Celandine (45 page)

Then he was turning away from her empty arms and creeping out into the open, silently making his way towards the stream.

He didn’t get more than a dozen paces. Celandine saw his shadowy little figure hop onto the big flat rock near the tunnel entrance and, even as he steadied himself, he was caught.

‘Bide there!’

It was Corben, suddenly appeared from the darkness, and standing on the opposite bank of the stream. He had a bow and arrow.

From the wicker tunnel, three more archers hurriedly emerged.

Corben turned, and growled at the guards. ‘Were
thee
asleep
? What be this capering nary-wit doing here?’

‘We didn’t see ’un.’ One of the guards spoke.

‘Did ye not? Then ye see him now. Bring him to me.’

Don’t hurt him, don’t hurt him, don’t hurt him
. Celandine was on the verge of showing herself, of giving herself up.

Two of the guards collared Fin and dragged him onto the opposite bank, to stand him before Corben.

‘Speak then – if thee can. What business do thee have here?’

‘Ah – ah – ah . . .’ Fin was trying to wriggle free, beginning to panic.

‘Hold still, thee mad little coney! Have ’ee seen the giant – the Gorji?’

‘Gorji is
get
you! Is
get
you! Ah – ah.’

‘Have ’ee
seen
her?’

‘
I
all right . . . ah – ah – ah . . . Shhh!’

‘Ach! There’s not scrap o’ sense to him. Get the mazy young fool away from me.’

Celandine watched as the guards hauled Fin a short distance along the bank of the stream and sent him on his way with a parting kick. She saw him scamper off, apparently unhurt. He turned once, a last sly little grin in her direction,
ah – ah – ah
, and then he faded into the night and out of her life.

‘Thee’ve seen nothing, then?’ Corben sounded angry, frustrated.

‘Nary a twitch. She’ve not come this way.’

‘She will, though – for there
be
no other way. And
the
beaters shall drive her here soon enough.’ Corben was looking directly towards the bush where Celandine was hiding, his bow at the ready. Celandine held her breath and tried to crouch a little lower. Had he seen her? Corben moved sideways a little, as though trying to get a better view – but then a loud splash came from the stream behind him.
Ba-loosh!
Corben spun round, pointing his bow at the water, moved a couple of paces towards the source of the noise. Nothing there.

‘But what if she got here afore we? She might a’ready be gone.’ The low voice of one of the archers.

Corben looked about him once more, before replying.

‘No. She’d not be quick enough. We were straight here. But if she
were
gone, Dunch, then I should send ’ee after her.’

‘Would ’ee? Well I shouldn’t go, then.’

Corben turned on Dunch – amazed at this sudden show of disobedience.

‘What’s this? Thee’ll do as I say,
General
.’

‘I’ll not, though, and I’ll tell ’ee straight. We’m safe here – for the fust time I’ve ever knowed. Aye, as safe from the Gorji as we s’ll ever be. I’ll not set my foot among ogres again – and nor will any here, I reckons. Thee may keep the
Orbis
, if ’ee find it. Much good may it do ’ee. But I be a sight too seasoned for any more o’ travelling. I be done wi’ it, and shall bide my days here, thank ’ee. I’ll help ’ee find this giant, if she be here – aye, and put an arrow through her, gladly. But if she be gone from here, then she be gone.
I
ain’t a-going back out there among the Gorji to look for her.’

‘Do thee say so? And what if she comes back with a tribe of her own kind – a tribe of giants to hunt us down? What do thee say then?’ Corben was losing his temper.

‘That we s’ll be no wuss off than ever we were . . .’ Another of the guards spoke, now. ‘And anywise, we reckon her to still be in here. We s’ll bring her down yet. All we say is,
if
 . . .’

‘We?
We?
Be all of thee in this, then . . .?

Celandine began to quietly back away. Whilst Corben and the guards were arguing, she at least had a chance of avoiding immediate discovery. Gently, she inched herself further from the scene at the wicker tunnel, keeping as close to the border of the forest as the tangle of brambles and briars would allow. Finally she was hidden from view, and was able to turn and weave her way through the undergrowth beneath the trees until she had put a safer distance between herself and the Ickri.

But now what should she do? She was at the very edge of the forest, so close to the outside world, and yet without a chance of breaking through that impossible barrier. The tall sycamores, some of which overhung the wall of brambles, mocked her. She could never climb up to those high spreading branches. It was hopeless.

And what was that? Celandine stood still and listened.
Tap-tap . . . tap-tap
 . . .

The sound came from the clearing above, but now . . . yes . . .
now
she could hear it to the side of her also.
They
were coming through the woods, along the inner edge of the wall of briars. Corben and his archers were to the right of her, and from above and to the left of her the beaters were closing in. There was nowhere else for her to hide. She might crouch among the undergrowth for a while longer, but soon they would arrive, beating with their sticks, to drive her like a pheasant towards Corben and the Ickri archers.

It was over. All over. They were sure to find her in the end.

Celandine sank to her knees, defeated at last, and closed her eyes.
Our Father, which art . . . which art
 . . .

No. Too many other thoughts were crowding her brain to be able to pray properly – pictures and visions that sprang into her head, unbidden. Tobyjug . . . why did she suddenly see him, trotting happily through the paddock on his leading rein? And Young Wilfrid, driving the dung cart. Fin – dear Fin – staring down at her from the trees. Miss Bell . . . and Nina . . . Mary Swann. Why on earth would she think of Mary Swann?
Tap . . . tap-tap
 . . .

Her heart lurched with fear and her throat grew tighter. Beamer, the great shire horse, she saw, leading the team back into the stable-yard . . . William, the school porter . . . and Freddie . . . poor, poor Freddie . . . there he was, in his Christian outfit. Around her and around her they all paraded, an endless circus of faces, as the hot tears rolled down her cheeks and splashed upon her shaking hands.
Tap-tap . . . tap-tap
 . . .

‘Come.’

Celandine opened her eyes at the unfamiliar voice and gazed upon the moonlit figure that stood before her. Through starry tears she saw a wavering vision, a tree-spirit, a fantastic thing of leaves and vines, with wild hair that shone blue-green beneath the moon. Cascades of ivy fell about the hunched shoulders and the skinny fingers that extended themselves towards her were as green as willow twigs. The eyes she had seen before – yes, once before – peering at her from the hawthorn bushes below the caves. Reassurance they had given her then, and reassurance she took from them now. She was not afraid.

‘Celandine. Come.’ The voice was cracked, with age it seemed, but there was a beauty in it, a quiet confidence that held the approaching danger at bay.

No, she was not afraid. This creature meant her no harm, would never hurt her. Celandine raised her hand automatically, with no second thought, to touch the fingers that reached out to her – and a tiny spark of electricity sprang between the closing gap. It made her jump, but still it did not frighten her. Again Celandine stretched forth her hand, and this time she gently took the offered fingers between her own, so cool they felt and so healing. She rose to her feet.

‘Ye have the Touch, maid – as I did know when I saw thee first. Come, then. Follow.’

Celandine allowed herself to be led, even though she was being led towards the terrible sound of the oncoming beaters.
Tap-tap . . . tap-tap
. Towards her own death-rattle she walked, guided by this spirit of
the
woods, and found herself willing to go. Closer came the insistent tapping, and closer yet, but the hand in hers was calm and Celandine drew calm from it.

‘Here thee may climb.’

They had stopped at the foot of a spreading oak, one of the great trees that bordered the woodland. Climb? How? Moving around it, Celandine saw that the back of the trunk was damaged. There was a smell of scorched bark and moss. Then she remembered. This was the tree to have been first struck during the lightning storm – before the beech. She had seen it from above, when she had stood with Micas at the edge of Great Clearing.

Now she saw that the trunk had been partially split – a huge strip of splintered bark torn down almost to the undergrowth – and that she would be able to get a foothold here. She would be able to climb up and crawl along the stricken branch that dipped across the wall of brambles. She could escape. She really could . . .

The brambles tugged at her clothing as she pushed herself around to the back of the tree. She could just lift her foot high enough to wedge it into the split of the thick bark. Gripping onto a shard of splintered wood, Celandine hauled herself upwards, then again, until she was able to squeeze in to the vee where part of the massive branch had twisted away from the main trunk. She peered down at the ground. Her strange little saviour looked vulnerable now, humpbacked and frail, although there was a quickness of movement about that tiny frame that was unusual in one who appeared to be so old.

‘Who
are
you?’ Celandine said.

The ghostly face, so solemn and wise, studied her for a moment.

‘I be Maven-the-Green. Or so ’tis reckoned. Now go well, maid – and harken to me. Thee’m one wi’ a gift.’

The beating sticks were drawing horribly close.
Tap-tap . . . tap-tap
 . . .

‘A gift?’

‘Aye, the Touch. And ’tis a gift to be given – mark it well. But thee’ve another gift, and this must be hid, ’till better times than these. Thee shall know the day, when it comes. Help me, maid, as I help thee. Now away with ’ee.’

Celandine clambered up the angled split in the trunk until she reached the horizontal branch that extended out over the brambles. Down through the black woods came the sinister rattle of the sticks, and she was suddenly terrified that her white shirt and trousers would give her away at the last. She must be so visible up here. She risked a quick glance below. Maven-the-Green had gone.

Along the thick tree limb she crawled, trying to push aside the heavy foliage as quietly as she could. Finally she had reached a point where she could go no further – the leaves and branches were just too awkward for her to be able to get past. She lay on her tummy and fearfully looked down once more, to see how far she would have to drop. She could see a pale patch of moonlit earth below. An overwhelming certainty came over her – a feeling that blotted out all else for a moment. This was the tree where it had
all
begun, on Coronation Day. And down there, in that patch of moonlight, was where the bassinet had stood – where she had lain and looked up at Fin in such wonder. This was the very branch . . .

The patch of bare earth dissolved into pitch darkness as the moon disappeared. Celandine was aware once again of the danger she was in, and she clung to the overhanging limb in renewed dread – because now the tapping was all around her. The sticks were beating at the coppices in the darkness below, and she could hear the sound of many small bodies swishing through the undergrowth at the foot of the tree – but worse . . . oh
worse
 . . . now it seemed that they were coming
up
the tree . . . tap-tap-tapping all around her . . . battering at the leaves and branches . . . hundreds of them . . . thousands . . .

Celandine swung herself over the tree limb, gulping in terror, hung there for a moment, then dropped down into the darkness. A horrible thump as she hit the ground and the breath was knocked right out of her. But immediately she forced herself to get back on her feet, though she was doubled over with pain and fear as the terrible rattling above her grew to a roar. Celandine staggered from beneath the tree and felt the first of a thousand stinging blows – on her face, her arms, her bare neck . . . hailing down upon her defenceless being. Hailing down . . .

It
was
hail. A summer storm . . .

The freak downpour whipped across her shoulders as she stumbled away from the forest and began to run down Howard’s Hill. Away, away, away –
from
the terror that snapped at her heels, the panic that clawed at her back, and down towards the distant lights below. Faster she ran, careening through the stinging bullets of hail as though through enemy fire, and faster still, until suddenly her legs were out of her control, her steps grown too long – impossibly long – and she was springing into the darkness seven leagues at a time, a leaping, bounding, pounding, tumbling giant. She was utterly helpless – launching out into deep black space, with arms outstretched. Over went the world, and over and over, the wheeling world that turned its circle, so that everything that ever had been came round again . . . and again she was rolling down Howard’s Hill in the sunshine with Freddie beneath a spinning summer sky. The peewits sang, and the party people roared with laughter, and the sun went
bang
and shattered into a million red planets, just as it had before.