Winter Wood (35 page)

They
had. Of course. The tiny writing, the lined exercise paper . . . it was the same as the paper that
Tadgemole had given her. It was a letter, to Celandine, from the Various. But how amazing!

Midge took the paper across to her laptop, and spent the next quarter of an hour copying the whole lot out as a word processor document. She experimented with punctuation and spelling, bit by bit, until finally she thought she had made a reasonable translation.

Midge rested her chin on her hands and read the piece again and again, utterly overwhelmed by her discovery. Here was Celandine's history. She had been a friend, a true friend, to the cave-dwellers. And she had fled the forest at the coming of the warlike Ickri, carrying the Orbis to safety with her.
How
could anyone have ever forgotten such a thing?

And now the Orbis was here, rediscovered at last, after all those long years. Celandine needed to know about this – and immediately. It might be ages, though, before another visit could be planned. Midge looked around for her mobile, spotted it lying on the
window sill, and then hunted in her bedside drawer for Carol Reeve's card. She would phone Mount Pleasant straight away.

The number was a direct line to the manager's office. Good, thought Midge. That meant not having to talk to half-witted Helen, the girl at reception.

‘Carol Reeve.' The calm voice at the other end of the line. Midge pictured her, sitting at that big old headmistress's desk in her smart suit.

‘Oh hi, Mrs Reeve, it's Midge Walters – you know Aunt Celandine's . . . I mean Miss Howard's . . .'

‘Midge! How are you? Everything OK?'

‘Yes, I'm fine. But I might not be able to get over to visit for a while. Is my Aunt Celandine there? I wondered if I could speak to her?'

‘Oh. Well, we could try, I suppose. I'm not sure how she'd cope with the phone . . . hang on, Midge. Let me just put you on hold a moment . . .' The line went quiet for a while. Midge thought about what she would say to her aunt. I've found the Orbis . . . found the Orbis . . . and everything's going to be all right now.

‘Midge, are you still there? Listen, Miss Howard's asleep, I'm afraid. I've just rung down to Elaine. She has been sleeping a lot lately – Miss Howard, that is, not Elaine. And I do think it's good for her. She's been far more peaceful since your last visit, but very tired, and still not eating much. I really don't want to wake her. Can I give her a message, to say you rang?'

‘Oh. Yes. Um . . . could you tell her something from me? It's quite important. Could you tell her that I've found . . . I've found her old jewellery box. She'll
know what I mean. She lost it years and years ago. Her
jewellery
box, tell her. It's all safe, and . . . er . . . everything's still in it. That's the really important thing to say to her – that everything's still in it.'

‘Ooh. That sounds like good news. I'm sure she'll be very pleased to hear it. And so . . . will you be bringing this box across some time?'

‘Well, I'll try. But she'll just want to know that it's OK. And everything's going to be fine now. Tell her that. And tell her that I'll see her soon.'

‘I certainly will. And I've got your phone number in case there's any message in return. All right? Good. Thanks for calling then, Midge. Bye.'

‘Bye.'

Midge put her phone down on the bed beside her, and picked up the Orbis again. She must think about a temporary hiding place for it, and the letter also, perhaps. The presence of the wicker box and the jewellery casket could be explained to her mum easily enough, but the Orbis must remain a secret. Where could she put it? In her wardrobe? That would probably be the best place. Tuck it away in a carrier bag behind the unused rolls of Christmas wrapping paper. It would be safe there, overnight at least. Soon she would do that. And then she would have to think about getting it back to the forest.

And what an amazing moment that would be – to be able to hand this strange and magical object over, to have done with it, to walk away knowing that she had succeeded.

Yes, soon she would be able to think about all of
that. But for the moment another thought was beginning to dawn upon her . . .

Nothing that she had done over the past few weeks had actually made the slightest difference. Her meeting with Pegs and Tadgemole . . . her astonishing discovery of Aunt Celandine . . . the arrival of Maglin with his mysterious bundle of gifts . . . all of her planning . . . all of her efforts . . . none of it had had any real effect on the outcome. What had happened today might easily have happened anyway. The Orbis had been here all along, at Mill Farm, and she had stumbled upon it simply because she had gone tobogganing with George. If it hadn't snowed, she would never have found it.

And so if you looked at it like that, she hadn't really found the Orbis at all. It had simply turned up of its own accord.

This should have been such a wonderful moment, but instead Midge felt quite low and useless. It was almost as though she had been tricked.

LITTLE-MARTEN COULD
feel his insides quaking. He was as terrified for Henty's sake as for his own. A dozen wild notions ran around his head, but though he might beg, or reason, flatter, or even attack, he knew that none of it would do any good. Scurl was mad. Easier to argle-bargle with an adder than deal with this one.

‘Have 'ee no word for an old friend then?' Scurl's bow and arrow casually swept from one of them to the other. Little-Marten glanced across the open byre towards Henty. She was backed up against a stack of hay bales, poised as though to run, her face pale in the gathering dusk. Little-Marten caught her eye and willed her not to do anything foolish. Now was not the time for any show of spirit on her part. He knew Scurl better than she, how murderous his actions were like to be if he were ever challenged.

Scurl looked Henty up and down and shrugged. ‘No? A pity. 'Tain't so often I hears any voice but my own.'

‘We've quit the forest.' Little-Marten spoke up – more intent upon distracting Scurl's leery eye from Henty than with any real thought as to what he
might say. ‘Driven out, as thee were once driven out.'

Scurl turned towards him, thick eyebrows twitching upwards in momentary surprise. ‘So? Did 'ee fall wrong-sides o' that old wosbird Maglin then? 'Tis easy done, as well I knows. Ah . . .' Scurl nodded as if he began to understand the situation. ‘I see how 'tis. Thee'd be together, but there be those that'd not let 'ee. All the worse then, to have run into I so soon – for 'ee've not been out here long, by the look of 'ee.'

‘No, not so long,' Little-Marten blundered on. ‘We were hiding at the Gorji settlement, but then—'

He was cut short as Scurl spat on the ground in front of him. ‘Gorji! Do 'ee dare speak that word to me? Have 'ee forgotten what brought me to this? 'Twere that Gorji snip, and her like! 'Twere because of she that I were sent out here to die, and my company with me. Aye, and dead they now be – Dregg . . . and Snerk and Flitch. 'Tis she that I blame for that! And
thee
, Woodpecker – and
thee
, Tinkler!' Scurl swung round and trained his bow upon Henty once again.

‘Well now I've the pair of 'ee, and I shall have t'other soon enough. That ogre maid'll come straying away from the settlement one time too many, and then she'll find me waiting for her. I've near put an arrow through her more'n once already.'

‘Could 'ee not shoot straight then?'

Little-Marten's words tumbled out in desperation. His head was whirling, and his only conscious thought had been to say anything –
anything
– to deflect Scurl's attention from Henty. And he had succeeded, if only momentarily, for Scurl's ugly face turned slowly back
towards him. But now its colour had deepened in fury and the sharp yellow teeth were bared in a snarl beneath the straggled beard.

‘Not
shoot
straight? Ha! I s'll let thee be the judge o' that, Woodpecker!' Scurl flicked his head in Henty's direction, and his voice lowered to a growl. ‘Choose theeself one o' they pretty eyes then – whichever thee fancy – and then we shall see whether I shoot straight or no. Choose! Or I shall choose for 'ee . . .'

‘There's another choice you could make.' Henty spoke for the first time. ‘Which would you rather – that 'twas we who stood before you, or the Gorji maid here in our stead?'

‘What?' Scurl lowered his bow a little, and some of the tension went out of the drawstring. He stared at Henty. ‘How could the Gorji brat be here in your stead?'

‘We might lead her here. Bring her to you. And then you might . . . let us go.' Henty's voice was quiet, calm.

Little-Marten shook his head at her. What did she think she was doing?

But Henty had Scurl's attention now, and Little-Marten could only look on. He held his breath, waiting to see how this would play out.

‘Let 'ee go? I've birds in hand, maidy. I ain't likely to let the two that I hold go a-chasing after one that I don't. For how many dost reckon I'd end up wi'?' Scurl's voice was sneering, but the bow dropped a little lower still. He seemed interested, perhaps willing to listen for a few moments longer.

‘What if only one of us were to go,' said Henty, ‘and
that one to come back with the Gorji maid? Would you let us free then?'

Scurl took his hand from the bowstring, keeping the arrow loosely notched. He scratched at the underside of his filthy beard.

‘Well here be a sharp 'un,' he said, ‘for a Tinkler. Is that what they learn 'ee, down in they caves – how to horse-trade? I thought 'twere only the Naiad as were up to such tricks. Now how could either of 'ee hope to snare that ogre?'

‘I reckon she'd come,' said Henty, ‘if I told her . . . if I told her that Little-Marten was hurt. Trapped . . .'

‘Trapped? By me? Aye, I don't doubt she
would
come. And bring men and hounds with her – I don't doubt that, neither.'

‘No.' Henty looked around the byre. ‘That Gorji machine . . . if I said Little-Marten was stuck under that thing, she'd come to help. She did the same for the Naiad horse, Pegs. And she've brought none of her own kind to the forest yet, nor told our secret that we know. She've been a friend to us.'

Scurl looked across at the heavy ladder-machine, considered it for a moment, then turned back to Henty.

‘And thee'd stand here and watch her die, would 'ee? This
friend
o' yourn?'

‘I'd watch her die – if only we might live. She've brought us no harm, but she's still Gorji.'

‘
Henty . . .
' Little-Marten could hold his tongue no longer.

Scurl spun round and pointed a shaking finger at him. ‘Stay out o' it, Woodpecker! This 'un might keep
'ee breathing a while yet! She've a sight more to her than thee!' Scurl held Little-Marten in his wild gaze for a few moments longer, before turning away.

‘Now then. If 'ee were to bring the ogre to me, what makes 'ee think I s'd keep to my part?'

‘Your word on it.' Henty looked at Scurl, a steady gaze that showed neither fear nor hatred. Little-Marten marvelled that she could remain so calm. Scurl's back was to him, thinner and bonier than it had been, but still confident in its swagger – a back that shrugged off the possibility of attack, and Little-Marten felt weak and useless. This was between Scurl and Henty. It was as though he didn't exist.

The tiny sounds of dimpsy-dusk came creeping into the darkening byre, faint rustles in the hay bales, the call of a heron from somewhere far out in the wetlands, the creak of the metal roof high overhead.

Finally Scurl sucked at his teeth, and said, ‘Well, thee've a head on they skinny shoulders o' yourn, maid, I'll give 'ee that, and wits about thee. Too many wits, I'm thinking . . .' Then, in a flash of movement, Scurl drew back his bow and shot.

There had been no hint of warning. Henty squealed with pain and Little-Marten felt his heart explode at the sound. His knees sagged beneath him and he struggled to keep his vision in focus. He saw the black-and-white feathers of the arrow . . . their barred pattern mingling with the pale blur of Henty's face . . . and realized that she was pinned to the bale behind her. By her hair.