‘Henty!’ Little-Marten’s voice sounded almost desperate. ‘Don’t go . . .’
But Henty, glancing once behind her – at Midge, not at Little-Marten – ran into the darkness and was gone.
Midge looked down at Little-Marten and saw the anguish on his small brown face. ‘Is she your . . .?’ she began to say, and then thought better of it. ‘She’s very pretty,’ she said instead.
Little-Marten muttered, ‘She’m a Tinkler,’ and turned away. ‘Come,’ he said. He began to make his way down the slope once more, and Midge followed. The back of his neck had gone quite red, she noticed.
Chapter Twelve
THEY APPROACHED THE bank of the stream, and here, on easier ground, Midge was able to take a closer look at the thing Henty had given her. It was a small metal bowl, perhaps the size of a tennis ball cut in half. She held it slightly away from her, and turned it in her hand. The surface was dull grey, quite tarnished, and there was a design, like a frieze, all around the outside. Tiny engraved images she could see, groups of people, but it wasn’t very clear what they were doing. It looked quite old. She would clean it up when she got home and then perhaps she would be able see more. She put it in her pocket, and accidentally bumped into Little-Marten as she did so. He had stopped abruptly, just ahead of her.
‘Whoops – sorry!’ she said, and stooped automatically to grab his shoulder as they both stumbled forward. Her hand brushed against his wing, velvety and bony at the same time. Little-Marten made no reply, but steadied himself, and then continued to look across the stream – to where a half a dozen figures sat on the ancient mossy trunk of a fallen tree.
They were Ickri archers, a casual, lounging group, who occupied the dead tree trunk with an air of lazy arrogance. They watched the Woodpecker and the Gorji giant dispassionately, as the strange pair came, warily now, towards the trickling spring. No move was made until Midge stepped out onto the stony bed of the shallow stream, intending to follow its path into the wicker tunnel that would lead her from the forest. Then, one of the archers slipped down from his perch and landed softly among the coarse dry grass that grew up around the fallen tree. The grass came up well above his waist. He glanced quickly round at his fellows before wading through the dry vegetation, wings slightly raised, and emerging onto the mossy ground that bordered the spring. One by one the others descended from the tree trunk also.
Midge stopped, mid-stream, and looked at the leader. He wore a sleeveless open tunic – it looked like washed-out black denim – and charcoal-grey britches, or pantaloons, which were tied around the knee, and made of a loose fitting silky material. He was barefoot, and his wiry arms and torso were dark brown from continual exposure to the elements. He carried a bow and arrow, casually, unthreateningly, and his eyes, dark and glittering beneath thick black eyebrows and a greying crop of hair, were mocking and fearless.
‘Now then, Woodpecker,’ he said softly, nodding slightly at Little-Marten, and showing his sharp white teeth in a dog-like grin. ‘Now then, maid.’ He looked up at her with the same half-nod, and fixed grin. It was Scurl, captain of the West Wood hunters.
Little-Marten remained on the bank of the stream and said nothing. Scurl and his crew were no friends of his. Midge, uneasy, but prepared to be amiable, said, ‘Hullo. I’m, er, just leaving.’
‘So?’ said Scurl, his wolfish expression changing to one of mild regret. ‘Stay awhile.’ He raised his bow and arrow slightly – still not openly threatening, but with enough purpose to be noticeable. One of his followers gave a low chuckle. Midge was not so easily intimidated, however. She said, ‘No, I have to go. Besides, your Queen has said I must.’ She turned away from the Ickri hunters and started to move downstream. Something whizzed past her ear – so close that the sound of it was like a coin being zipped smartly along a comb. An arrow! Midge’s hand flew up to her head, and she gave a little squeal – her nerve broken. She turned fearfully around. Scurl was calmly notching another arrow to his bow.
‘What did you do that for?’ said Midge, her voice beginning to shake. ‘And who are you, anyway? You could have hurt me.’
‘I could have killed ’ee,’ said Scurl, simply. His eyes had lost their mocking look, and had become calm, detached, almost glazed – the eyes of a hunter whose prey is cornered. ‘And so I may, even yet. For I ain’t so certain that ’tis but folly to let ’ee go. I ain’t so certain that come sun-wax tomorrow these woods won’t be trampled down by a hundred more like ’ee perhaps – for I never knew a female yet that could keep a still tongue in her head, be her Gorji or Various. And though the day of the Gorji may be close upon us, if what you say is true, to let ’ee go would surely bring that day closer still. Aye, and to this very day itself, for aught I may reckon. No, maid, I ain’t such a fool as some.’ He chewed the bottom corner of his lip thoughtfully, looking unhurriedly from the giant to the Woodpecker, considering the risks involved in disposing of the pair of them, and muttered again, ‘No, I ain’t such a fool as some.’
Little-Marten would have been shaking in his boots – had he boots to wear. He had no doubts as to what Scurl was capable of, and the others – Benzo, Flitch, Dregg, Tulgi and Snerk – would back him to the knife, he was sure of that. They were hunters and killers, born to the task. It wouldn’t matter a whit to them whether their victims ran on four legs or two. Whatever Scurl decided upon would be done.
Little-Marten felt that he had naught to lose by speaking out, and so, amazed at his own audacity, said, ‘Is Maglin such a fool then? ’Twas he who gave the command.’
Benzo spat and raised his bow, but Scurl merely glanced at the youth in mild surprise. ‘What’s this, you young snip? Does the Woodpecker speak?’
‘The Woodpecker squawks,’ said Benzo. ‘And’ll squawk no more.’ He drew back his bow a little and looked at Scurl. ‘Come, Scurl, let’s finish this while us may.’ But Scurl pursed his lips and rubbed the palm of his hand against the back of his neck. He was still thinking, and was in no particular hurry.
Midge, beginning to understand the real danger they were in, tried frantically to think of arguments that might help. ‘But listen,’ she said. ‘My unc . . . my kinsmen are expecting me. They know where I am. They’ll come looking for me straight away if I’m not home soon.’
Scurl looked at her impassively, considered her words, and then dismissed them. ‘You may be looked for,’ he said, ‘but none, I reckon, would look for ’ee here. For none would think it possible for ’ee to enter. You’m but a chi’. And a maid, at that. How would such as you make passage through such briars as do surround this place? Even if your words were true, we should be no worse off . . .’ He sounded as though he were talking to himself, rather than to her.
Midge tried another tack. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ she said. ‘I’m just a child! A girl. I’m twelve years old! Would you really kil . . .’ she started to choke on the words, really frightened now as she saw the Ickri captain scanning the treetops, looking around to make sure that there were no other eyes watching. He wasn’t listening to her, had not the slightest interest in what she was saying. He’d made up his mind.
And Benzo could read that mind. ‘There’s none to see,’ he said. ‘ ’Tis best done, captain. Maglin will reckon the giant to have carried off Woodpecker, and we shall sleep the more easy for it. None shall know.’ The group of archers looked at Scurl, and waited. The silence grew.
‘Save one.’ A harsh voice rang out from the tangled undergrowth near the fallen tree trunk. ‘One shall know.’
Benzo and the rest of Scurl’s crew whipped around, their bows raised in confusion – but Scurl, tensing his body, continued to face the giant. He lowered his head, calmly it seemed at first, but when he raised it again his teeth were bared in fury.
‘That meddling hag . . .’ he roared, ‘shoot her!’ He turned, black in the face with rage, and drew back his bow. There was nothing to shoot at.
The archers stood, bows drawn, their eyes seeking a target – but found only the quiet prof
usion of tangled tree limbs, dry grass and briars around them.
Little-Marten, seeing that all backs were now turned towards them, nudged Midge’s leg and silently gestured to her to move away. They began to retreat downstream a little.
‘Bide there,’ said Scurl, without even bothering to turning round. ‘Where’s that hemmed witch?’ he growled.
‘I have her,’ whispered Tulgi, with a quiet note of triumph. ‘By the fallen oak.’ He drew his bow back a little more, steadied his aim, and breathed out softly as he let fly. Seconds later, he lay motionless on the banks of the spring.
Nobody saw how it happened. Almost in the instant his arrow left the bowstring, it seemed, the Ickri archer had crumpled to the ground, his fingers making a little splash at the edge of the stony stream.
The hunters gaped uncomprehendingly at their fallen companion, then instinctively stumbled away from him, looking frantically about them in wild confusion. Only Scurl remained steady. He stared in the direction that Tulgi had fired his arrow, but could see no movement. He dropped warily onto one knee next to Tulgi’s body, and turned it over, so that the torso was exposed. Nothing. No arrow, nor any wound that he could see. Yet the archer was dead – that much was plain. He began to rise again, cursing now, and then noticed a little mark on Tulgi’s neck. Stooping once more, he touched it with his finger. Something was protruding – it looked like a dandelion spore or a piece of thistledown. What witchery was this? Poison?
‘Maven!’ he yelled, in a fury. ‘Come out, you hag! Out with you, you witch!’ His hunters were scattering away from the stream, flapping their wings and rising into trees of the South Wood. He was deserted, and alone with the body of Tulgi. He saw that the Woodpecker, and the now snivelling Gorji maid, had shuffled a few paces further downstream, but they stood still as he turned his gaze upon them. ‘Bide there!’ he shouted at them. They looked terrified enough to obey him for a little longer, and he turned once more in the direction of the fallen tree trunk.
‘This be no business o’ yourn, Maven!’ he roared. ‘Keep away from this!’
‘Let the child go.’ The voice came from another direction entirely, and Scurl swung his bow around. There was still nothing to be seen. ‘What’s it to thee, damn ’ee? Tis no concern o’ yourn!’ He was beginning to lose heart, realizing that he could easily end up lying next to Tulgi. ‘The Gorji be no friend to thee, so what do ’ee care?’ One clear shot, that’s all he needed. Where was the hemmed old witch hiding?
‘Let the child go.’ Again the direction of the voice had changed. He could risk this no longer. His shoulders slumped, and the tension went out of his body.
‘Agreed then. I’ll give ’ee best.’ He lowered his bow and muttered inaudibly beneath his breath, ‘but next time I catch ‘ee, I’ll stretch thy scrawny old neck – see if I don’t.’
‘The Woodpecker also. Let him be.’
Scurl turned to look at Little-Marten, his mouth set in a hard sour line. The Ickri captain breathed in deeply. With a horrible rattling sound of thick mucus, he hawked noisily, and spat into the stream. A long malevolent look at Midge, and a last quiet warning: ‘We’d best not meet again, Gorji child. Stay out o’ here. And hark ’ee, Woodpecker,’ he added, with a nod, ‘I’ll sithee dead.’ And then he was gone, stalking away into the undergrowth, leaving both Midge and Little-Marten in no doubt that they had made a deadly enemy – who would hunt them down if ever he could.
Midge wanted to get out. She stumbled along the stony path of the stream, half sobbing, and careless of her soaking wet feet. She was now running ahead of Little-Marten who, after looking round in vain for some sign of Maven, could do no more but follow with a miserable heart, determined at least to see out the final part of his errand and report back to Maglin. Always provided, of course, that he wasn’t waylaid on the return journey. He would not think of that.
They came to the end of the wicker tunnel, and Midge, scratched and sore across her back and shoulders, wrenched open the withy doors. The welcome light of the outside world filtered through the curtain of brambles, and she pushed her way backwards between the trailing thorns, panic-stricken, mindless of her skin and clothing. She caught a last glimpse of Little-Marten in the gloom of the tunnel. His small worried face seemed to hang there in the darkness – like a sad little mask, abandoned in a closet – as the doors slowly closed. They had not spoken. They had not even said goodbye. She ran along the gully for fifty yards or so, then climbed out of it and up onto the rising bank, throwing herself down into the sweet meadow-grass to sob with fear and relief.
Somewhere along the way, she realized dimly, she had lost her bunch of celandines.
She sat up after a while, her arms hugged about her shins, rocking to and fro and wiping her eyes occasionally on her knees, feeling the comforting warmth of the material on her cheek. There was a small rip just below her right knee, and some of the stitching had been pulled apart along the seam. She thought of the day she had bought the dungarees, shopping in the mall with her mum, and wished that her mum were with her now. Her clothes were torn and her arms were all scratched. Her mum would know what to do. She started to cry again, but then stopped, suddenly, and looked at her watch. Ten past five. Was that all? It seemed as though days had passed since she had climbed up the gully this morning, with Pegs on her shoulders. Days. She sniffed and stood up. What was she supposed to do about it all? Nothing, she decided. She was only twelve. What could she do?
She looked back at the thick tangle of brambles and trees. It was hateful in there. Nobody had wanted her there in the first place. They had tried to kill her! Pegs had said that she would come to no harm and they had tried to kill her! He had lied to her. It was no thanks to him that she was still alive. She had only tried to help – and look what had happened to her. Nearly. Well, they could help themselves from now on. She was done with the lot of them. She would never go there again.
She turned her back on the forest and kicked her way down the sunny slopes of Howard’s Hill, looking out across the wetlands, the soft friendly countryside seeming to welcome her back from her ordeal.
By the time she had crossed the Field of Thistles, the whole experience felt so unreal as to make her doubt it could have actually happened. Had she really been threatened, at arrow-point, with her life? She stopped at the rusty metal gate by the corner of the old stables. But, seriously, she wondered – was it true? Maybe she was mad. Her favourite kitten – the Favoured One – suddenly sprang around the corner of the old stable block in a sideways leap, landing on the cobbles in front of her and giving her such a comical look of surprise that she laughed out loud.
‘Hallo, you darling!’ she said. ‘You are soooo cute! Did you know that?’
The kitten gave a tiny meep and came a little closer, allowing itself to be picked up and cuddled for a few moments, before wriggling free again. It gave another meep and wandered into the open-sided barn, sniffing at the dusty earth floor beneath the disused machinery, its tail upright and twitching.
Uncle Brian’s battered estate car was parked in the cobbled yard. The tailgate had been left open and an interior light was on. The three red hens – her Deputation from Rhode Island – scratched fussily around the front door, and the Wellington boot still lay on the flagstone path, as it had done all week. These things were a comfort. Midge felt as though she had returned from a long journey. Now she was very tired, she realized, very hungry, and very glad to be back. She would have something to eat – perhaps Uncle Brian would have cooked something, or bought something nice – then she would have a long luxurious shower, watch a bit of telly if she could stay awake, and go to bed. She would worry no more. Eat, shower, bed – that’s all she would think about. Nothing else.
Walking up the front path, she was suddenly tempted to kick the rubber boot, just to see if it would move, but stepped over it instead, because it seemed like bad luck somehow. She stopped to wipe her feet on the tatty doormat – force of habit really, you could probably bring more du
st out of the house than you could take in – and paused as she heard voices from the kitchen. Well, she could hear Uncle Brian’s voice anyway. He was laughing. There was a murmur, and then she heard him say, ‘Well yes – but darling, you have to admit that I’m a whizz with the mixing bowl. My rock cakes are a triumph, you know. Somebody once said that to me. No, it’s true, they did. A triumph!’
Did he have a woman in there with him? Midge’s heart sank. Was she now to be introduced to some old broad who was mad for Uncle Brian’s baking? (It wasn’t that good. She’d had some.) She sighed, combed her fingers quickly through her hair, and crossed the threshold. Well, with any luck she could be out of there and into the shower in five minutes, ten at the most. She mustered up the best smile that she could, and put her head cautiously around the kitchen door.
‘Aha!’ said Uncle Brian. ‘Here she is! Just in time, sweetheart – tea’s all ready! We’ve already started. Midge, come and say hello to George and Katie!’
Chapter Thirteen
MIDGE FELT HER carefully prepared smile crumpling, her mouth falling open in shock. She hadn’t expected this. She stepped hesitantly around the door and her expression of horrified surprise was reflected back at her, mirrored in the faces of Uncle Brian and her newly arrived cousins as they saw her in full view.
The girl, Katie, fresh and summery in a pink top and cream trousers, her wavy golden hair neatly clipped back, sat staring at her with wide blue eyes – a piece of half chewed rock cake visible in her open mouth. George, who had swept back his long blond fringe with a practised flick as Midge had entered, paused with one hand hovering over a plate of sandwiches, raised his eyebrows and said, ‘Crikey.’
Uncle Brian had been leaning casually against the towel rail on the Rayburn, but at the sight of Midge he jerked upright and slopped tea onto his brown shoes. The little splatter was audible in the suddenly quiet kitchen.
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