The Various

by Steve Augarde

  The felix backed slowly into a crouch, flexing its front claws in a strange mesmerizing shuffle, gaining purchase on the pitted texture of the flagstones, judging the effort required. Here was another invasion of his territory. Here was another lesson to be taught.

  As his shoulder muscles rippled and the pitch of that terrifying wail began to rise, a shadow briefly flickered across the doorway. Then flickered again. Tojo turned round, distracted, delaying his spring for a few moments – then hissed, a thick steam-valve sound, as another invader came running into the barn, flapped its wings, and rose over his head to land high up on the ladder. In a few seconds the newcomer had reached the loft and there were now two of them up there.

  Little-Marten, creeping round the stables, had heard Henty’s scream and run to the door of the cider house. Hearing Tojo, and seeing how things lay, he had skipped a few paces back into the yard, taken a good run up and very nearly reached the top of the ladder in one go. Now he stood at the edge of the apple-loft, staring down at Tojo. Henty, still in a trance almost, looked wildly at Little-Marten – open-mouthed, speechless.

  Tojo, momentarily wrong-footed, had recovered and now began his ritual again, the eerie guttural sound from his throat, low at first, rising to that chainsaw-howl as his muscles tensed for the spring.

  Little-Marten cast frantically round for likely weapons. There wasn’t much to choose from, but instead of waiting for Tojo to dictate proceedings, he picked up the big stone jar and heaved it down onto the floor below. The jar landed with a great crash, and Tojo leapt sideways, dodging the flying pieces of stoneware and screeching with surprise. It didn’t stop him, though. Dispensing with any further rituals or formalities, Tojo sprang at the ladder and began to scale it, his great limbs easily spanning the fixed wooden rungs and his open jaws spitting with fury. Little-Marten was ready with a glass bottle which he flung at the beast, but which missed – to his horror, for now the thing would surely be upon them. But then a second bottle, appearing from nowhere, caught the animal a solid blow across the neck, and the cat was unbalanced – clinging for a moment to one of the uprights and dropping to the floor again.

  Henty stood waiting with a third – and last – bottle, her face alive now with concentration and her eyes bright and fiery. The Woodpecker and the Tinkler maid glanced at each other and knew that they were in this – and perhaps all else that might follow – together.

  ‘You be a better marksman than I,’ said Little-Marten, and grabbed the heavy wooden rake.

  The great felix paced the floor below, lashing its tail, eyes fixed on the pair, moaning low its utter hatred, prophesying – vowing – that vengeance would come. Boiling oil might have held him back but empty bottles never would. There came another yowling attack, and this time, Little-Marten, kneeling at the edge of the platform, managed to manoeuvre the big apple rake down the ladder so that the broad head blocked the animal’s progress. He jabbed at Tojo as the huge creature attempted to slash his way past the wooden teeth that blocked his ascent. Once more, Henty managed to strike her target, the third bottle catching Tojo in the ribs before smashing on the floor below – but this time the cat clung on, sensing, as one laying siege to a castle might, that the defenders had flung all they had to fling – and that it would not be enough.

  Little-Marten could not hold the monster back much longer, and he knew it. The cat had grown wily, even in the blind heat of its rage, and was beginning to wriggle under the rake, rather than try to get around it or over it.

  ‘Jump!’ he yelled to Henty. ‘Go on! Hang to the edge and drop down – ’tain’t that far! Run!’

  But Henty ignored him, gathering up whatever bits of rubbish she could find and continuing to hurl them at the struggling felix.

  ‘I ain’t going,’ she shouted at him. ‘Not without you, I ain’t.’

  It was almost over. The mighty Tojo had managed to get his head and one foreleg beneath the rake and was now pushing his broad shoulders upwards. Little-Marten could feel the rake being lifted, raised against his straining muscles by a power far beyond him to control. He felt also, suddenly, Henty’s arm through his as she knelt beside him – and was glad that he had not been too late. The jaws of Tojo came spitting closer, unstoppable, merciless, howling triumph—

  – and then froze, with a slight choking shudder, into a ghastly and silent mask. Everything – the whole world – seemed to have come to a halt. The death mask of Tojo glared at them, the great orange eyes filled with one driving, hell-bent purpose, to rend them apart. All the fury was there, captured forever, but – unbelievably – there was no longer any sound.

  Henty and Little-Marten stared in wonder at the arrow, deeply buried in the dark fur, the slim pale shaft that had brought so mighty a beast to so sudden an end. The Woodpecker saw the black-and-white flights – neatly trimmed magpie feathers – tied, unmistakably, by his father’s hand . . .

  And Grissel, stepping out from the shadows, watched the felix slide from the ladder to slump lifeless among the broken glass that littered the ground, and felt that he had done right, and was on the side of what was right for the first time in a long time. He rested the end of his bow on the ground and turned, calmly, to look at the Gorji child who stood, gasping for breath, in the doorway.

  There was no escape – there never had been – and even as Midge stumbled, panting, into the strange apple-scented gloom of the cider barn, she could hear the dry flapping of her pursuers’ wings and their skittering footsteps as they landed just outside. She just had time to catch a glimpse of Tojo, silent now and lying dead upon the floor, and the small shocked faces of Henty and Little-Marten at the top of the ladder as Scurl and Snerk blocked the doorway behind her.

  There was no escape, but she felt more angry than frightened – now that the chase was over – angry and utterly confused. How could this be happening to her, and what was it that everyone wanted? What were Little-Marten and Henty doing here? Why were any of them here?

  Midge stood and faced Scurl, standing in the doorway, with his silly bow and arrow. She felt like walking over to him and giving him a kick.

  ‘What is it you want, you . . . you little twerp? Why don’t you just go away and leave me alone? I’ve never done anything to you.’

  Scurl didn’t reply. He was looking around the barn, sizing up the situation. He wondered at the presence of the Woodpecker and the Tinkler maid, but they posed no threat to him. The great felix most certainly would have been a threat – except that it now lay dead, killed, apparently, by an archer. It was only then that he saw Grissel, standing by the wall, in the shadow of a cider barrel. Scurl nodded, understanding now, and believed himself to be in as strong a position as he could wish for. There would be no more mistakes – or escapes.

  ‘Zummat that ain’t yourn, as I told ’ee before,’ he replied at last, returning his attention to Midge. ‘Zummat as you took from the forest, that’s what I do want. And I be about done wi’ you and your slippery ways, maidy.’ He drew back his bow. ‘Either you knows, and you’ll tell I, or you don’t and you won’t, in which case ’tis all up with ’ee. Now – do ’ee want to run about on thy hind legs a little longer, or do ‘ee want a good long rest, like that gurt felix over there? ’Tis all one to I.’

  The reference to Tojo struck home. If a fearsome creature, a life force as powerful as Tojo could be brought down by one small arrow, then anything – anyone – could. Midge blanched at this realization, and her bravado disappeared. She was a helpless child once more, completely at the mercy of these murderous beings.

  ‘I’ll have no part o’ this.’ It was Grissel who quietly spoke, from his position by the wall. Midge and Scurl both turned to look at him in surprise – Midge at the presence of yet another woodlander, and Scurl at the heresy of his words.

  ‘What’s this?’ said Scurl, in disbelief. ‘Bist soft in the head, Grissel? You’ll have no part o’ this? Well then, thee s’ll have it all. ’Twas thee as shot the felix, and ’twill be thee as shoots this gia
nt.’ And he turned his arrow in the direction of Grissel.

  ‘I’ll not do it,’ said Grissel, his bow still resting on the ground. ‘And I’ll not stand by and see it done, neither. For giant or no giant – Gorji or no Gorji – this be but a maid, Scurl. I were in the dwelling when ’ee quizzed her and I be here now – and I don’t believe she have a notion of what thee be looking for. Not a notion. And what bist looking for anyhow? A bit o’ tinsy metal. Some part o’ the Touchstone. Some witchi thing as Benzo heard Pegs talking of. Well who’s to say that the Touchstone is aught but a bit o’ red rock? ’Tis but a tale. And now ’ee would see murder done, just for that?’

  ‘Not just for that!’ roared Scurl, his temper beginning to boil. ‘ ’Ave ’ee forgotten about Tulgi? And how the mad hag killed ’un for the sake of this Gorji? Aye, and for the sake o’ that fletcher’s ratling!’ And Scurl pointed up at Little-Marten, still standing with Henty on the edge of the apple loft.

  ‘Tulgi!’ snorted Grissel. ‘You cared no more for Tulgi than if he were a squirrel – less, I reckon, for a squirrel would make prettier eating.’

  ‘I cared more for Tulgi than if he were a Gorji, that I do know,’ said Scurl, ‘And you may make your own choices, master. Do it or no – ’tis all one to I.’ He spoke coldly and calmly now, glancing briefly at Snerk to assure himself that there was no danger of revolt from that direction as he drew his bow back to the full. Scurl’s arrow pointed directly at Grissel, and his eyes became distant and glazed, as was his habit when moving in for the kill.

  He was the last to notice that something was happening up in the apple loft.

  There was a loud scraping and a shudder of rotting timber as the ancient door to the loft was dragged open, and light – the blinding sunshine of early morning – flooded in to the upper reaches of the dusty barn, bathing the grey cobwebbed roof timbers in golden fire.

  A tall figure dressed in gleaming white, and carrying some great low-slung object, moved into the dazzling shaft of sunlight, an awesome being – a very angel of vengeance it seemed to those who witnessed it.

  Henty and Little-Marten fell back on to the boards in terror, pushing themselves away on their hands and heels, as the shining figure stepped majestically to the front of the high loft, to gaze down upon those beneath. Scurl had barely recovered his senses enough to redirect his aim towards this new peril before a powerful jet of water caught him square in the chest, sending him spinning in confusion to the floor. Another deluge hit the open-mouthed face of Snerk, leaving him, in an instant, half drowned and gasping for his very life. He dropped to his knees, racked with fits of coughing and spluttering. The vision in white turned towards the stunned figure of Grissel, but Midge stepped forward and waved her hands. ‘Not that one, Katie! Not that one!’

  The awesome being then looked uncertainly at the cowering bodies of Little-Marten and Henty, but once again Midge shouted up, ‘No, not them either! They’re OK.’ Katie lowered the huge plastic water cannon, George’s WaterBlaster, but continued to keep a wary eye on Scurl and Snerk.

  ‘Get their stupid bows and arrows,’ she said to Midge. ‘I’m coming down.’

  A pitiful enough sight the would-be giant killers made, drenched to the bone and under threat of more of the same as they crouched in the corner by the front door of the cider house. Katie stood guard over the pair as Midge tried to untangle a mess of binder twine, and the elder girl couldn’t resist giving the occasional warning squirt from the powerful cannon – splattering the wall to either side of Scurl and Snerk, as a warning to stay put, working the pump action in a practised and professional manner, and generally cutting a thoroughly imposing figure in her snow white denim jeans and jacket. She was enjoying herself, and appeared surprisingly unfazed – given the unreal nature of her situation.

  ‘Ugly little dorks, aren’t they?’ she said, and then added, ‘This thing is so cool – better than mine ever was. No wonder George would never swap.’

  Midge was less self-assured. She had managed to salvage a few lengths of binder twine, but now looked hesitantly at Scurl and Snerk, wondering how to go about the business of tying them up whilst maintaining a safe distance. Scurl sneered at her indecision.

  ‘Bist afeard I might bite thee tongue off?’ he said. ‘Well, zo I might. Why don’t ‘ee come closer and find out?’

  Katie gave him a short squirt with the gun, and Scurl reeled sideways. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said, and then added, to Midge, ‘Don’t you tie them up. Get him to do it.’ She looked at Grissel. ‘Hoy, you. Let’s see whose side you’re on, then. Tie their hands behind their backs.’

  Midge offered the strands of orange binder twine to Grissel, who waited for a moment, looking at Katie. He didn’t trust her – wasn’t at all sure that he might not end up pinned to the wall with the other two – but then took a length of the loosely twisted nylon rope and knelt on the wet ground beside his former companions.

  ‘I’ll sithee suffer for this,’ growled Scurl, baring his teeth in a snarl as Grissel – committed now – roughly pulled the Ickri captain’s dripping wet hands behind his back and bound them. ‘I’ll bring ’ee to sorrow, Grissel, I can promise ’ee that.’ And Scurl spat into the dirty puddle he was sitting in.

  George ran past the doorway, checked himself, and skipped back a few paces. He looked in wonderingly. ‘What’s going on – hey! – who said you could borrow my WaterBlaster, Katie?’

  Katie rolled her eyes. ‘Well, under the circumstances . . .’ she said, witheringly. George looked around and said, ‘Oh. Yeah. OK.’ He began to get a clearer idea of the situation and said, ‘Blimey! How many have you got in here? And what’s . . . is that Tojo? Who’re those two up there? And look at all this glass and stuff. It’s like there’s been a war in here or something.’

  ‘There has,’ said Katie. ‘We won.’

  Chapter Twenty-six

  PHOEBE, HAVING BEEN left to guard the struggling occupants of the lagoon, was becoming increasingly disenchanted with the whole business. She didn’t like the lagoon, for a start. It was obviously unsafe out there. She had crept cautiously around the outer rim, alternately barking at the strange intruders, and then looking worried as she felt the tremors of the less than solid surface beneath her paws.

  She had vague memories of other times – times when she had leapt into the rhynes to retrieve waterfowl, splashed and paddled across the flooded fields for whatever it was that needed fetching (‘Fetch, Phoebe! Fetch! Good girl!’) In recent years a quiet stroll on firmer ground – to the jolly place where they all made a fuss of her and fed her titbits – was more to her liking. Nowadays she might fetch a crisp, if it was thrown within reach, but little more. She certainly didn’t fancy trying to retrieve whatever it was that was squelching and shrieking and floundering about in the middle of the lagoon.

  There was a tree she knew of, a shady place, peaceful and not far away, where she could be happy. She gave a final woof, and padded off, half guiltily, towards the gate at the far end of the stables.

  Maglin’s eyes were not what they were, perhaps, but from the forest, he could still see sharply enough to track the distant speck of the black Gorji hound as it disappeared within the settlement once more. He sighed. This was against his judgement – and his will. It was madness indeed. He looked down through the branches at Pegs, who stood waiting on the hillside at the edge of the wood.

  ‘I be ready then, Pegs,’ he called down, resignedly, ‘though I never looked for this day, I’ll tell ’ee that.’ He spread his wings and dived out over the hillside, the bunch of feathers on his spear fluttering noisily as he picked up speed. The white horse took a few short steps, and then leapt forward, beating hard.

  Pegs landed at the back of the stables, and waited for Maglin – who came to earth rather heavily, cursing as he dropped his spear. They quickly moved closer to the shelter of the stable wall, glanced around warily, and then stood regarding the commotion going on in the centre of the lagoon. Maglin took a few deep breaths t
hrough his flared nostrils. He wasn’t used to such sustained exertion – moreover, he felt exposed and uncomfortable so far from his own territory, unconvinced, also, of the wisdom of this venture.

  ‘Hemmed fools,’ he muttered, looking at the struggling bodies in the lagoon – unrecognizable almost, so pitiable a state were they in. ‘Though no more so than we, I reckon. There ain’t a one of us has any business being here.’

  Perhaps. Although we may do good, even yet.

  ‘Well, we shan’t do they much good. There’ll be no easy way out o’ that lot. And I shan’t be going in after them, that I do know. Well, let ’em rot then – I care not – we’d be better to find what’s become of t’others. If I can get my own hide back to the forest safe, along with Tadgemole’s maid and the Woodpecker, then maybe ’twill have been worth the toil – though they may wish they’d drownded along with that band o’ cut-throats by the time I’ve finished with ’em. And as for Scurl – well he might reckon ’twould be better to cut his own throat, than let me get a hold of it.’

  They shrank back against the wall at that moment, for there was a sound of approaching voices.

  ‘There they are!’ A Gorji youth jumped over the fence at the barn end of the stables and walked over to the lagoon. He was followed by a strange procession of woodlanders and more of the Gorji.

  Scurl and Snerk, dripping wet, their hands bound behind their backs, stumbled through the docks and thistles, apparently under the direction of a tall Gorji maid, who bore some desperate-looking weapon. Grissel also, astonishingly, seemed to be assisting the Gorji in keeping his fellow archers under guard. Maglin recognized the second maid to appear: it was the girl, Midge. She followed, carrying bows and quivers and a skein of twine – brightly hued stuff – slung over her arm. Finally, the Woodpecker and the Tinkler maid – safe, it would seem, and unbound. This unlikely company gathered at the edge of the lagoon, their backs toward the stable wall – none had yet noticed Pegs and Maglin, all their attention being on the three dismal figures trapped in the stinking mire.