The Various

by Steve Augarde

  Maglin was dumbfounded, and his voice rose once again. ‘I? Follow you? You will be my guide – a Naiad horse?’

  I am Ickri.

  ‘Ickri! You were born into Spindra’s herd.’

  Yet I am Ickri. No matter – all tribes are one. The Various are one. Travellers we are, Maglin, and we shall travel from here – far from here – when the Touchstone is restored. For this is my purpose, Maglin – to restore that which is broken, the strength of the Touchstone, and to see it in the hands of its rightful inheritor.

  Maglin snorted. ‘What fey riddles are these? You talk like the mad hag. I am trapped by the Gorji – beset by troubles within and without the forest – and you, horse, come to me with ravings of witchi stones and strange travels? These be myths, Pegs, tales told by old fools to gulled childer. What strength, what magic art, does the bauble have? And who be the rightful owner? ’Tis the Queen’s.’

  Not so. It is meant for one younger and fairer than she. As to its power – it is the lodestar of the Various, and in the hands of its inheritor it will take us where we would go. These are matters of truth, Maglin, not myth. Yet they are also matters of faith, and your faith in this I would crave. You have seen something of that power, a little – I know it to be so. Believe a little more, and be my ally now – I am bidden to beg you.

  ‘You are bidden? What would ’ee have me do?’

  Listen to my words.

  They had reached the edge of the clearing, and stood looking through the gaps in the foliage at the low flat expanses of the wetlands far below. Maglin felt out of his depth. He was ruler of the Various in all but name, and had laid about him with a strong hand as he saw fit. His way had served its purpose, and that the woodlanders still survived was due in part to his own strength. Now the Gorji were coming. If ever a strong hand and a clear mind were needed it was surely in this moment. Yet today he felt that he could offer neither. He had held the throng for the time being – bluffed them into submission – but doubted that he could do so for much longer. Panic and lawlessness would soon rise, and he feared that he would be helpless to prevent it. There had been two deaths since yesterday – how many more might there be come the morrow? And now here was the winged horse, come out of another age it would seem, with fey words and gimcrack notions, that he was bidden to put his faith in.

  Yet the world turned, and he must turn with it – though it turn widdershins. He grunted, in annoyance. ‘Say on, then. But I’ve little enough time for witchi-pocus, horse. I’ve little time for’t, and little patience neither. I put my faith in what I can see, and let the rest go hang.’

  Do you not see me?

  ‘Plain enough.’

  And what am I, think you? Am I but one of Spindra’s herd – a horse? Tell me what you see.

  ‘See? I see a meddlesome creature. Aye, a horse.’ Maglin looked at Pegs, and then gave a long sigh, hooking his thumbs over his belt and letting the last of his anger evaporate. ‘I give ’ee best, then. I see a wondrous thing. I see a thing I never saw the like of before – and I see where you be driving to. Talk, Pegs, and I shall listen.’

  A good beginning. Understand, then, that we are not as the Gorji, rooted in the clay beneath our feet. And we do not belong here. We are not of this world, Maglin. We are descended from the great travelling tribes of Elysse, and are rooted in the wind. And like the wind we may go where we will, even to spanning the ages. We may take many forms – we may be Ickri or Naiad, but so may we be hares or jackdaws – we may even be horses, aye and winged if it suit our purpose, and if we have faith. We are not Gorji. We are Various. Yet we have forgotten much that we once knew, so long have we remained here. We have lost our faith, and we have lost our way. And so we have forgotten what we are. Now we must needs have faith again – and the Touchstone is the very article of that faith. Without the Touchstone, we are lost.

  It was too big a mouthful for Maglin to swallow in one go, but he walked quietly beside the white horse, down through the mossy paths beneath the trees of the West Wood, and he listened . . . and learned.

  There is much to know – and much that must remain hidden. For now, you need understand only this: with the Touchstone restored, and returned to its true inheritor, will come faith once more. Then the Various may journey far from this place, unhindered, untrammelled by the bonds of world or welkin, even to the very fields of Elysse. Faith is all.

  ‘But the Queen already holds the Touchstone. How should it be restored?’

  Ba-betts is not its true inheritor. And the Touchstone is incomplete.

  ‘Incomplete? How?’

  Part of it was taken, many years ago – by a Gorji giant. That which you have seen is but the stone. The stone is pierced through and once was fixed within an orbis – a silver cage wherein it might revolve upon an axis. It is this part, this metal device, that the giant took – and which must be found if the Various are to be saved. For without it we are doomed to languish here until the Gorji come at last. It is my task, our task, Maglin, to recover the orbis, and thus restore the Touchstone, assembled and complete, to its power.

  Maglin laughed with sour disbelief. ‘Then languish we must. What waste of words is this? Are we to now go chasing giants? A pretty pastime! We’ll spend our days a-hunting – eh, Pegs? – and lead a merry life.’ Maglin laughed again. ‘And if we should ever find the giant as stole this . . . thing – would he give it back, think you? Or might he reckon to keep it after all?’

  Mock me if you wish, Maglin, but you’ll hear me out first. The giant was Celandine.

  ‘Celandine?’ Maglin looked more incredulous than ever. ‘That old ogre-tale? ’Twere half forgotten when I was a snip! Celandine? Was there ever such a being then?’

  There was – though I suppose her to be now dead, for it was indeed long before you were born that she came to these woods. A child she was then, a Gorji maid, and the last giant to enter this place – until yesternoon, when another like her did tread the same path; the girl, Midge.

  ‘Brought hither by you.’

  Aye, brought by me. And for the reason that I believe our history may turn in a circle, and that the device taken by Celandine may be returned by her kin.

  ‘Her kin?’

  Her kin – for the maid you saw is of the same tribe as she who took from us. I cannot pretend to see clearly into the realms of what may be – but I am certain that the girl Midge has a part to play. Remember that I myself am born to a purpose, and yet I would be already dead were it not for her. I owe her my life. She is bound up in my task, and in all of this. I know it.

  ‘That’s as it may be. But this missing thing, this stolen part of the bauble – do ’ee think it to be in her possession?’

  I think it unlikely. But she is our nearest stepping stone on the path towards it – our only stepping stone. With her we must begin.

  Maglin, who had been momentarily intrigued by the story, now began to lose interest once more. ‘ ’Tis but a tale, Pegs. There be nothing here to grasp a hold of. And even if we should ever find this thing – no. I cannot hang our existence on such a flimsy branch. We need action this day, and plans, not dreams.’

  And what plans do you make? What actions do you command? The horse had stopped walking, pausing to look at Maglin directly.

  Maglin felt uncomfortable and could find no reply. He avoided Pegs’ eye by glancing upwards into the trees. He caught a glimpse of a squirrel, disappearing in alarm among the thick foliage.

  Heed my words, Maglin. The Touchstone has great power – more than Ba-betts could know, or any in this forest could know. The orbis – that missing part of the Touchstone that was stolen by the Gorji maid – shall bring us all we desire, and more, when it is restored. Then you, Maglin, who have known what it is to bend others to your will and to command hunters and fishers, shall witness what it is to bend the very elements and to command the wind. Power beyond your imagining.

  Maglin was still unconvinced. ‘The elements are not so biddable as hunters and fishers, Pegs,
and I doubt the wind is to be commanded by red stones and metal adornments – however prettily fashioned.’

  Yet in the right hands, and with faith, they may.

  ‘And in whose hands, friend, shall the restored Touchstone hold such powers? You have not said.’

  Nor may I. But grant me this; let me go to the girl once more, with your leave and assistance, and speak with her, for I know that what we seek is dependent upon her.

  Maglin gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘With my leave? My leave was not sought when you brought her here. When have you asked my leave in anything?’

  I ask for it now – and for your trust, and your assistance, and your faith.

  The Ickri General had grown impatient once more. ‘Do what you will. Talk to her if you must, and find out what you can – though I doubt the child has the thing. You have my leave, and what aid I may be able to give. As for trust, and as for faith – these be less easily given. Interesting words, Pegs – yet they are but words. Let me be, now, and I shall think on. Do nothing until the morrow at least. We shall talk again.’ And Maglin, quickening his pace, walked on alone.

  Pegs stood for a few moments more, undecided as to whether he should follow and attempt to press the General further. The matter was of sufficient urgency. No, he had said enough. He turned and slowly walked back the way they had come.

  From his position high above, hidden among the thick foliage of an ancient lime tree, Benzo looked silently down and watched the horse and the General as they departed in opposite directions.

  His purpose had been innocent enough – he was squirrel hunting. The Gorji hordes might be at the tunnel gates, yet the daily business of hunting for food must continue, and so, having been dismissed from Counsel Clearing by Maglin, Benzo had taken to the trees of the West Wood.

  Benzo’s method of hunting was simple: sit tight and wait. Sooner or later the innocent and the unwary would cross his path. It was a lazy strategy, but productive enough to get him by – certainly during the summer months, when both leaf cover and prey were plentiful. He had heard the murmur of voices approaching, and spied the General and the white horse coming along the path. Strict adherence to Maglin’s command meant that he should have gone home – and he had no particular wish to be caught in breach of that command. He drew back among the high foliage and waited for the unlikely pair to pass by.

  Maglin and Pegs had stopped, however, close to the tree in which Benzo was hiding, and he had caught the tail end of their conversation.

  Heed my words, Maglin, the Touchstone has great power . . . more than . . . any in this forest could know. The orbis – that missing part of the Touchstone that was stolen by the Gorji maid – shall bring us all we desire, and more, when it is restored . . . (What was this?) You, Maglin . . . shall witness what it is to bend the very elements and to command the wind . . . power beyond your imagining.

  Some slight rustle among the leaves nearby at one point had caught Maglin’s attention and he had looked up. A squirrel. Benzo held his breath, and the moment passed. But what was this of the Touchstone and the Gorji maid, and power . . . to bend the wind? Benzo had continued to listen, and went carefully over what he had heard, still trying to divine the meaning of it long after Pegs and Maglin had gone their separate ways. Strange words. Strange – and valuable perhaps? Yet Maglin had seemed unimpressed . . .

  Scurl’s reaction on hearing the tale, however, was very different to Maglin’s. He grasped Benzo by the shoulder of his ragged waistcoat and made him repeat what he had overheard, quizzing him closely over each remembered detail, listening intently, his dark eyes narrowed in concentration.

  When at last it became clear that Benzo had told all that he knew, Scurl relaxed his grip and stood for a long time in silence, his back turned, gazing at the red evening sky through the darkening trees at the edge of the West Wood. Benzo looked at Grissel and Flitch, also present, who raised their eyebrows and shrugged. They waited for Scurl to say something, and speculatively watched the rooks that drifted lazily above the distant cedars, silhouetted against the pink and purple clouds. A chilly whisper of air blew across the clearing, a sly hint – even in high summer – that autumn would surely come again. Flitch twisted the knotted laces of his leather jerkin together.

  ‘Maglin’s a fool.’ Scurl finally spoke, turning to face his archers once more. ‘And the horse speaks true, I be sure of it. What reason would he have to speak otherwise, unless he be upsides in the head? The creature be unlike arn o’ we, nor his own kind neither. He’m witchi. And whatever it was the Gorji maid have stole, ’twould be worth the finding of, aye, for more have been forgotten of the old ways than have been remembered, that I do believe. The Ickri be standing proof of that – there ain’t many of the Gorji as has wings, that I know of. They ain’t like we – nor we like they. Aye, this thing would be worth the finding of. And I reckon that we should be the ones to find it.’ Scurl spoke decisively and looked closely at his companions. ‘Come – who’ll gainsay us? Maglin don’t care, so says Benzo, and the old wosbird don’t see no further than the end of his nose anyhow. Why not we? If we’m to be driven out o’ here, like mice from the corn, straight into the arms of the Gorji, then a witchi-stone might be summat as we’d be glad of – if only to barter for safe passage.’ Scurl tugged thoughtfully at one of his hairy ears. ‘What I casn’t see is why we’ve not heard of this thing afore – and why it haven’t been used afore, if ’tis so full o’ magic and here all this time. I’ve never seed no metal gewgaws on that stone the Queen do dandle wi’. Maybe ’twere hid – but then how did the giant come to get her hands on it? Bist certain, Benzo, that ’twas the maid who took it? Tell me once more.’

  ‘Aye, ’twas she,’ said Benzo. ‘ ’Cording to the horse. A metal zummat-or-t’other, that missing part of the Touchstone as was stolen by the Gorji maid . . . Plain enough, he spoke – stolen by the Gorji maid – and plain enough I heard ’un.’

  Flitch suddenly recalled something, and spoke up. ‘I reckon I saw her tuck it in her roundabout!’ he said, wonderingly. ‘When she were comin’ down to the spring wi’ the Woodpecker. Some metal thing – I saw it right enough.’

  ‘You’m right!’ cried Benzo, also remembering. ‘I seed it too – a bit o’ metal! She has it for certain, captain – aye, for certain sure. Maglin don’t believe it, though. I heard ’un say so.’

  ‘Then we know more than he do,’ said Scurl. ‘And so we’m further along the path. Now then, Grissel – tell us again what you know of the Gorji settlement. Who’s there, besides the maid?’

  Grissel hesitated. He wasn’t sure he liked the way this was going. ‘But one man,’ he said, and added softly, ‘and one hemmed gurt felix.’

  ‘Never mind about the felix,’ said Scurl angrily. ‘You’m with your company now – not raggle-tags and hobbledehoys. I ain’t worried ’bout a felix – nor aught else that goes on four legs neither. There’s but one man, you say? One man and a Gorji chi’. Six of us there be – with Dregg and Snerk. Six of us against but one man and a snip. What do ’ee say, now? Are we like to best ’em?’

  Grissel’s face was expressionless, but Flitch and Benzo grinned from ear to ear.

  Chapter Seventeen

  IT WAS THE lamp-lighter who found Little-Marten, slumped in a heap on the bare floor of the main passageway, just a few yards in from the cave entrance. As the old Troggle-dame passed along the end tunnel, she happened to glance towards the entrance and saw the motionless form, a dark huddle against the harsh light that entered the cave from the outside world. She peered into the glare, drawing her little bundle of tinder and tapers closer towards her. Something there. What was it? Something from the outside. Massie didn’t like the look of it.

  She drew closer, and a little closer still, until she was sure – yes, she could see now, the crumpled shape of the wings. It was a heathen. She went to seek help.

  They had laid him on a low pallet in a little antechamber, bare but for the guttering tallow candle with its scent of l
avender. He had been dimly aware of the strong hands that lifted him, aware of the rough woollen coverlet they had draped over him, the low voices and the soft departing footsteps. And he had slept.

  Now he was awake, feeling much better, if astonished at his surroundings. He was conscious of general movement a little distance away – murmured conversations amid the shuffling of many feet – as of a line of people moving along a passageway. Closer still, somebody stirred and yawned. ‘Be you awake, Woodpecker?’

  Little-Marten jumped, and sat up, shading his hand against the flickering light of the candle. A small figure was sitting by the open entrance to the stone chamber, leaning against the wall with legs outstretched and arms folded. Beside him, propped against the wall, was a hobble-stick. A little light entered the room from the corridor outside and one or two shadowy faces peeped curiously in, then quickly withdrew – whispering – to rejoin their fellows in the nearby moving line.

  ‘Aye,’ said Little-Marten at last, combing his fingers through his curls in bewilderment. ‘Awake. But still upsides in the head, I reckon. Who brought me here?’

  ‘Lamp-lighter found thee,’ said the Tinkler, taking hold of the hobble-stick and rising to his feet with a grunt. ‘And she ran to Tadgemole. Tadgemole would’ve slung thee straight back outside again, I reckon – but his daughter said she knew thee. Said you were Woodpecker, and pled to let thee bide till you’d had chance to speak.’

  ‘Tadgemole’s daughter?’ whispered Little-Marten, looking more bewildered than ever.

  ‘Do you not know her?’ said his companion. ‘Well I hope you ain’t going to make her out a liar. ’Twould not please her father to find her out in an untruth. Terrible fearsome he would be if . . .’

  ‘Enough, Pank.’

  Tadgemole, the cave-dwellers’ leader, had appeared in the entranceway. The stocky figure stepped into the little chamber and, after glancing severely at Pank, stood with his hands on his hips, looking down at Little-Marten. His unsmiling face was colourless, ghostly in the flickering candle-light, and deeply lined.