She pulled her duvet and her pillow out of the plastic sack. Chrysalis – that was the word.
They made up their beds, one each side of the ammo box, as they had planned, and it was fun in a way – but Midge couldn’t find much to say, and she felt that George must be wondering why he had bothered to work so hard on his father for the pleasure of her company. He kept asking her if she was OK, and that annoyed her, so that by the time they had finished setting everything up they were a bit grumpy with each other. They sat at the edge of the platform, swinging their legs, and wondering what to do next. It was too early for tea, and they seemed to have run out of things to talk about. George had a thought, and he cheered up.
‘Let’s go and throw stones into the lagoon,’ he said.
‘What?’ said Midge. Throw stones into the lagoon? What kind of a dumb idea was that? A dumb boy-idea. She nearly said that she’d rather just sit and read for a while – which would have been true – but it seemed a bit unfriendly. Also, she felt that she owed George something. He had been nice to her and it wasn’t his fault that she was worried and thinking of other things.
‘It’s great!’ said George, enthusiastically, ‘It’s like quicksand. Well, it is sometimes – when it’s been raining a lot.’
‘It hasn’t been raining at all since I’ve been here,’ Midge pointed out. ‘But come on,’ she added, determined to try and brighten up a bit, ‘Show me what to do.’
It was a funny word, ‘lagoon’. One of those words that you could say over and over until it made no sense. Like ‘pillow’. The patch of scrubby ground at the back of the old stables didn’t seem to fit the word, no matter how many times you said it. Goonlagoonlagoonlagoon. The remains of a wooden fence – just a few rotten posts and broken rails – indicated the original boundary of the slurry pit, now a flat piece of greenish earth, more or less circular, out of which grew odd tufts of reedy grass. It was perhaps forty feet across, slightly lower than the surrounding ground level, and looked as though it was covered in a yellowy green mould.
George and Midge searched among the shadows behind the stables for suitable things to throw. Bits of old roof tiles, they found, together with odd lumps of hamstone and broken masonry. They kicked around in the nettles and thistles to see what else there might be.
‘Your dad said I should stay away from here,’ said Midge, feeling that she ought to make that clear, in case of trouble. ‘Oh, he stresses too much,’ said George, dismissively. ‘Tell him I made you do it.’
‘Hmph,’ said Midge, unwilling that Uncle Brian, or anyone else for that matter, should think her so easily led. Azzie, her friend at school, had sometimes got her into hot water – but just as often it had been the other way round. They both got bored during the same lessons, that was part of the problem.
‘Come on, then,’ said George. ‘Let’s have a bung.’
They carted their booty over to the broken fence, and George had first go, shot-putting a big lump of hamstone out on to the surface of the lagoon. The rock didn’t travel very far, and the result was disappointing. It landed just a few feet in from the edge, breaking the surface crust slightly like a spoon cracking the shell of a hard-boiled egg, but showed no sign of sinking to its doom. It just sat there, in a dull and somewhat reproachful manner.
‘No good,’ said George. ‘Got to get further out towards the middle.’ He picked up another lump of stone and stepped down the shallow bank, cautiously standing at the edge of the lagoon. He gingerly tried his weight on the outer rim of the mouldy green earth, and, finding it safe, moved forward another pace or two. Midge looked on with a kind of delicious terror – it was like watching a tightrope walker – as George ventured out just a little further and then heaved the second stone towards the middle of the lagoon. The effort of doing this caused the crust beneath George’s feet to begin to break up, and he immediately had to dance back to safety, lifting his knees high, but still looking towards the centre of the lagoon to see how his stone was doing. And this time the result was much better. The second stone landed a lot further out than the first, with a soft and quivering squelch. It didn’t sink, but sat for a while, half-buried in the ooze, giving George ample time to examine his trainers and to wipe them on the grass.
They watched for a while, quite a long while, and were eventually rewarded with the eerie sight of the stone disappearing slowly, slowly, beneath the surface. Gone, forever.
‘Isn’t it great?’ said George, and actually it was pretty great.
‘Let me have a go,’ said Midge. She picked up a large triangular piece of orange-coloured roof tile and took it down to where George had been standing – although she didn’t venture out onto the surface. She swung her arm back and forth a couple of times, and let go. The broken tile landed on the edge and stayed upright, held by the thick consistency of the ancient slurry. It sank in a very slow and satisfying manner, reminding them both of the stern of the Titanic, disappearing beneath the icy waves, with the loss of many lives.
It was a very good game, and when they had exhausted their supplies of missiles they hunted around for more. This time it took longer to find anything worthwhile, and they drifted apart as they searched the ground at the back of the stables. Midge had managed to retrieve a whole red brick – a real treasure – after much kicking down of thistles, and held it aloft to catch George’s eye. She saw him stoop to pick something up, something far too small to be of any use, and then saw him drop it – simultaneously hearing his voice, ‘Ugh! Ughhh! Ughhhhh!’ as he backed away in horror, wiping his hands frantically on his khaki combat trousers.
Midge put down the brick. ‘What is it?’ she called.
‘Ughhhh!’ George had half-turned away, his hands up to his face now – he looked like he was going to be sick or something. What had he found? She half-walked, half-ran, through the scrubby dock leaves and dandelions to where he was.
‘What is it?’ she said again. His face was white, really white, and he was shuddering. He pointed, and Midge crept fearfully towards the spot, moving sideways, ready to run, and almost as terrified now as her cousin. A small brown thing was lying on the ground where George had dropped it. A sparrow, or a dead toad or something? What? She couldn’t make it out – then suddenly she could, and jumped back in gasping horror, as George had done. ‘Ughhh!’
It was a hand. A tiny severed hand, swollen and a purply-brown, the fingers curled and puffy, the thumb bent inwards. It lay on a patch of bright green grass like a small creature on its back, locked in a last hopeless struggle, clutching desperately at nothing at all.
George was backing quickly away, his eyes still wide with horror. He glanced briefly at Midge, not really seeing her, and turned, undecided as to which way to run. The quickest route back to the house was by the metal gate at the end of the stable block, and he began to stumble uncertainly in this direction.
Midge, after staring in horror at the thing on the grass for a few moments longer, suddenly seemed to come back to life, and became aware of George’s departure.
‘Wait!’ she called, realizing instinctively what he was about to do. ‘George, wait!’ George stopped running, but continued to move away – walking backwards, arms straight by his side, fists clenched, and staring once more towards the spot where the hand was.
‘Wait a minute!’ said Midge, ‘Stop!’ She caught up with him and grabbed the olive-green sleeve of his T-shirt.
‘George – I . . . I know what it is,’ she hissed. ‘Please, listen, I know what it is.’
George stared through her, wild-eyed, and panicky. ‘So do I,’ he croaked. ‘It’s a . . . baby’s . . . I’m gonna get my dad. Tell my dad . . .’
‘No!’ said Midge urgently. ‘It’s not that. It’s not what you think. You don’t understand, George, but I do. You’ve got to stop and listen to me for a minute.’
George looked at her, seeming to focus on her at last. He grabbed her wrist. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘my dad’ll know what to do . . . get the police . . .
they’ll know. It’s not our fault. We didn’t do anything.’
‘George, please,’ begged Midge. ‘Please listen. You don’t understand. It’s not what you think it is. Come back to the tree house – I’ve got something to tell you. I promise you it’s got nothing to do with the police . . . I mean, it’s . . . well there hasn’t been any crime . . . but it’s just really really important that I talk to you for a minute. Don’t tell your dad, George, not for a bit – just let me explain something first.’
She had got through to him, she could tell. George frowned slightly – his face now puzzled – but his eyes had lost that wild panicky look. He flicked his hair back.
‘What?’ he said, his voice sounding a little more normal. ‘Tell me what?’
It took quite a long time. They sat on the tree house platform, and Midge talked – letting it all spill out at last, the whole confused impossible story, from the moment she had found the winged horse to the moment she had entered the kitchen to find George and Katie staring at her dishevelled state in amazement. She recalled the night that Tojo had woken them; the presence of something inexplicable beneath the kitchen sink, and her guess that the hand was the remains of whatever it was that Tojo had caught. She held back, though, from saying that the winged horse could communicate – could talk in strange colours, could make words appear like soft explosions inside her head. There just didn’t seem to be a way of getting this across – it sounded so impossible.
George listened to all that she had to say. He didn’t interrupt, but gazed out over the moorlands, shimmering gold in the evening sunshine, occasionally giving her a sideways glance, and taking deep, slightly shaky, breaths.
Midge came to a halt at last, and waited for George to say something. He remained silent, picking at a small hole in the knee of his trousers. A terrible realization stole over the girl.
‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ she said. George didn’t speak, and Midge felt a rising pain in her chest.
* * *
He didn’t know what to say. He just didn’t know what to say. How could it be true? And yet the hand was there, and perhaps it hadn’t looked much like a baby’s . . . apart from its size. He remembered the clutching fingers, but then didn’t want to remember. There was nothing he could think of to say – yet some words finally came out.
‘Let’s . . . go back, then . . . have another look.’ He didn’t know why he’d said that – it was the last thing he wanted to do – but without waiting for a reply he got up and began to descend the rope ladder once more.
Midge followed, feeling as though there was a tennis ball stuck in her throat. She could hardly breathe. After all that had happened to her, all that she had carried by herself, the weight of her secret and her promise not to tell – it was just unbearable. And now, to have broken that promise, to have told, only find that she was disbelieved . . . she trailed across the lawn behind George, speechless with misery. A robber band of jackdaws flew across the lawn, squabbling noisily, and flapped up to the roof of the old farmhouse. The children glanced towards the chimney-stack, watching the clamorous birds beating their wings at each other.
‘I keep asking Dad for an air-rifle,’ said George, ‘but he won’t get me one.’
Good, thought Midge – inwardly punishing her faithless cousin.
They climbed back over the gate that led into the Field of Thistles, and walked down the long shadow behind the rear wall of the stable-block, tense and nervous. It was worse, in a way, knowing what they were about to see, than it had been the first time. George was trying to catch his breath – but Midge was lifted slightly by the thought that here, at least, was some proof that her tale was true. And yet there wasn’t – for it became apparent, even from a distance, that the hand had gone. The patch of grass was bare.
They stood and stared hopelessly at the place where the thing had been, then kicked around half-heartedly amongst the already trampled thistles and dock leaves.
‘Where exactly did you find it?’ asked Midge, just for something to say.
‘Just there, where you are now,’ said George. ‘It was hidden in all the thistles and stuff. I thought maybe it was a bit of tree root or, I dunno, a toadstool or something. Couldn’t tell what it was, till I picked it up. Then when I saw . . .’
‘Well, it’s gone, anyhow. Something’s taken it. No point in telling your dad about it now.’
‘S’pose not . . .’
‘He wouldn’t believe you,’ said Midge. ‘Even though you were telling the truth,’ she added, pressing the point home.
‘I didn’t say I didn’t believe you,’ said George. ‘It’s just, well you have to admit . . .’
‘Yeah, I know. It’s mad. Do you think I might be mad? Like Celandine?’
George – to whom the thought had most definitely occurred – shook his head. ‘Nooo . . . but, well . . .’ Another thought occurred to him. ‘I mean, take that . . . that hand. Say it wasn’t a hand at all. Say it was a paw. Like maybe a monkey’s paw. It could’ve been.’
‘It wasn’t a monkey’s paw, George.’
‘But it could’ve been. It looked like a hand, but it could’ve been something else.’
‘Oh, I see. Right. So you’re saying that I thought I saw a horse, but it could’ve been a . . . a . . .’ Midge sought for a word, ‘a hatstand.’ George laughed at that. He thought that was quite funny. Midge didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
They walked slowly back to the tree house and George asked Midge if she knew how to cook scrambled eggs. The jackdaws were quieter now. Perched upon the TV aerial, they surveyed the farmyard with eyes that seldom blinked.
Chapter Nineteen
‘FLYING FISH,’ SPOKE Tingel, pausing to look at the expectant faces before him, ‘are frequently to be seen in southern waters, and are capable of flying considerable distances – a quarter of a mole or more’ – he hesitated – ‘no, that cannot be . . . ah, comprend, a quarter of a mile or more, without touching the water. They can be caught in nets, while in flight.’ He kept his finger on the place in the Cyclopaedia, and allowed the full effect of his words to sink in. A buzz of excitement ran round the candlelit room. Flying fish! So it was true – there were such things!
‘Is this not news of some import, my friends? Once again we turn to the almanacs, and so we come to truth. If only we will seek hard enough, and long enough, then all is delivered to us. Flying fish – I have them here beneath my finger! Flying fishes! Now, did not she who gave us voices sing to us of such creatures? And did not she who taught us our letters give us the power to discover the knowledge of all such things for ourselves?’
Tingel closed the Cyclopaedia, lowered it gently to the table and placed his hand upon it.
‘These gifts,’ he said, indicating the almanacs, ‘were bestowed upon us long ago, not by chance, but by providence, I believe.’ The old Tinkler’s eyes were shining with delight and enthusiasm. Little-Marten leaned forward, holding on to the rim of the long bench.
‘Do you see how we learn?’ continued Tingel. ‘Hardly a day goes by without some fresh revelation to astonish us. What may we not know, come tomorrow? And all of it from here – from the almanacs.’ He spread his arms and beamed at his audience. ‘Of Bread, To Make, we learned, from the Cyclopaedia. And of Jam, Blackberry, we learned – from the Cyclopaedia – and how precious this knowledge has been to us, these last few winters. Of The Dove-Tail, and all the cunning secrets of Joinery, we learned from The Home Workshop, aye, and much of Metalcraft also. Of songs, and verses, and fables we learned – and what comfort they bring. Are we not the most fortunate of forest-dwellers, to have been given so much?
And there are more boons to come, of that I am certain. The Campfire Songs we all know by heart – yet only understand in part. We have learned what a boat is, but as yet we have no clear notion of what a sky-boat is, or whether it may truly speed, like a bird, over the sea to sky. And we have no notion at all of what Matilda may be, or how it may be Waltzed – but we ma
y learn.
‘Flying fish were, but yesterday, seeming words of fancy. Today, we learn that such things are truly so. Is that not wonderful? If fish may fly, then, surely, all things are possible. And all things are possible, through knowledge and belief. For knowledge and belief are the steps upon which we climb – away from fancy, towards truth.
‘So we shall climb, my friends, even up to Elysse – itself no mere word of fancy – upon those steps of knowledge and belief. I marvel at how much we learn. What may we not discover? What may we not do?’
Tingel stepped back from the high board, and Little-Marten nearly jumped out of his skin as all about him made a sudden and loud clattering noise by smacking their hands together. He’d never seen or heard such a thing. Should he do the same? He clapped his palms, experimentally, one upon the other. A good sound it made – a bit like the clavensticks. He applied himself with enthusiasm and fell into a pattern – part of Queen’s Herald – but then faltered, in confusion, when he realized that everyone else had ceased. He sat on his offending hands, mortified.
Tingel had hobbled back to his seat, and Tadgemole stepped forward once more.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘a worthy discovery, Tingel, and a credit to the long hours of labour which I know you devote to your letters. Flying fishes. Remarkable. Now, who will come and sing? One of you youngsters, perhaps? Come, our guest has arrived on his very hands and knees for the privilege of listening.’
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