The Various

by Steve Augarde

  George said, ‘Here, let me see if I can throw them a line.’

  Midge put the bows and arrows down and handed the binder twine to George – feeling that while she would have been just as capable of throwing a line as he, she would rather not be attached by a bit of string to the likes of Benzo if she could avoid it.

  It took a minute or two to unravel the twine and rewind it into a loose coil. Then George shouted, ‘Hoy, see if you can grab hold of this!’ and slung the coil out over the lagoon. It wasn’t a bad throw, landing as it did within reach of the tangle of limbs that thrashed around in the ooze – and frantic hands instantly battled with each other to grasp the twine. Shouts and spluttered curses rang out on the still morning air, each of the archers prepared to trample the others into a horrible grave if only their own wretched skin could be saved.

  ‘This is no good,’ gasped George, unable to make headway, and he shouted, ‘One at a time! Take it in turns!’ He might as well have tried to get a pack of starving jackals to form an orderly queuing system. The struggle deepened, with more murderous curses, and it was apparent that none would give up whatever hold they had on the lifeline.

  ‘Benzo! Leave go of it. And you, Flitch! Let it be, if you value your hides. Leave go, the pair of ’ee!’ Maglin had walked quietly forward and appeared as if by magic among the group – standing next to Grissel (who jumped sideways in surprise) and giving orders in his familiar rough bark. He looked up at George, who was staring at him in amazement, and said, ‘Now, young’un, haul away, and see what ’ee do fish out o’ there.’

  Katie had hesitantly turned the WaterBlaster in the direction of the newcomer, but Midge touched her on the arm and shook her head.

  ‘It’s their leader,’ she said, quietly, ‘Maglin. Don’t know where he’s come from though.’ She glanced around, and her eyes widened as she saw Pegs, standing motionless, half-hidden among the tall thistles by the stable wall. He was obviously in no hurry to make himself known, so Midge just gave him a smile – pleased that he had come – and turned back to face the lagoon once more.

  Maglin was indeed their leader, and it was evidence of his authority that Benzo and Flitch immediately let go of the binder twine, thus allowing Dregg to be first out of the mire. It proved heavy going, however, and Midge had to help George after all, wrapping the twine around her hands and heaving on a count of three. Bit by bit, and with many squelching and sucking noises, Dregg was hauled from the black ooze. On reaching firmer ground, the wretched little being struggled to his knees and tried to rise, but Maglin stepped forward and pushed against him with his foot, growling, ‘Stay down,’ so Dregg slumped into a miserable and smelly heap at the edge of the lagoon.

  Flitch and Benzo were dragged from the pit in a similar fashion, until at last the noisome trio were sprawling, covered from head to toe in ancient manure, on more or less dry land. Maglin looked at them in disgust, and then spoke to Midge, resting the butt of his spear on the ground and standing before her, square on.

  ‘So then, maid, we’m face to face once more – and the sooner than I should have liked. What shall we say of this? Here’s half my company near drownded in muck, others bound in thy power, and one,’ he looked accusingly at Grissel, ‘ready to do thy bidding, it seems. And what that hemmed Woodpecker and Tadgemole’s maid be doing here’s a puzzlement beyond my ravelling. Perhaps thee’d care to make a beginning, then – for I be all ears.’

  ‘Oh!’ Katie gasped. She had just seen the white horse. All eyes followed the direction of her astonished gaze, and Pegs, seeing himself to be discovered, stepped into the open, gracefully picking his way among the tall clumps of dock and thistle – a thing of shining and unutterable beauty against the ugly contrast of scrub and weed. He tossed his head as he approached, the sunlight catching on his long silver mane and the white velvety folds of his wings. Midge glanced at George and Katie, who stood open-mouthed in wonder, and she thought her heart would burst with pride as the magical creature walked slowly up to her and nuzzled her hand.

  ‘Hallo, Pegs,’ she whispered, ‘how are you?’

  She had expected that her friend might reply – that the word-colours might enter her consciousness and of those about her, so that her cousins might see how truly extraordinary the animal was – but Pegs just whinnied softly and looked about him. He doesn’t want them to know, thought Midge, and somehow this pleased her too.

  Maglin looked at Pegs, and also understood. He would be careful.

  ‘Come, maid,’ he said, gruffly, ‘I be listening.’

  ‘I don’t know what’s going on,’ said Midge, turning away from Pegs towards Maglin once more. ‘Honestly. They broke in,’ she pointed at Scurl, ‘him, and all the rest of them. They want something, some metal thing, a . . . a touchstone? Something to do with a touchstone? I don’t know what it is. I haven’t got it. Henty gave me a little bowl, but that’s all. And they’ve been trying to kill us – shooting at us . . .’

  ‘ ’Tis a lie!’ broke in Scurl. ‘Don’t ’ee believe her, Maglin. She lies, as all the Gorji do lie. We were but hunting, trying our luck on Gorji land as do the Wisp. Trying to bring a bit o’ good to our hungry tribespeople. ’Twas no more ’n that! Trapped and tricked, we’ve been, by these hemmed giants, till we’m near run to death. ‘Tis right good to see thee, General, and now I hopes we can all return safe to our own.’

  Maglin turned on Scurl and said, ‘Don’t speak to me, captain, for I ain’t begun with thee yet. Nor thee, Benzo, nor any of ’ee. And when I do, thee s’ll know it – for ’twill be look out all! Here’s trouble this day as shall lay heavy on thy broken heads for many a moon to come – I can promise ’ee that.’ The irate Ickri leader looked thoughtfully at Grissel. ‘Now, what be your tale, I wonder, to turn you against your own? For that’s as ’twould seem, that you be with the Gorji in this. Speak.’

  ‘What the maid says is true,’ said Grissel, quietly. ‘We did come here – not to hunt, as Scurl claims – but to find some precious thing, some part o’ the Touchstone that Benzo heard ’ee talking ’bout . . .’

  ‘Lickspittle!’ roared Scurl. ‘Turncoat! What bist fooling at, Grissel?’

  Maglin brandished his spear at Scurl. ‘Be silent! If I find an open mouth on ’ee again, then you’ll find this sticking out of it! The Touchstone,’ he said to Grissel, ‘What do ’ee know of it?’

  ‘Only that there be some part o’ it gone – stolen by the Gorji maid, ’cording to Benzo – and that if we was to get it back then it might have some witchi-pocus that could be used to our good.’

  Maglin threw Pegs a puzzled glance as he continued to quiz Grissel. ‘Stolen by the Gorji maid?’ he said. ‘This Gorji maid, thought you?’

  ‘ ’Cording to Benzo – for he and Flitch saw her put some tinsy thing in her roundabout when she were leaving the forest.’

  ‘But that was just a little bowl!’ broke in Midge. ‘Henty gave it to me. I haven’t stolen anything.’

  Maglin thought that he began to see daylight. It was obvious that Scurl had somehow got wind of his conversation with Pegs about the missing part of the Touchstone – although he couldn’t see how, as yet. No matter. They must have heard mention that a Gorji maid had taken it – and assumed that it was Midge, rather than Celandine. Then they had seen Midge with some trinket that the Tinkler chi’ had given her . . .

  ‘This thing, this . . . bowl,’ he said to Midge. ‘Where is it?’

  Midge looked at George. ‘Did you pick it up?’ she said.

  ‘No,’ George looked puzzled, remembering. ‘I went back, but it had gone.’

  ‘I have it,’ Little-Marten spoke for the first time. He drew the metal bowl from his tunic, and Henty put her hands up to her mouth with relief. ‘I found it. I knew ’twere what Henty had come here for, so I took it – to give to her.’

  Maglin was becoming exasperated. ‘But if this Tinkler chi’ gave it to the Gorji maid, then why does she come here to take it back?’

  ‘ ’Tweren’t mine
to give,’ said Henty, timid now, as she spoke to the great Maglin – for the very first time in her life. She put a shy hand through Little-Marten’s arm for support – which he was very glad to give. ‘ ’Twas wrong. The cup were made by the Tinklers, for Celandine.’ She looked over at Midge. ‘I thought . . . I thought that she . . . I don’t know what I thought.’

  ‘But you came back here to get it,’ said Maglin. ‘So we all stand here for the sake of some trinket, a tinsy stoup . . .’ He snorted in annoyance, his anger growing again as he turned to Scurl. ‘And you would have done murder? For this?’

  ‘Never!’ cried Scurl. ‘There’s none harmed. ’Tis all Grissel’s lies! Turncoat!’

  ‘Aye!’ said Grissel. ‘A turncoat. And I would ever turn my coat, and my back, and my arms against any as would slay childer – be ’em Gorji or no. And slay them ’ee would have done – and tried to. I told ’ee I’d have no part of it, and I won’t.’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Midge. ‘Grissel tried to help us – he has helped us. But that one,’ she pointed to Scurl, ‘and all the others – they would have killed us all if they could. And this wasn’t the first time. He tried once before – Scurl did – to kill me and Little-Marten, when I was leaving the forest. It was only because of that . . . what was her name . . . that old woman . . .?’

  ‘Maven,’ said Little-Marten. ‘ ’Twas Maven as did for Tulgi – that’s how we got away. But Scurl vowed he’d kill us both – and have been like to ever since . . . that’s why I ran away . . . left the clavensticks . . .’

  ‘Enough,’ said Maglin, raising an arm in exasperation. ‘Enough! ’Tis plain enough, too. Scurl, if the Whipping Stone were here, I’d strap thy miserable carcass across it and keep ’ee there for a moon or more. But that stone be in the forest – and I can vow that you’ll never come to it. For you’ll never come to the forest no more, neither – not if ’ee wants to live. You’ll go from here now, and take this ragtag o’ yours with ’ee. That’s thee, Benzo, and thee, Flitch, and Snerk, and Dregg. Get away from me before I raddle the lot of ’ee on a skewer. Grissel, you may choose which way to turn thy coat – though I reckon you’ve made a choice already. Stay if you will. As for the rest – be out of my sight. You may travel to the Far Woods, or to the bottom of this Gorji muck-pit, for aught I care. You may take your chances where you will. But if I ever see thee at the tunnels of the Royal Forest again, I’ll shoot ’ee myself – and think it a good day’s hunting. Get away from here, and from me – now.’ And Maglin, white with quiet rage, watched as his former company, the West Wood archers, gathered up their bows and quivers and made to leave.

  A wretched sight they made – the three who had fallen in the lagoon looked as though they had been fashioned from muck rather than merely dipped in it – and the other two, Scurl and Snerk, were little better, soaked and bound as they were.

  Scurl, apparently humbled at last, said, ‘You’ll loose our bonds, Maglin, I hope.’ Maglin said nothing, but stepped behind Snerk and slashed through the binder twine with the sharp blade of his spear. Snerk stood rubbing his wrists, and watched as Maglin cut through Scurl’s bonds in a similar fashion.

  Scurl stared coldly at Midge as Maglin sliced through the binder twine. His eyes seemed to glaze over for a moment, and Midge began to quail – she had seen that look before. The moment passed, however. Scurl had too strong a sense of self-preservation to try anything foolish.

  Benzo had other, wilder, ideas. Seeing his leader stand free, he snatched an arrow from his quiver and drew back his bow, yelling, ‘Arms! Scurl – we have them – to arms!’ and in the same instant let fly directly at Midge. It all happened so quickly, and in such an unforeseen manner, that none were prepared for it; none save Pegs.

  Pegs didn’t see the arrow. He didn’t even see Benzo draw back the bow – yet some wild intuition made him lurch towards the girl rather than Maglin, a wing beginning to extend in a sheltering, protective movement. He felt the sharp pain of the arrow penetrating the still folded membranes of his wing – and then gladness with that pain, conscious that the maid was unharmed by the attempt on her life. He turned to face the attacker, and was in time to see Benzo drop like a stone, crumpling in a heap beside the lagoon, his slurry-strewn limbs skewed awkwardly among the tufts of reedy vegetation, his bow lying beneath him.

  Nobody had moved. Maglin’s spear was still in his hand, Grissel’s bow still pointed downwards, George and Katie had barely begun to react. All simply stared at the motionless body of Benzo.

  To most of those present, the moment of realization was not long in dawning. This had happened before. This had been the fate of Tulgi. They turned their eyes in wonderment towards the stable block – the only possible cover in that open space – and knew. She was in there, somewhere, or had been. Now she might be anywhere, watching, waiting – unfathomable, vengeful, following some path known only to herself. Maven.

  They muttered her name, those who first guessed – and they spoke it as a physician might diagnose the cause of death. Maven. Only Katie was totally mystified – for even George had heard the name before. Katie stared at the body of Benzo, wanting to look away, but scarcely able to.

  ‘Maven?’ she whispered to George. ‘What’s Maven?’

  Scurl wasted no words on this occasion. He was beaten – beaten and banished. He roared no threats, spat no curses, made no murderous vows. Resting the end of his bow on the ground for a moment, he bent it slightly against his knee and unstrung it. Then he began to walk away, across the open field, in the direction of the Far Woods. The dismal figures of Snerk, Flitch and Dregg watched him for a few seconds, and then they made as if to leave also – but Maglin hadn’t quite finished with them yet. He said nothing, but simply caught their eye and pointed to the motionless body of Benzo. The merest flick of Maglin’s finger indicated to the miserable threesome that they were to take their erstwhile companion with them, and this they did – with a struggle – half carrying, half hauling the body between them as they stumbled along in the wake of Scurl. A wretched and bedraggled group they made, living scarecrows on the bright summer landscape.

  Midge hardly gave their departure a second glance. Her concern was all for Pegs, who had silently borne his pain for her, and whose instinctively protective reaction had saved her life. The arrow had done little real damage, having pierced a fold in the outer edge of the wing membrane, and then dropped away to the ground, its force spent. Pegs had survived much worse – his still-healing wounds from the raking machine had been far more serious. Midge stood beside him, crouching slightly as she gently unfolded the wing, feeling again the now familiar soft texture of the velvety skin between the quill-like bones. There was a double wound where the arrow had gone through the folded membrane – but there was very little blood.

  ‘I think you’ll live,’ whispered Midge, ‘which is more than I would have done, if you hadn’t been so quick. Dear Pegs. It’s OK – don’t say anything, but listen to me for a minute. I have some news: I don’t think anything is going to happen to the woods – not for a while, anyway. Certainly not for a few months – moons. I’ll find out more about it, and then come and see you very soon, OK? Tomorrow – I’ll come to the gully tomorrow. Soon as I know more. But in the meantime, don’t worry. You’re safe there for a while longer.’

  Pegs nuzzled briefly against her, relief and understanding in his dark eyes. Midge tenderly folded the wing again, and stood up. She looked towards the stable block once more, wondering about Maven, and why this mysterious person, whom she had never seen, was so concerned for her welfare . . . Twice, now, had vengeance been brought down on the heads of her would-be attackers. Why? Who was Maven?

  Maglin was anxious to leave, now that the crisis was over. He was getting fidgety, and impatient. He glanced up at the sun, riding high in the morning sky.

  ‘Come, my brave friend,’ he said to Pegs. ‘Can ’ee walk? ’Tis best we were gone, then. We’ve gotten what we want – and left some of what we don’t.’ He looked up
at the faces of the three children, his dark serious eyes resting finally on Midge.

  ‘You’re caught up here in things which never concerned ’ee, maid, as we be caught up in those which don’t concern us. And a sorry business it is – for now we be at the mercy of the Gorji at long last. The Various must look to thee and thine to keep a still tongue, till we can find our path. ’Tain’t over yet – and I doubt that this is the last time we shall meet. Though you’ll not see me, or any one of us, on Gorji land again – I can promise ’ee that.’

  The Ickri General then looked around at his diminished company and led off across the Field of Thistles towards the Royal Forest. Pegs and Grissel followed. The white horse turned once to look at Midge, the soft eyes holding hers for a moment. Henty and Little-Marten walked a few paces behind, and, when all backs were turned, they moved closer together and held hands.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  THEY SAT AT the cream-painted kitchen table, and Katie slumped forward dramatically, putting her head down onto her arms.

  ‘I’ll never, ever, ever say that this place is boring again,’ she murmured, her voice muffled by the crook of her elbow. She rested her chin on her arm and looked in wonderment at Midge. ‘How long have you known?’ she said.

  ‘Since about . . . three days after I got here,’ said Midge. ‘I found the white horse, up in that old pig barn on the hill . . .’ She told her story, briefly, once more – and felt glad that this time she didn’t have to make it sound convincing. It was simply the truth.

  They talked long past lunchtime and into the afternoon, Katie telling how she had come back into the house – once she had seen the Ickri leave in pursuit of Midge – and remembered the water cannon propped against the landing banister, filled it at the kitchen tap, carried it up the flight of hamstone steps on the outer wall of the cider barn – and very nearly dropped the thing as she yanked open the apple-loft door.