Melforger (The Melforger Chronicles) (3 page)

R
af sat up in his hidey-hole and yawned, rubbing his eyes groggily after taking a long, refreshing nap.

Better sleeping here than sleeping in Ottery’s class,
he mused.

He needed to get back, though. That evening, he was hoping to meet up with Cisco and Nedrick and go tracking. Apparently someone had seen a leopard a mile or so east towards Emborough, which was pretty rare.

Blinking sleepily, he started climbing down the hollow trunk, but then hoisted himself back up to get the stick he’d been whittling. It was there, lying in the same place he’d thrown it.

“Yup, that’s about the most rubbish carving I’ve ever seen. Orfea is way too pretty a name for you.”

He whipped his arm back and turned to toss the mangled stick out the window. But then he paused, his arm suspended in mid-air. Above where he had been sleeping, there was a thick net of branching vines and something was in the middle of the leafy mass. Something very out of place.

He stepped forward, staring in stunned silence. Poking out was a wooden pipe about two feet long with a flared end like a horn; only, it wasn’t haphazardly stuck in there, it was actually growing from the vine. A surge of dizziness rocked him as he realized that it was very similar – no,
identical
– to the instrument he had been thinking about carving when he had drifted off to sleep.

What? How …
He rubbed his temples.
Come on, what’s going on here?
That’s not possible...

Leaning forward, he grasped it and twisted it carefully. With barely a sound, the tiny green stalk at the end snapped. Raf could feel his heart throbbing in his chest as he gently held the pipe and felt the uncanny familiarity of its shape and weight. It fitted his hands perfectly. He lifted it to his mouth, his fingers slotting automatically into position and blew softly through it. The soft woody note sent goose-bumps storming over his body and, with a whimper he flung the pipe away. It bounced against the knotted bark and sailed out the window.

He turned away, slowly rubbing his hands over each other. “Right,” he whispered. “Right. Probably best to…. to go home.”

He scrambled towards the opening and almost threw himself down it in his eagerness to get out. Dropping the last few feet to the floor, he tore off down the path towards the village.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .

A few days later, a troop of marmosets escorted the wagon as it rolled along the path, its two passengers a picture of contrast. On the driver’s bench sat Fergus, his eyes continually scanning the trees around them, giving the occasional click of his tongue to keep the goats moving. At the back of the wagon, sitting sprawled against the wooden beams, was the miserable figure of Mr. Wesp, hair messy and eyes bloodshot. Every movement of the wagon made him flinch.

He squinted up into the bright, late-morning light and, giving Fergus a dark look, shuffled onto his side to lie down. Before closing his eyes though, he reached inside his coat to quaff from a mead bag. The wagon lurched over a particularly deep rut as he took a second gulp and a slop of liquid spilt down his tunic.

“Watch it!” he growled.

Fergus ignored him, absorbed in watching the foliage above them. There seemed to be even more birds since the storm from two days ago had passed, with every bush a flurry of multi-colored squawking and chirping. The marmosets were his favorite companions though, and he often daydreamed about joining them as they played high up in the trees.

Having got up early as usual that morning, Fergus had left the trader fast asleep and crawled all the way up an old knotted olive tree to the canopy above where a small troop of marmosets were grooming each other. They had eyed him warily at first, but soon accepted him and went about their morning activities, which mostly seemed to consist of chasing each other frantically from branch to branch. He had spent the first few hours of the day sitting happily with them, watching the colors of the sunrise light up the tree crowns in fiery waves. It was almost as if the whole incident with the hole hadn’t happened.

Over the creaks of the wagon, a new noise brought his attention back to the path. There was something in the distance: a regular knocking sound, like someone hammering.

“Whoaaa.” He pulled gently on the goats’ reins. Standing on tip-toes, he peered forward to where the noise was coming from.

“Why have you stopped? Are we there?” came a mumbling from the back of the wagon.

“I heard something, sir! A kind of knocking or something, I think.”

He heard the trader scrambling to his feet and then he was suddenly beside him, peering up the path. “Where?”

“Listen,” said Fergus. They stood there, still as statues for a few moments.

“I can’t hear anything.” Mr. Wesp turned away and then pointed at something on the seat next to Fergus. “And what’s that?”

“Those monkeys were playing with it this morning and dropped it, sir. I think it’s an instrum-”

“Of course it’s an instrument, you fool,” snapped the old man, snatching up the wooden pipe. “I’ll have that.”

Fergus slumped on the bench and scowled as he flicked the reins to get the goats moving again. The wagon shook as it took off and the trader moved back to stow the pipe in a large chest.

Fergus felt his lip trembling and sniffed as they made their way down the bumpy path. Why was he so
mean
all the time? He threw occasional angry looks back at the Mr. Wesp as they travelled. Eventually, mouth tightening more and more in irritation, the trader cursed and then darted forwards to grab hold of Fergus’ shoulder, yanking him around.

“Now listen here, you.”

Fergus tried to twist his head so he wasn’t directly in front of the trader’s foul breath, but he moved up close so that their faces were almost touching. “I’m getting a little bit sick of your atti…”

A faint knocking noise echoed again through the trees and the trader’s eyes suddenly seemed to sharpen. He snatched the reins out of Fergus’ hands and pulled on them to bring the wagon to a halt.

“Right. You listen to me, boy. This is my last chance to get some vinehoney and I will not have you interfering with so much at stake. I think it would be best if you didn’t say a single thing, you hear?”

Fergus tried to move away. “Y-yes, Mr. Wesp.”

“No talking to anyone, no playing with their filthy children. And most of all, don’t mention a single thing about the vinehoney, understand?”

“Yes, Mr. Wesp.”

“Are you sure I can trust you to do that? This could be the trip that gives me my well-earned retirement and I won’t have my contract ruined by you. You remember that little hole in the ground?” Fergus nodded. “Someone could have a serious accident there. So easy to fall in. Wouldn’t your poor aunt be sad...”

The trader stepped down into the back of the wagon and Fergus flicked the reins with shaking
hands, biting down on his bottom lip.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .

Raf moved back from the thick leaves in front of him, considering what he had just witnessed. While they did get visitors in these southern parts of the Forest, it was still quite startling to see foreigners come casually travelling down into Eirdale. Especially a bizarre little pair like those two. And what was all that about a hole?

He crawled back into the trunk and sat thinking for a bit. If the old man really was a trader, and that’s certainly what he must’ve been with that laden wagon, then this could be a lucky break for the villagers. Odd that this trader also seemed so anxious to get vinehoney. The last trader who had passed through Eirdale a few weeks’ back had only stopped here long enough to buy some vinehoney and a few supplies for his trip back before rushing off.

He got to his feet to leave but, for the hundredth time, the memory of what had happened with the pipe flickered into his thoughts. He moved next to the opening in the wall and squinted down at the path in frustration. After two days of scouring the bushes below the window it had flown out of, he’d never found the strange pipe. He was almost tempted to believe the whole thing had been a strange dream.

At the sounds of the wagon creaking away towards the village, he quickly tucked his knife in his belt and climbed down through the hollow trunk of the snag using the knotted bark for footholds.

The Eirdale commons was a large open area between some
Ancients
that served as the main location for most village meetings and events.
By the time he reached it, there was already a crowd by the wagon, burbling enthusiastically as the trader stood surveying the reception grandly in an elegant cloak. Raf looked across from the back of the crowd to the group of children who were being conducted by Madame Ottery as they sang through the
gretanayre
.

The duty often fell to the youngest school kids when visitors arrived, and Raf was quite relieved he didn’t have to sing anymore, being in his last year of school. A gaggle of kids screeching at visitors didn’t seem the best introduction to Eirdale. He cringed as he caught sight of his young brother, Rio, in the front row, belting out a harmony enthusiastically.

There was a disturbance on the other side of the crowd and they parted, still clapping and singing heartily, to reveal a stately procession. Raf stared in surprise as no less than the entire village Council came marching out to meet the trader.

This guy must be more important than I thought…

At the forefront was Eirdale’s barrel-chested Foreman, his massive strides making it hard for Raf’s mother, Leiana, to keep up. But she did, her legs pumping furiously and her shoulder-length mahogany hair, normally so immaculately groomed, bouncing erratically around her sharp eyes. Behind came the other Council members, Raf’s father Tarvil included, his hands loosely clasped behind his back, wearing his usual calm smile. They sang along with the crowd, and then halted at the front to let the Foreman approach the trader.

“Welcome to Eirdale,” he declared. Then, drawing a breath, he sang the
gretanayre
chorus in a rich and deep voice that sent notes booming out and echoing off the nearby trees.

Barely started, he was interrupted by the trader who held up his hand. “Please don’t feel obliged to sing on my behalf.”

“It is only proper to honor you with the song of greeting,” said the Foreman, and he gestured to the other Council members standing behind him to join in.

“There’s absolutely no need, really. I’ve heard enough music from you foresters already to last a lifetime of… happy memories.”

The Foreman looked taken aback. ”I… I’m sure you understand it is our way. We would not want
to disrespect you by not -”

“No disrespect, Foreman, none whatsoever.”

“Only, we don’t receive many visitors here in the south and the opportunity to share -”

“- will surely come up many times in the future,” finished the trader. “But for now, I have travelled far and if you have some accommodation where I could clean and refresh myself, then perhaps you might be interested in some trading? I must leave early tomorrow morning to get back to Miern where I am awaited by the Gerent, you see. Little enough time to conduct trading as it is; so if you don’t mind declining what I’m sure you’ll agree is a tedious ritual…”

“We will at least put on a banquet tonight in your honor.”

“I’m not quite sure -”

“Nonsense,” said the Foreman. “I imagine Miern is a noisy nightmare these days and the voyage down the Pass must have been grueling, so we will treat you to a feast and some entertainment before you return - and
before
we conduct any trading. I insist,” the Foreman lifted his chin slightly, “Mr.…?”

“Err… Wesp,” the trader replied, before swirling his cloak around his shoulders. “My name is Wesp Tunrhak, Miern’s most reputable trader. And personal friend of the Gerent himself.”

“Of course you are, Mr. Tunrhak, and it is a delight to have such important company in our midst. We are simple rural folk, but will do our best to leave you with an enduring impression of our lovely village for when you return to Miern.” The Foreman nodded at Raf’s younger brother. “Rio here will show you to the guest quarters down by the school enclosure. I hope you find them comfortable.”

Wesp grunted and spun on his heels, his cloak billowing outwards.  “They will probably do.”

R
af stood idly as the wagon rolled down the path, the excited burbling of the villagers washing over him. From behind, there came the sound of footsteps, and he turned to see his father approaching. Tarvil sat down and rubbed his eyes.

“Tired?” asked Raf.

“Exhausted. We’ve been at it non-stop for days now. It’d be the first time that there hasn’t been a Festival. As unlikely as it seems, this trader may be our last chance to make enough money to finance it.” He sighed. “Funny thing really. It used to be about the music when I was your age. All you needed were a few people with instruments, and the rest took care of itself.”