out the warm sponge and gently began to wash the caked-on muck and blood from the animal’s body.
Its coat was whiter than had first appeared – as white as the magpie’s breast, she thought – and the long mane and tail were a silvery blond colour. It was a beautiful creature. Absolutely beautiful. She took special care in washing the fine delicate face, changing the water as often as her limited supply would allow – and all the time the grave dark eyes watched her, gradually relaxing, occasionally half-closing as she continued her task. Finally there was just a little drop of water left. Midge had not yet examined the damaged wing, and she was hesitant to do so as it would mean unfolding the fragile membrane in order to see the wounds. She knelt with her hands on her knees, slowly rubbing her palms dry on the denim of her jeans, and looking into the deep brown eyes of the miraculous creature. A window of colours seemed to open up in her mind, as before, when the horse finally spoke.
My thanks, gentle maid. A kindness . . .
This time she did not put her hands to her ears at the strangeness of the sounds in her head. She accepted that she heard the voice in the same way that she would be able to hear the sound of her mother’s voice, if she so wished – now, or at any time she chose. She accepted it in the same way that the sound of the magpie’s startled squawk could still be conjured up, in her mind, though nearly an hour had gone by since the magpie had squawked its last.
‘What should I do?’ she whispered. ‘Can I get you some food? Some water?’
A little water. Yes . . .
Midge rose and walked unsteadily across the soft mattress. She had been crouching down for a long time and her knees felt stiff. She took the plastic water bottle from the carrier bag and returned, unscrewing the top. Sitting by the horse, and leaning on one elbow close to the animal’s head, she managed, little by little, to dribble water from the bottle into the sore dry mouth. More was spilt than was drunk, but of clean water, at least, there was no shortage.
Enough. I thank you. The horse laid its head down again, with a slight gasp.
The blue plastic sheet was by now quite wet, and Midge wondered how she could turn it over so that the horse was lying on the dry side. Perhaps she could use the potato sack.
‘I’m going to see if I can make you more comfortable,’ she said. She was able to manoeuvre the horse on to the sack without too much difficulty, and then slide it off the mattress and across to a fairly clean bit of concrete floor. Then she half-folded the plastic sheet, rolled it off the straw and hauled it out of the way. After rearranging the straw bedding and plumping it up a bit, she managed, rather awkwardly, to turn the sheet over and reposition it, dry side up, on top of the straw. Good. Soon she had pulled the sack, with the horse lying on top of it, back to the centre. Now it was clean, and lying on a dry bed.
Midge was still anxious to look at the wounds in the horse’s wing. She had the iodine aerosol in her carrier bag, and knew that it would probably be good idea to use this as a guard against germs and infection – but also knew that it was likely to sting. How would she explain? To the horse she said, ‘Listen. I have some medicine in my bag. Do you know what medicine is? It’s to make you better – to help heal your wounds. And I think it would help them to heal, but it’ll probably hurt a bit when I put it on. I think we should try it though.’
The horse raised its head with an effort, and tried to look over its shoulder, as if to see the wounds for itself. I am not able to open my wing. The horse painfully lowered its head again. But if you have some physic . . . then I am willing that you use it.
Midge found the little blue and white aerosol, pulled off the white plastic cap, and knelt by the horse’s side once more, shaking the canister. With her free hand she very gently opened out the damaged wing. The horse groaned slightly. Where the velvety membrane had been pierced and torn by the metal spikes, there was angry-looking bruising and quite a lot of congealed blood. Midge wondered whether to try and bandage the wing somehow, but she couldn’t really see what good it would do – neither could she see how she would go about such a task. She also wondered about trying to close the wound with sticking plaster – but again decided against it, for fear of doing more harm than good. Her first instinct – of trying to keep the wound from becoming infected, and letting nature do the healing – still seemed the safest way to go.
She shook the canister once more and said, ‘I’m going to spray this on to your wing now. Be brave.’ She pressed the little button and the horse immediately flinched at the sharp hiss of the aerosol. The wing muscles contracted instinctively, but Midge held on firmly, feeling the strange texture, the ridges of bone beneath the delicate membrane, warm between her fingers. She kept the aerosol button pressed down until the wound was obliterated by the orange colour of the iodine spray. The wing jerked in her grasp and the horse looked at her with panic in its eyes.
‘Sh, sh,’ said Midge, soothingly. ‘That’s it. All done.’ She gently allowed the wing to fold once more, and leaned back, stroking the horse’s neck as the animal gradually relaxed. ‘I’m sorry to have frightened you,’ she said. ‘I know it stings at first, but I think it will help your wing to heal – it’s happened to me lots of times.’
And your wings were healed?
‘Well, no . . .’ Midge began – then realized, with a little jolt of surprise, that the horse had been joking. It wasn’t something that she had been prepared for. But then she hadn’t been prepared for any of this. She laughed, and continued to stroke the animal’s slim neck.
‘Who are you?’ she said. ‘And . . . what are you? And how did you get here?’
The horse looked at her for a long time. The dark brown eyes – which were weighing her up, she felt – became troubled once again. Eventually, the words came through to her.
I am Pegs. And I am in your debt, maid – to the worth of my life. For I shall live, who would have surely died, were’t not for the hands of a Gorji child. As to your other questions, I must hear more of you before I answer. Who are you? And what will you now do? Who of your kind knows of me?
‘Nobody knows,’ said Midge earnestly. ‘I wouldn’t tell. And I don’t know what to do now – whatever you want me to do, I suppose. I just want to help you. My name is Midge, and I’m staying here for a few weeks, with my uncle – and my cousins, when they arrive.’
Midge. And these others – they are of your tribe?
‘Well, I don’t know that they would be called a tribe exactly. They’re part of my . . . family, I suppose. My uncle – that’s my mother’s brother – he owns this land. And my cousins are his children. But they’re not here yet.’
The one who has charge of this land . . .your . . .?
‘Uncle.’
Your kinsman . . . uncle. He knows nothing of this?
‘No. Nobody knows.’
It would be better, for me, that they did not. And I would ask you that favour. Tell no one of me. Pegs sig
hed and half closed his eyes. Let me rest now, child . . . Midge . . . and let me think. There is much – much – to think on.
‘You live in the Royal Forest, don’t you?’ Midge blurted out, reluctant to go. The horse’s eyes opened again with a startled look in them.
What do you know of the Royal Forest?
‘Well, I call it the Royal Forest,’ said Midge. ‘It’s just a name. I made it up.’ She felt puzzled. ‘Do you call it the Royal Forest too?’ she said.
Pegs regarded her once more, and Midge thought that he might finally trust her, and tell her what she wanted to know. You must ask me no more questions. Leave me now, to think.
Midge got up, rather sadly, and collected together all her things – the bucket and sponge, the canister of iodine, her carrier bag. She stood, feeling aimless now, by the grey tractor near the entrance to the barn. ‘Shall I come back later?’ she said.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow, maid, we may speak again.
Tomorrow you may be gone, thought Midge, stepping from the dark humid barn and into the bright afternoon sunshine. You may be gone and this will all seem like a dream, and I shall never be able to tell anyone about it. Ever.
Uncle Brian was already back at the farm when Midge wandered in. She had seen his car in the yard, and had half-hidden the bucket and the sponge beside the old milk churn – thinking to avoid any awkward questions about what she had been doing. Her uncle was in the kitchen making a late lunch for himself – some cheese on toast and a pot of tea.
‘Hullo, old thing,’ he said as Midge dumped her carrier bag, the top casually folded over, onto a kitchen chair. ‘What have you been up to? Want something to eat?’
‘No, I’ve got a sandwich here, thanks,’ said Midge. ‘I made myself a picnic again, but I haven’t eaten it yet.’ She avoided the question of what she’d been doing by saying, ‘How was Taunton? Did you meet your friend?’
‘Frankie? Yes, we went to Clarke’s for coffee and a bun. Good to see her again and catch up a bit. Doing pretty well for herself, I think. Tea? No? Well, this is about ready – shall we have lunch together?’
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