Winter Wood (36 page)

‘What do 'ee say,
Woodpecker
?' Scurl's roar echoed
around the byre. ‘Do I shoot
straight
enough for 'ee?' Already Scurl had another arrow at the ready, and as he drew back the bow Little-Marten could only half raise his hands in a helpless plea. He had no voice to answer the snarling monster that stood before him, nor even wits to flinch from the arrow-point that met his eye. Deep into his brain that arrow would drive, a flash of magpie feathers the last thing he would ever see . . .

‘Pick me up some o' that twine!'

What?

Scurl kicked at something with his ragged foot, and Little-Marten tried to drag himself out of his shocked state. What? He turned his head towards Henty. She was struggling to untangle her hair from the arrow that was embedded deep in the hay bale beside her.

‘Twine, thee crack-nogged little zawney!' yelled Scurl. ‘There . . . and there! Pick it up!'

Little-Marten looked around him. Lengths of orange twine lay scattered about the earth floor of the byre – long knotted loops that had been used to tie the hay bales. Yes, he'd noticed them before. He stooped to pick one up, and tumbled sideways as Scurl's foot shoved him in the ribs.

‘Pick 'em up, dammee! More!' Little-Marten scrambled away, and hastily began to gather up what he could find. From the corner of his eye he saw Scurl march over to where Henty stood, and heard her cry out again as Scurl yanked the arrow from the hay bale.

‘Get over there, and kneel down. There – kneel! Woodpecker, bring me that twine . . . give it to me. Now
get down on your knees. No – away from she. Over there.'

The two of them were made to kneel on the earth floor, facing each other but some distance apart, at the foot of the tumbledown pile of hay bales. Scurl pulled a knife from his belt, long-bladed and heavy, some Gorji object. He wordlessly held it before them, raised it to his own hairy throat and drew it sideways in a quick slicing movement. His meaning was plain enough. They were to understand what this thing was likely to be used for, if they gave him any trouble.

Little-Marten watched as Scurl crouched down behind Henty, the knife blade clamped between his teeth. He took a length of the orange twine, looped it about her neck in a snare noose, then brought it down her back, keeping it taut as he wound it round and round her ankles. If Henty tried to straighten her legs out she would strangle herself.

‘Hands.' Scurl made Henty hold her hands out in front of her whilst he tied her wrists.

Then it was Little-Marten's turn.

‘Get back'ards.' Little-Marten had been kneeling upright, but Scurl forced him down so that he was sitting on his heels. The reason for this became plain as the twine was looped around his neck, yanked tightly backwards, and attached to his ankles. There was to be as little play as possible. Little-Marten instinctively brought his fingers to his throat and tried to ease the pressure, but Scurl roughly pulled his hands away.

‘Hold 'em out – wrists together!'

Little-Marten did as he was told, and in a few
moments was bound and helpless. He could still raise his hands to his neck, and by slumping his shoulders could loosen the snare noose just a little, but it was still a horribly uncomfortable and frightening position to be in. Scurl had been careful to tie his wrists so that the final knot was on the underside. Little-Marten knew that he would not be able to get his teeth anywhere near it, and that escape would be impossible.

Scurl picked up Henty's bindle-wrap, untied it so that her few clothes and possessions fell onto the floor, and then tossed the oilskin towards her. ‘Cover theeself up,' he said, and wandered across the byre to where Little-Marten's bundle lay. He stood for a moment looking up at the hazy moon that now appeared among the bare branches of the trees outside. They could hear him muttering to himself.

‘I shall have 'ee . . . hmf . . . what do 'ee say, Ictor? Aye. Thee'm right . . . thee'm right . . . let 'em all come . . .'

Little-Marten looked at Henty, and puffed out his cheeks. With her bound wrists, she was struggling to get the oilskin about her shoulders, but she gave him a faint smile and a nod of encouragement. They were still alive, somehow, and for that at least they were grateful.

Scurl had picked up Little-Marten's bindle-wrap, untied it, and discovered the soft Gorji material within.

‘What be this, then?' He re-crossed the byre and dropped the oilskin in front of Little-Marten. Then he sat on a bale between the two of them in order to examine the red Gorji sack. It didn't take him long to realize its purpose. He put his feet into it, and drew it up over his knees.

‘Stinks o' the Gorji,' said Scurl, but kept it where it was. ‘Now then . . .' He looked at Henty. ‘Thee reckons the ogre maid'd come here to help Woodpecker, if thee were to ask her. But what of t'other way round? What if I sent Woodpecker to go and find her? If he said that 'twere
thee
as needed aid – would she come then?'

‘No.' Little-Marten spoke up immediately. He could see where this was leading, and was horrified at the thought of leaving Henty alone at the mercy of Scurl.

Scurl swung round and raised the knife high, as if to hurl it at Little-Marten.

‘Aye!' said Henty. ‘She would! I know she would . . .'

Scurl remained poised for a moment longer, then lowered the knife. ‘Hmf . . .' He sat tapping the blade against the palm of his hand, scowling at it. ‘Hmf. Then 'tis which of 'ee to choose. Or neither. Which . . . or neither . . .'

Little-Marten reached out towards the crumpled oilcloth that lay before him. He was nervous of making any movement, but he was also freezing. The noose tightened at his neck as he leaned forward. He gasped and looked up at Scurl to see whether his effort to reach the bindle-wrap would meet with any threat of punishment. But Scurl still seemed to be lost in thought, and Little-Marten was able to drag the oilcloth towards him and flick it back over his head. He drew the cold stiff material about his shoulders, and tried to huddle himself beneath it as Henty had done.

Scurl was still tapping the knife blade against his palm, head lowered, muttering to himself. Finally he nodded. ‘Aye, so be it, then.'

A moment's pause, and then Scurl raised the knife, holding it by the blade. In a smooth and practised movement he drew his arm back and hurled the object across the barn. Little-Marten's flinch of terror came as a delayed reaction. The weapon had already flashed past him and struck its target. A deep
thunk
– the sound of metal biting into wood – and the knife was now protruding from the centre of the rabbit skin that they had noticed earlier. The tattered pelt, stretched across the wooden pallet on the far side of the barn, was obviously something that Scurl used for knife-throwing practice, a way of passing the cold and solitary evenings . . .

Little-Marten tried to swallow, but the tightness of the twine about his neck made it almost impossible to do so. He turned away from the knife to realize that Scurl was staring at him – at him and through him – wild red-rimmed eyes unblinking in the faint light. Scurl's great bony forehead glistened, waxy, as though with a fever, and his unkempt hair and beard only made his appearance the more awful. He was as terrifying as that huge Gorji felix had been . . . more unpredictable, at any rate. And perhaps even madder than Maven . . .

Little-Marten shrank backwards as the eyes shifted slightly and focused properly upon him. Scurl's brow furrowed into a scowl. ‘Bist hungry?' he said.

MIDGE WOKE UP
to find George sitting on the edge of her bed.

‘Change of plan,' he said.

‘Eh? What are you doing here? I thought you weren't . . .' Midge pushed herself upright and put her fist to her mouth as she yawned.

George flicked his fringe back. ‘My mum's come across for a couple of hours after all, same as she did yesterday. Doing a bit more paperwork or something. Anyway, it meant that I could come too. Fancy another go on the toboggan? The snow's mostly gone, but the slide's still there . . .'

‘Uuuuggh.' Midge yawned again, and tried to get her brain working. This wasn't what was supposed to be happening at all. Today was going to be the day when she would hand over the Orbis. She was going to climb Howard's Hill, find Pegs or Maglin or whoever she could, and just get rid of the thing. Today was going to be the day when it all finally came to an end, this whole ridiculous, amazing, impossible business. And now George was here.

Well, maybe it'd have to wait until later, then.

‘What's the time?' she said.

‘Dunno. About eight, I think.'

‘
Eight o'clock
? Ugh. Way too early . . .' Midge flopped back down on the bed. ‘Go and get us a cup of tea or something, George, will you?'

‘OK. Are you going to get dressed then?'

‘In a bit.'

Midge stared at the ceiling, and listened to George's footsteps clumping down the stairs. At least his absence gave her a moment or two to think. The sense of anticlimax that she had felt the night before was still with her. After all the
trouble
that she had been to . . . the secrecy, and the worry . . . it just seemed so much pointless effort now that the Orbis had literally tumbled into her lap. And even though it was such a beautiful object, the magic of it had vanished. Now that she had seen it and held it, the Orbis was like a Christmas present unwrapped: no matter how wonderful, or how longed for that present might be, it could never quite live up to the mysterious promise of its packaging.

She felt unreasonably angry, and when George came back into the room with a mug of tea in each hand she came to a decision. Well, why not? What difference would it make?

‘Can you go and get something out of the wardrobe for me?' she said.

‘Huh? What am I – your blimmin' servant?' George carefully put the mugs of tea on the bedside cabinet.

‘You'll like it. Go on. There's a carrier bag at the back . . . a red one . . .'

Midge took a sip of her tea, and watched George as he walked across to the wardrobe and pulled the door open. Her anger was turning to excitement now, with that thrill of anticipation that only comes from giving away a deeply sworn secret. But there was also a spark of revenge within her. Somehow, somewhere along the line, she had been made a fool of. There had been no need for all the care she had taken, no need to have suffered alone. She could have told George everything right from the start, and brought no harm to anyone. And so now she
would
tell. Maybe he could even come with her when she delivered the Orbis . . .

‘Is this the one?' George had found the red bag.

‘Yeah. Bring it over here. I want to show you something.'

Telling about it was almost more gratifying than the actual finding of it had been. George sat on the bed, twiddling with the Orbis, his eyes and mouth wide open in fascination. He must have said ‘Wow!' about twenty million times.

It was funny, though. Midge told about Tadgemole, and their meeting in the pig-barn, and the letter with the drawing on it. She told about her search for Aunt Celandine, and how amazing it had been to find her, then how difficult it had been to get her to remember anything. She even told about Maglin coming to her window at night and delivering the leather bag –
which definitely got the biggest reaction of all from George. But she couldn't tell about Pegs. There was just no way of making that talking-in-colours thing believable. And Pegs was such a special secret, far more special to her than the object that George now held in his hands. She couldn't begin to explain, even if she'd wanted to. And anyway, George had more than enough information to be going on with. She wondered how Pegs was now . . . whether his injured leg had healed . . .

‘But what does it
do
?' said George. ‘What's it for? And who
are
they, anyway? Why are they still here?'

‘Well, I suppose they're—' Midge started to say something vague, but then she stopped. She stared in silence at the Orbis, as the answer – or some kind of an answer – came to her at last. She hadn't been thinking especially hard about it. But now something had occurred to her for the first time, and her scalp tingled as she tried the idea on George.

‘I think maybe they're aliens,' she said.

‘
What?
Don't be daft. Aliens don't look like that!'

But Midge saw the puzzled expression that crossed George's face even as he spoke, and she knew what was going through his mind.

‘Yeah, exactly,' she said. ‘What
do
aliens look like?'

‘I know. But . . .' George shook his head, not convinced.

Midge wasn't sure that she was properly convinced either. The Various were so ordinary, in some ways. So simple, and ancient and old-fashioned. And it was plain that they'd been here for decades, centuries
maybe. But they didn't
want
to be here. They didn't belong. And when she thought of the Ickri . . . with those wings . . . and of Pegs . . . well, what other explanation made any sense? Pegs was surely from another world. He must be.