Winter Wood (37 page)

‘I think there's a kind of round stone,' said Midge. She pointed to the Orbis. ‘That fits in there, between those two screw things at the ends. And once they can put it all back together again . . . well, I don't know what happens then. But this is the bit they've been looking for. The Orbis. It's been lost for years and years, and that's why they've been stuck here.'

‘Yeah, but what does it
do
?' said George. ‘They can't all jump aboard and then shoot off into space on it. They're not
that
blimmin' small.'

‘Well I don't
know
!' said Midge. She was getting cross again. ‘And to be honest I don't really care any more. All I know is they wanted me to help them find it, and now I have. I'm just going to carry it up to the woods and give it back to them. Then that's it – I'm done. After that it's up to them.'

‘When are you going to give it back?' said George. ‘This morning? Can I go with you?'

Midge laughed. George looked so keen, and the whole thing was just so ridiculous that she couldn't stay mad.

‘Yeah,' she said. ‘I was going to ask you.'

‘We could take the toboggan. Come back down on the slide. Hey – how are you going to get into those woods anyway?'

Midge laughed again. George was great – you could
tell him anything. And she wished now that she'd told him about all of this a long time ago. He'd never have let on.

‘There's a tunnel,' she said.

‘Wow! Really?'

‘Yeah, really. Now buzz off. I'm going to have a shower. Hey – don't forget your tea.'

‘We should be back about five, then,' said Midge's mum. ‘Auntie Pat's here till lunchtime, and the builders'll be around all day. You OK?'

‘Yeah, I'm fine,' said Midge. ‘George and I are going tobogganing again.'

‘Are you? Well, just be careful.'

‘OK. See you later. See you later, Pat.'

Midge and George hung around the kitchen until most of the grown-ups had gone – Uncle Brian, Midge's mum and Barry all trooping out together. Only Auntie Pat remained.

‘We'll see you later then, Mum,' said George.

‘Yes. Mind what you're doing – and remember we have to leave at midday. Twelve-thirty at the latest. Hey, have you got a watch on?' Auntie Pat looked up from her sheets of figures.

‘Um, no. Didn't bother.'

‘But how will you know what time it is? What about you, Midge?'

‘No . . . 'fraid not. I've
got
a watch, upstairs, but it needs a new battery.'

‘Oh. Well that's not much help, is it? Come on – I need to be away on time. I can't have you just rolling
up when you feel like it . . .' Auntie Pat looked doubtfully at her own neat little wristwatch. ‘Um . . . maybe I could lend you . . .'

‘I could take that old travel alarm of Dad's,' said George. He reached up to the high shelf of the Welsh dresser. ‘That'd be OK, wouldn't it?'

‘Um . . . yes. I suppose so. Better than nothing, anyway. But don't just put it in your pocket and forget about it, all right? Maybe you should take it, Midge. You've more sense than this one.'

‘OK,' said Midge. ‘Look – you could even set the alarm for us. Make it for eleven-thirty. Then we can't forget.'

The cars were pulling out of the driveway as Midge and George walked down the front path – Uncle Brian's old banger, followed by Barry's smart new Saab.

‘Come on,' said George. ‘We'll just go and pick up the toboggan. Got the bag?'

‘Yeah.' Midge clutched the carrier bag that held the Orbis. How weird it was to be finally doing this. The two of them crossed the yard, and made their way towards the cider barn. They had to wait for a moment as a dumper truck reversed in front of them, carting a load of rubble away. The driver gave them a wave of thanks for not making him stop on their account.

George pulled open the rickety door of the Stick House and they stepped into the gloomy little building. It was almost empty now, just a few bits of rubbish remaining. Midge looked around to see if the Favoured One was here, but she could see no sign.

‘I'll just get the— Hey . . . where's the pillow gone?' said George. The red toboggan was propped up in the corner and George walked over to it. ‘I left the pillow hanging over it, to keep it off the floor.' He grabbed hold of the top edge of the toboggan and lifted it away from the wall.

Midge took another glance around the Stick House, half wondering where the pillow might be, but also thinking about the kitten . . .

‘
Sheesh . . .
' Midge heard the sudden gasp of fright from George, and then the amazement in his voice. ‘What are
you
doing here?'

Midge turned round. George was holding the toboggan upright, at an angle from the wall, as though it were a door. And standing behind it, very upright, like a sentry in a sentry box, was Little-Marten.

The shock of finding him there at all was made worse by seeing the state he was in. He looked dreadful. His clothing was torn and filthy, and his big frightened eyes peered out from a face that was streaked with dirt. But he was also alarmingly thin, his cheekbones sharp beneath the taut skin, his head seemingly too big for such a scrawny body. The jaunty little being of last summer had changed beyond belief.

‘My God . . . what's happened to you . . .' Midge couldn't help the words from coming out.

George's reaction was rather different. ‘You're standing on my pillow,' he said. Little-Marten looked up at him and flinched, but remained where he was.

‘Shush, George,' said Midge. ‘Can't you see he's . . .' She walked across to Little-Marten and crouched
down in front of him. ‘It's all right,' she said. ‘We won't hurt you. Just tell us what's happened. Why are you here?'

Little-Marten's eyes were so full of confusion that Midge wanted to reach out and hug him to her. ‘Come on,' she said. ‘You know that we don't mean you any harm.'

‘'Tis Henty.' Little-Marten's voice was so quiet, barely audible, even in the stillness of the outhouse. Midge had forgotten how softly spoken the little people were, and how loud human voices were by comparison. ‘She'm in trouble . . . trapped . . .'

‘Trapped? How do you mean? Like . . . caught in something?' Midge was picturing snares . . . cages . . .

‘Aye, caught.' Little-Marten looked nervously up at George. ‘Tangled up in summat. She casn't get free.'

‘Tangled up in what?' Midge tried to keep the volume of her voice down. ‘Brambles? Rope?'

Little-Marten's eyes flashed back at her as she said the word ‘rope'. Almost guiltily, Midge thought. But he said, ‘No. She'm in a gurt byre.'

‘A byre? You mean a barn? Here, in one of these buildings?' Midge half turned and circled her arm, vaguely indicating their surroundings.

‘No. Away. Across the fields.'

‘So she's trapped in a barn, somewhere away from here.' There was a jolt of familiarity about this scenario, and Midge immediately thought of the pig-barn on Howard's Hill, where she had first encountered Pegs. It would be very odd if the same thing was happening all over again . . .

‘Is it the barn up on the hill?' she said. ‘The one near the forest?'

‘Not that 'un.' Little-Marten seemed to have been ready for this question. ‘'Tis a big 'un, wi' a red roof.'

Midge looked up at George. ‘A red roof? I don't know any barn with a red roof,' she said. George was staring at Little-Marten's wings, obviously so astonished by what he was seeing that he was not really concentrating on what was being said.

‘What? Sorry – what?'

‘A barn with a red roof,' said Midge. ‘Any ideas?'

‘I can take 'ee there,' said Little-Marten. ‘I knows where 'tis.'

George seemed to pull himself together, and said, ‘Um . . . I think maybe he means Dutch Barn. That's got a red roof – sort of. Belongs to Tom Hayne's dad. He's a kid in my year. Tom Hayne, that is, not his dad.'

Midge shook her head. ‘I've never seen it,' she said. ‘Is it far?'

‘I can take 'ee there,' said Little-Marten, again. He stepped from the pillow – which had apparently been used as a makeshift bed – and onto the earth floor. His grubby hand reached tentatively for Midge's sleeve. ‘I can take 'ee there now.'

‘Well, but what's happened to her exactly – Henty, I mean? Is she stuck in something, or under something?' Midge was torn between the need to do something immediately if Henty was in real pain or danger, and the uneasy sense that this all seemed a bit suspicious. But now that Little-Marten was standing in better light, she could see how red his eyes were, and
how drawn and pale his face. He looked as though he had spent the whole night crying.

‘She'm . . . she'm . . .' Little-Marten's voice broke, and that was enough for Midge to make up her mind. It was obvious that he was genuinely distraught.

‘OK. Come on, George. I don't know what's going on, but we've got to try and help if we can.'

‘Uh? Oh yeah. Yeah . . . sure.' George was still looking completely stunned, and Midge judged that he wasn't capable of much in the way of thinking. She went over to the doorway of the Stick House and looked out. The dumper truck was at the nearby end of the old stable block, stationary, but with its engine running. A man was standing with his hand on the tipper bit, and talking with the driver. Neither of them appeared to be in any hurry to go anywhere. They probably wouldn't notice if she and George were to walk past leading an elephant between them, yet she couldn't take the risk of trying to smuggle Little-Marten out beneath their noses.

George appeared at her shoulder, and looked towards the builders. A third man had joined the party now. Didn't they have any work to be getting on with?

‘I don't see how we can do this,' said Midge. ‘It'd be better if it was raining – at least they'd be working indoors then. They'll be outside all day in this sunshine, and bound to spot us. How can we get him out of here with that lot hanging around?'

‘Toboggan,' said George.

‘What?'

‘Put him on the toboggan. Cover him up with the pillow.'

‘Who – Little-Marten?'

‘Is that his name? Yeah. Lie him down flat and cover him up. We'll just make out that we're going tobogganing, like we did yesterday. Who's going to care? And in any case, we don't even have to go past the builders. Dutch Barn's over that way.' George pointed towards the distant treeline of Burnham Woods. ‘Can't see it from here, but it's on the other side of the weir.'

Midge was amazed. George had gone from being an open-mouthed zombie to a man with a plan in about half a minute. And it wasn't a bad plan, at that.

‘How long would it take us to get to it,' she said, ‘this barn?'

George shrugged. ‘Twenty minutes. What's the time now?'

Midge pulled the travel alarm out of her pocket and flipped open the circular metal case. ‘Quarter to ten.'

‘OK,' said George. ‘Even if it took us half an hour to get there and half an hour to get back, that'd still give us . . . um . . . over an hour at the barn. Can't be
that
serious, can it?'

‘Well if it was, then we'd have to get proper help, I s'pose.' Midge blinked at the thought: the very idea of actually trying to explain this to anyone . . . calling her mum on her mobile . . .

‘Come on. Let's do it.' George was excited now. He walked back into the gloom, grabbed hold of the toboggan and laid it down on the floor. ‘Oi,' he said, ‘Little-Marten . . . lie down on that.'

‘Eh?'

George put out a guiding arm, but then his fingertips brushed against Little-Marten's wings. Midge saw George's hand recoil in hesitation and she knew exactly how that felt – the strange texture of the velvety skin, the fragile bones beneath.

‘Eh?' Little-Marten looked down at the toboggan, then at Midge.

‘It's all right,' said Midge. ‘We're going to hide you on this so that nobody can see, and then we can pull you along. George knows where the barn is. You don't have to show us the way.'

‘'Twould only take one of 'ee, though, to help Henty. No need for t'other to go. No need for he.' Little-Marten looked doubtfully at George, and again Midge sensed that there was something not quite right about all this.

‘What? But we need George to show us how to get there. Then you can stay hidden. Just lie down on this. Come on – that's it. No, the other way round. On your tummy.'

Little-Marten looked very unhappy and confused, but they managed to get him lying face down on the toboggan, hands outstretched and gripping the front edge. George picked up the pillow and placed it on top of the prostrate little figure. It was immediately clear that this wasn't going to work. Little-Marten's wings stuck out too much, and his hands and feet were still exposed. The pillow wasn't big enough to cover him.

Try again, then. Kneeling either side of the toboggan, Midge and George experimented. In the end
they found it best to get Little-Marten to lie on his side, with his knees tucked up and wings folded in. With one hand gripping the front edge of the toboggan and the other hanging onto the underside of the pillow, there was a chance that he might remain hidden.

It took a while, and a lot of manipulation, to get it right, and Midge guessed that George must be feeling as overwhelmed as she was. To be viewing this extraordinary little being at such close quarters, manhandling the tiny limbs, tucking those amazing wings out of sight, it was just so unearthly. So . . . alien. And yet most of Little-Marten's clothing might have come from the village jumble sale. The tattered sweatshirt, cut down to fit and tied at the waist with a plastic belt, the brown woollen leggings that looked as though they had been made from a child's jumper, worn upside-down – these things were so homely and recognizable, so plainly of this world. And so ordinary. Only the fur-lined boots, stitched with the seams on the outside, like moccasins, looked as though they had been made from scratch.