The Various

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The Various Page 23

by Steve Augarde


  ‘Why did you come here?’ The low tones echoed in the confined space – a strange voice, the accent unlike that of the upper tribes.

  ‘I . . . was running away,’ said the Woodpecker. He struggled to his feet, feeling uncomfortable to be talking to Tadgemole from his position on the floor. Tadgemole waited, in cold silence, for further explanation.

  Little-Marten hung his head. ‘I was running away from Scurl. He reckons to kill me – and has said as much. I . . . I led the giant, the Gorji maid, to the tunnels, as Maglin told me – and Scurl was waiting there. He was like to shoot us both, for he reckoned the maid would bring other Gorji down upon us. Then the old crone . . . Mad Maven . . . she up and killed Tulgi, and she made Scurl to let the maid and I go. And the maid did go. But I . . . don’t have nowhere to go. Scurl says he’ll kill me – and he will if he finds me. I would go too, leave the forest even, if I could – but I don’t have nowhere. And then I run – and I came here. I didn’t mean to. I just . . . came here.’

  ‘And you thought to – what? Stay here? With Troggles and Tinklers – those your kind despise?’

  ‘I didn’t think . . .wasn’t thinking . . .’

  ‘Think on this, then. You of the Ickri bring your troubles upon yourselves – and upon the innocent heads of all about you. I’ll have naught to do with you. Were I to give sanctuary to the longest line of blackguards from all the heathen tribes that ever were, then the last in that line would be an Ickri. These woods were ours long before your kind came, and now we live here perforce, upon your charity, or so you imagine in your ignorance. And you think to crawl in here begging for aid? Who are you?’

  ‘Little-Marten, the Woodpecker – least I was. Now I be nobody.’

  ‘Nobody. Well, Master Nobody, I think you must pick up your troubles and take them back to where they came from – for there’s no home for the heathen to be found here. Shameless you are – and all your tribe. And shame you may someday feel.’

  ‘I do – and did, long afore this day.’

  ‘What? What do you mean? How?’

  ‘I came here many a time – to be close . . . to listen . . .’

  ‘To listen? To spy, was it?’

  ‘No! The singing . . . I like . . . the singing.’ Little-Marten sought for the words to explain how he felt. ‘They said ’twere but the squawling of throstles, but I come here many and many a time. I hid by the thorn bushes, though ’twere the turn of winter and terrible cold, just to hear . . . and I never did hear such . . . could never hear enough. Then I felt shame. Then I wished that I could be – that I were not Ickri – that I were . . .’ – he said it at last – ‘Tinkler.’

  Tadgemole took a step back at this, and regarded Little-Marten for a long time, deeply suspicious at first – was he being mocked? But then came the growing conviction that the youth was sincere, had been genuinely moved by whatever he had heard. He turned to look at Pank.

  ‘Are you listening to this?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Pank, his eyebrows raised in puzzlement.

  ‘And what do you hear?’

  ‘A song I never heard before.’

  ‘Hm. Yes. A good answer. ‘Tis a song I’ve never heard before, either. Bring him to Midnight Almanac. We’re soon to start. Let him hear some songs he’s never heard before, and then we shall see about this . . . winged Tinkler. Stay with him, Pank, and mind that he falls into no mischief.’ Tadgemole turned to go, but suddenly remembered something else. ‘My daughter, Henty,’ he said. ‘She knows of you. When have you spoken?’

  Little-Marten, whose shoulders had begun to relax slightly, became tense again and said, as truthfully as he could, ‘She . . . found me listening one night. By the caves – here. But she’ve never . . . spoken. Leastways not to I.’

  Tadgemole regarded him for a few moments longer, then nodded and left, saying no more.

  * * *

  ‘Come, then,’ said Pank when Tadgemole had gone, ‘or we shall be late.’

  The two small figures left the chamber and stepped out into the dim corridor. This was but a short spur, leading off to the right where it joined a larger and wider passageway. Pank led the way, shuffling along on his injured ankle with the aid of his stick, down the dark length of the main passageway. Little-Marten followed, frequently missing his footing on the rough stone floor. Small recesses were set into the tunnel walls at occasional intervals, each containing a tiny oil lamp. These were of clay – little more than a dish with a pinched spout to hold the wick. The burning oil gave off the sweet smell of lavender but not much light, and the distorted shadows thrown across the tunnel made the going seem more confusing than ever to Little-Marten. He was unused to dark cramped spaces, and felt nervous and uncomfortable.

  A dim red glow became visible from a side-shoot a little further ahead and there was a sudden tink tink of metal upon metal. The sound echoed and bounced around the stone walls for a few moments and the high ring of it seemed to linger in Little-Marten’s ears, even after it had ceased.

  ‘What’s that?’ he said.

  ‘Only old Bibber,’ replied Pank, half-turning, and glancing over his shoulder, ‘we’ll give him how-do, shall we? Be sure and speak sweetly now, for he’s ’mazin crotchety – and ’ud fling his hammer at thee for a bad word.’

  They approached the entranceway, Little-Marten following Pank’s cautious lead, and peered around the corner. A warm radiance fell upon their faces and the smell of burning charcoal was in their nostrils. In the centre of a high round cavern was a glowing furnace, built of metal and stone, and standing over it, was the red-faced and burly figure of Bibber, the Tinkler heavy-smith. He was holding a curved length of dull red metal in a long pair of tongs, and stood examining it, his perspiring brow furrowed into a deep frown. Around the walls hung great metal objects – curious and unfathomable things they seemed to Little-Marten – and on the floor stood a long stone trough, black with soot and half-filled with water. Into this water Bibber suddenly plunged the tongs, and there was a deep bubbling hiss and a cloud of vapour. The billowing cloud seemed to fill the cavern, then rose and disappeared into the high darkness above. Little-Marten had never seen such a sight, and was both awe-struck and frightened by it. He drew back into the passageway, but Pank suddenly collared him and pulled him forward into the light.

  ‘Ho there, Bibber!’ shouted Pank. ‘I’ve brought a young heathen for thee. He’s been calling thee a fat old wosbird, and says he means to set about thee. He reckons to teach thee a thing or two about smithyin’ too, for a blind toad couldn’t do worse than thee, ’cordin’ to him. What do ’ee say to that?’

  Little-Marten’s mouth fell open in horror at this, and he quailed as the great scowling face of Bibber turned towards him, tongs raised in his soot-blackened fist.

  ‘Eh?’ growled the heavy-smith.

  ‘ ’Tis a young heathen, Bibber! Come to march thee up and down and give thee a good duckin’ in that trough of yours!’

  ‘No!’ gasped Little-Marten. ‘I didn’t . . . I never . . .’

  ‘Never fear,’ said Pank. ‘He’s deaf as an adder.’ He grabbed Little-Marten and dragged him out of the forge as unceremoniously as he had dragged him in, pausing only to bow briefly in the direction of the old heavy-smith before leaving. ‘We’re away to Almanac!’ he shouted.

  ‘Eh?’ said Bibber.

  Pank hobbled on ahead until he reached the end of the corridor, and then looked back, beckoning to Little-Marten. ‘Come!’ he hissed, and turned the corner.

  Little-Marten followed, deeply wary now, rounding the corner with great caution when he reached it for fear of further japes from Master Pank, but found his guide to be quietly standing a little way on, at yet another side entranceway. Here were mounted heavy wooden doors, dry and cracked with age, opening inwards. Bright candlelight spilled out from the portal, throwing a warm yellow glow across the grey stone of the tunnel, and illuminating the little figure of Pank, who stood waiting for him.

  Little-Marten approa
ched, and, although he heard no definite sound, he could suddenly and instinctively feel the presence of a hushed crowd beyond the doorway – a crowd who had seen Pank, and who were now anticipating the arrival of a stranger. He was aware of the slight pad-pad of his own footsteps in the passageway, and the bare stone, cool, beneath his toes. The scent of burning wax and lavender was very strong.

  He reached the open doors and stood for a moment in the light, dipping his head in confusion at the daunting sight of so many faces, all turned in his direction. Pank put a hand on his shoulder and ushered him into a large crowded chamber, steering him towards a long wooden board, mercifully just a short distance from the door, where it was apparent that he was expected to sit – everyone else in the room being already seated in rows upon similar boards. He shuffled along and lowered himself awkwardly onto the unfamiliar object, gripping the rounded edge of the dark polished wood.

  Furniture of any kind was a rarity among the upper tribes, the tree-dwelling Ickri in particular having no use for it. The Queen had her Gondla, and some of the more elderly had upturned wicker baskets to sit on, but little more. Yet here, in the large candle-lit cavern, side by side and in neat rows, sat the Tinklers and the Troggles on wooden seats built for the purpose. Little-Marten could hardly have been more surprised if he had found them hanging from the roof like bats.

  Abashed at being the object of such open curiosity, the youth hung his head and put his hands between his knees, but gradually the staring faces turned to the front once more – amid much whispering – and Little-Marten was able to look up. Pank, sitting next to him, put his finger to his lips – an unnecessary warning – as Little-Marten glanced surreptitiously about him. How could it be that those who lived above ground had so little knowledge of those who lived below?

  To his left sat an old Troggle-dame, who had moved as far away from him as possible yet continued to gawp at him, grinning toothlessly and nodding, half-frightened by him, half-fascinated, it would seem. Around the cavern walls were fixed devices of metal, each of which held several brightly burning candles. Candles, again, were a rarity among the upper tribes – not because they were so very difficult to make – but because any visible light at night was a dangerous thing. Hollowed-out wurzel lanterns were sometimes used, sparingly, but open flames were forbidden. Certainly there could be no open fires – willow charcoal and earth ovens were used for cooking and for hardening the arrow-tips of the Ickri archers. The bright glow of Bibber’s forge and the flaring candles on the walls undoubtedly amounted to more naked fire than Little-Marten had seen in his lifetime.

  At the front of the room, patiently waiting for the crowd to settle, stood Tadgemole. His hand rested upon another wooden construction – somewhat akin to the seats, but larger. The Naiad carpenters, Little-Marten knew, deployed a similar object – a work-board they called it – kneeling at it as they carved. This board had longer legs, and upon it stood several solid looking blocks of some strange stuff, wood perhaps – but hued in blue and green and scarlet.

  ‘Now we are assembled,’ Tadgemole spoke, ‘and you see that we have a wayfarer as a guest. I will say no more of him, save that – rare among his kith – he has a liking for a song. We must encourage this heresy where we find it,’ Tadgemole allowed himself a wintry smile, ‘and hope it may spread like a very plague above ground. Welcome then, Master Ickri – and all – to Midnight Almanac. Not quite all, I see, as Bibber is once again absent – no matter, we shall manage. Now then, who’ll take up almanacs and instruct us this night?’

  Half a dozen hands were raised and Tadgemole, glancing quickly around, said, ‘Tingel, we’ve not heard from you in a moon or two. Come, give us a passage.’

  There were one or two murmurs of approval as Tingel rose from his seat, and shuffled, with the aid of a curved hobble-stick, to the front of the room. Tingel was a powerful speaker, despite his years, and was known to have some lively notions beneath his straggly crown of white hair. He hooked his stick over the edge of the high board and rested his swollen knuckles on the polished top, staring at the coloured blocks laid out before him.

  ‘Now, friend,’ said Tadgemole, ‘what will you give us?’

  Tingel reached out and chose the green block. He dragged it towards him and picked it up with both hands – it was obviously heavy – and then, to Little-Marten’s astonishment, seemed to split it asunder. The thing simply fell apart within his grasp – first into two, then into many sections as he turned it back and forth, flicking it this way and that. It was marvellous to watch. Finally he made the wayward object whole again, and replaced it on the board. Little-Marten glanced at Pank, ready to huzzah this clever display if prompted, but the room remained silent. Once more, Tingel reached out and this time chose the scarlet block. He held this aloft briefly, having come to a decision.

  ‘Pears’ Cyclopaedia,’ he said, and there was another murmur of approval and anticipation from the audience. Pears’ Cyclopaedia was one of their favourites.

  Chapter Eighteen

  UNCLE BRIAN HAD finally relented, as George had known that he would, and said that it was OK for Midge to stay in the tree house, provided . . . and there had followed such a long list of conditions that George eventually became bored and started to wander off.

  ‘Hoy!’ said Uncle Brian, sharply, ‘I haven’t finished yet.’

  ‘Dad,’ sighed George, in exasperation, ‘don’t fuss. I promise, OK?’

  ‘Promise what?’

  ‘Everything. Everything you said. We’re only at the end of the lawn, not . . . Jamaica.’ He didn’t know why he said Jamaica.

  ‘Jamaica?’ Uncle Brian laughed. ‘What’s Jamaica got to do with anything?’

  ‘Wish I was in Jamaica,’ said Katie. ‘Wish I was anywhere but here.’ She sat with her legs over the arms of the old sitting room sofa, flicking gloomily through the TV guide. Uncle Brian glanced at her, but refused to be drawn on that one. He returned his attention to George.

  ‘Well, just . . . watch it, that’s all,’ he finished, lamely, and let it go. ‘Anything good on?’ he said to Katie, but she didn’t reply.

  ‘Yesss!’ said George, galloping up the stairs in search of Midge. The door to her room was open, and he saw her standing at the window, gazing out towards the horizon. ‘Dad says yes,’ he said, slightly breathless from the stairs. Midge was silent, so George had a go at that thing where you put your heels firmly against the wall and try to touch your toes. He slowly toppled forward and reached out for the corner of the bed at the last minute to break his fall. The bed moved, and he bumped his knee on the floor.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he said, picking himself up, and rubbing his knee.

  ‘Yeah, sorry,’ said Midge, turning away from the window. ‘Just thinking, that’s all.’

  They found an airbed and an old foot pump in the linen cupboard next to the end bathroom. The rubber foot pump looked perished, and had faded from its original red to a dusty pink colour, but it still seemed to work. They put these, together with Midge’s bedding, into a couple of black bin-liners and lugged them up onto the tree house platform.

  ‘Forgot my toothbrush, and my jimmies,’ said Midge, struggling to untie one of the sacks. ‘I’ll go back later.’

  ‘Your jimmies?’ George laughed.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Midge, slightly embarrassed. ‘Pyjamas. That’s my mum for you. Anyway,’ she said, rallying, ‘I bet your mum has some stupid names for things too. They all do.’

  ‘Yeah, well, she does still . . .’ George hesitated, unwilling to come right out and say that on chilly nights his mother was still liable to offer him a ‘hottie-bottie’. He winced, and changed the subject. ‘You’re probably right. Shall I put a record on?’

  ‘Maybe later.’ Midge gave up trying to undo the black sack, and ripped it open instead. She sat back on her heels, looking at the swirly colours of her duvet cover as it emerged from the split black plastic. ‘This looks like a butterfly, coming out of its . . .’ She couldn’t remember the word
. ‘George, what do you think about all that stuff about Celandine? Great-aunt Celandine, I mean?’

  ‘Great-great-aunt Celandine,’ corrected George. ‘Well, like what?’

  ‘Well, do you think . . . she might have been telling the truth?’

  ‘What – about seeing fairies? Come on.’ George snorted disparagingly as he scuttled after the airbed stopper which had made a sudden bid for freedom. ‘Mad as a hatstand, if you ask me.’ He caught the stopper before it fell over the edge of the platform, and sat trying to thread it back onto the bit of string that was attached to the airbed. He sucked the frayed end of the string and frowned in concentration, his hair flopping forward over his face.

  Midge watched him, and was suddenly desperate to tell. It had been bad enough before, but the conversation at lunchtime – the talk of Celandine – had really shaken her up. Under different circumstances, the news that someone else had apparently encountered the Various years ago could almost have been a comfort – but then to learn that that person was generally regarded as being crazy . . . well, what did that make her? For what if people were right? What if Celandine had been ‘seeing things that weren’t there’? Hallucinations, that’s what Uncle Brian had said. People must have them sometimes, or the word wouldn’t exist. And, what was really strange, and frightening, was that, almost from the moment she had left the forest, everything that had happened there had begun to seem unreal, as if she’d imagined it. Even before the business with Celandine had come up, she had been trying to tell herself that it was all a dream, and that she must try to just forget it. Maybe she had whatever Celandine had – some sort of illness. Maybe it ran in the family, whatever it was. This thought really frightened her. But then, she reasoned, it would hardly be likely that she and her ancestor would have the same hallucinations – would it? So maybe she hadn’t imagined it after all. Maybe it had actually happened. And this thought calmed her, until it occurred to her to wonder which was worse: imagining that little people were shooting at you with bows and arrows, or for little people to be actually shooting at you with bows and arrows, for real. It was too weird. She so wanted to tell. Up until now she had managed to keep her secret simply because she had made a promise – but now there was another reason for not telling: she didn’t want people to think she was nuts. Like Celandine. She remembered Henty, standing on the grey shale outside the cave, and saying, ‘Are you Celandine?’ And at that point she hadn’t known the name of the girl in the picture. So it must be true. It must be. But that didn’t make it any easier to bear.

 

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