The Various (20 page)

Yes, they are known as the lower tribes. However
 . . .

‘Aha! And are they called lower tribes
just
because they live below ground, or because they’re lower in, um . . . value, or something? Lower, as if they’re not as good? Lesser – that’s the word. Lesser tribes? It sounds like prejudice to me,’ she added, loftily. It was nervousness, she knew, which made her act like this. She did it at school sometimes – arguing in class with Miss Clifton over some point of history to disguise the fact that she had forgotten her homework or PE kit, or something. Now she was apprehensive, afraid of what she was about to see. She felt that she was being watched, judged, and that she was all alone, and perhaps unwelcome, in a strange, strange land. And here she was, upsetting Pegs – her friend.

But Pegs was wiser than she knew. He had already told her that the Counsel Clearing lay directly beyond the bushes at the end of the Great Clearing, and he had noticed the girl’s increasing agitation as they approached the path that wound through the bushes. Naturally the child would be uneasy. A towering giant she may be, but a child nevertheless.

Let us rest for a moment, for I am weary. I little thought
this
day that I would make such a journey, who could barely stand at sunrise. Carry me again, gentle maid, as you did before. Bring me before the Counsel upon your shoulders and let all see how I am in your debt, and how I should never have returned to the forest were it not for you
.

The idea was appealing, if a little theatrical – Pegs being probably capable of walking the last fifty yards or so unaided – but it had the desired effect, which was to make Midge feel that her presence was justified and deserving of tolerance, if not gratitude and honour. Gratitude, and honour, of a sort, were amongst her own feelings as she knelt once again to lift the snow-white creature onto her slim shoulders.

It was a dramatic picture the pair made, therefore, as they emerged from the pathway through the hazel bushes and entered Counsel Clearing – a Gorji child, fair-haired, clad in green dungarees and a pale yellow T-shirt, with a white horse draped about her shoulders.

Midge stepped self-consciously into the clearing, feeling the comforting warmth and weight of the horse’s body around her neck, gripping the delicate fetlocks tightly with her clammy fingers. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath, and her heart was beating painfully. It was impossible for her to imagine what she was about to see, and she needed to get it over with, to find the reality of it immediately. Her eyes darted around the arena. The centre point, some kind of small stone post with a pyramid top, registered quickly with her: a large white tree, dead, over on the other
side
, more of the strange hanging baskets – pods; something in the bare branches of the dead tree – a bird? Colours. Or rather, black and white. A speckly patch of black, white and grey to the far left of the clearing. There! She saw them. A group of figures, huddled in the dappled shadows beneath the sycamores. They were real! Ten, maybe a dozen little people, standing very erect, like . . . meercats. Yes, they reminded her of meercats, the way they stood stiffly upright, motionless, wary and alert, all looking in the same direction . . . winged, like Pegs, and magically . . . real . . . alive. Mostly dressed in black and white – just a few colours here and there. A strange and breathtaking sight.

Walk slowly. Approach the Counsel and kneel. Lay me down, and remain kneeling
.

Midge felt dizzy. She breathed in deeply, trying to be calm, and began to follow Pegs’ instructions, walking very slowly across the clearing, her eyes fixed wonderingly on the little group. Their skin was quite dark, and their faces were broad-featured – from a distance they looked gypsy-like, or aboriginal perhaps. The dumpy little figure in the chair, though, (the Queen?) was paler. Or maybe her face was powdered. They had weapons – bows and arrows. And spears.

Midge drew closer, and began to get a better perspective – the figures were bigger than she would have imagined. Maybe two feet tall? Not quite, perhaps, but certainly not the tiny creatures riding on the backs of swallows that she had seen in picture books. About knee height, they would be.

They looked so
funny
! She would have to watch herself. She had a terrible habit of giggling when she was nervous. Most of the men (should they be called men?) were bearded, and some of them were quite grey – in fact the three who stood apart, wearing long cloaks and leaning on sticks, looked positively ancient. They must be the Counsel Elders. How they stared at her! Their eyes – dark, dark eyes – never blinked. Something was odd about the clothing.

A slight commotion in the dead white tree made her jump and look upwards. A little winged figure sat astride a high broken stump. He had dropped something – a stick – and the scowling eyes of the group flashed briefly in his direction, as the piece of wood clattered among the dead branches and fell to the ground with a slight thump. The stick was dark, and polished.

(Poor Little-Marten. He had deliberately disobeyed Maglin by staying on his Perch – for he wouldn’t have missed this for the world – and now he had disgraced himself further by dropping one of the clavensticks. Later, no doubt, there would be trouble.)

Midge continued to gaze in wonder at the small figure in the stark leafless tree, but then felt a pang of sympathy for him. She could see that he had done wrong, made a mistake of some sort. He was a little brown creature – brown bare feet, brown leggings, some sort of brown leather jerkin and thick brown curly hair. He had another polished stick, like the one that had fallen to the ground, tucked beneath his arm. In his hands he held a brown hat of some description,
which
he twisted in an agony of embarrassment. Only his face was red – bright red with humiliation. It would be a kindness to look away, Midge realized, and she turned her attention to the group once more.

She focused on the Queen – an extraordinary being, who sat very properly, majestically, in a faded blue wicker chair, her grey hair scraped back into an untidy bun. The chair had handles at each end, and looked a bit like an open carriage without wheels. The near side had a very low middle section – so that its occupant could step in and out, presumably. The Queen held aloft a large black fan – far too big for her – and in her other hand, resting in her lap, she held a tangerine. No, Midge realized, not a tangerine, but an orangey-red ball – it looked like polished stone. Her stiff regal pose was made ridiculous by the details of her appearance – her heavy make-up had been applied very approximately, so that her face looked like a child’s painting that had gone badly wrong, and her off-white dress was purple-stained with what might have been Ribena – though that seemed unlikely. Some sort of fruit juice at any rate. Midge could not meet the imperious stare of the puffy little eyes, and the smudgy eyebrows, raised in query, without desperately wanting to laugh. This was all so . . . impossible. She could feel the beginnings of a kind of hysteria rising inside her. It became worse as she imagined the squat little occupant of the wicker chair trying to fly. She bit the inside of her cheeks, hard enough for it to hurt. Sometimes this worked.

She stood uncertainly before the assembled
company
, having momentarily forgotten Pegs’ instructions – in fact she had ceased to be aware of Pegs altogether, so enthralled was she by what was happening. What was she supposed to do? She tried to stay calm. The suspicious eyes of the archers continued to gaze into hers. It was the warrior figures, she realized, who were dressed in black and white, or shades of grey. Their spears and arrows were not pointing at her directly, but they were obviously at the ready, and it occurred to her that she might actually be in some danger. Yet this made her want to laugh even more, the whole thing was just so fantastic. The tense silence was becoming unbearable.

Then a stray sycamore seed caught her attention, as it twirled gently down from the trees, to land, unnoticed, upon the Queen’s head. It stayed there, perfectly positioned, a neat decoration for her grey bun. And that did it. The laughter that had been building up inside her spluttered forth, and she had a helpless attack – giggling and snorting so much that it startled the very pigeons in the trees. The bows of the archers were raised slightly as the company continued to stare at her, in silent outrage.

Cease this laughter, maid. Lower me to the ground. Do not speak until you are addressed
.

Pegs sounded quite cross, and Midge did as she was told. She half-apologized, took a deep breath and knelt, rather awkwardly, on the warm grass in front of the group. Leaning forward, she gently allowed Pegs to slide from her shoulders to the ground, breathing out again as she did so. The horse lay, like an offering,
or
sacrifice, before the Queen in her blue wicker chair. Sitting back on her heels, Midge was now only a little taller than the gathered company.

The Queen half turned and beckoned to a figure standing behind her, a drab and careworn little thing in a beige smock – a maid possibly – who drew closer and inclined her head.

‘Doolie, is this the missing animal?’ the Queen inquired. Her voice was high, and went up and down in a funny way, almost as though she were singing the words. Doolie glanced at Pegs.

‘I believe ’tis, my Lady,’ she replied.

The Queen gave the winged horse a dubious look. ‘That’s not a goat,’ she said – to the astonishment and delight of Midge, who had to drop her eyes in an attempt to hide her amusement. She found herself staring at the feet of the royal personage, but then had to fight even harder to control herself. Her upper lip began to quiver once more.

A warrior figure, armed with a spear, stepped forward decisively – taking control of the situation. He addressed the Queen – although he never took his dark eyes off Midge.

‘If I may speak, my Lady,’ he said. His voice had a harsh rasp to it, and his fierce gaze immediately dispelled any further attacks of giggling. He looked tough – close-cropped hair, iron grey, a silver leather waistcoat over an otherwise bare torso, and knee-length britches of a black and grey striped material. Pin-striped? Yes – but how weird. And yet that was
it
, thought Midge, their clothing was
familiar
. Or rather,
many
of the materials from which they were made were familiar. She glanced quickly around. Here and there were odd bits of evidence to confirm her growing realization that the Ickri were dressed in clothing which must have originated in the outside world. A pair of britches in what looked like old deckchair canvas, a frayed jerkin that might once have been the leg of a pair of faded black jeans, a belt from a towelling bath-robe, a knitted pixie-hat in a shiny acrylic grey wool that had probably been worn by a baby long before it had come into the possession of its current owner – a pixie for all she knew.

Certainly there was evidence of the homemade – jerkins of silvery-grey fur, squirrel perhaps, rabbit-skin boots, and some curious black-and-white caps made from magpie feathers, these last being worn by the three stooping Elders – but there was no doubt that odds and ends of human clothing had also found their way into the forest, somehow, and had been cut up and adapted to the purpose of this astonishing little tribe. And there was no mistaking the origin of the tiny pink rubber boots worn by the Queen, for Midge had once possessed just such a pair herself when she was at playschool, and remembered how proud she had been of their shiny newness. These were even smaller than hers had been, though they were still too big for the Queen. They looked old and very worn – but the Little Pony logo was still just visible. Midge tried not to look at them.

The tough-looking fellow in the silver waistcoat (what had
that
been originally?) glanced upwards into
the
trees that encircled the clearing – a deliberate and purposeful look, as though he were issuing a silent command. His spear was decorated with feathers, again black and white, tied in bunches along its length. It may have been ceremonial, although the metal tip – fashioned from an old carving knife perhaps – looked dangerous enough.

Pegs had now raised himself up on to his chest and was lying directly in front of where Midge knelt, his head turned towards the assembled company. The warrior approached to within three or four feet of where the horse lay. The sun glinted momentarily on the tip of his spear – a warning flash, a reminder of its purpose. He continued to hold Midge in his steady gaze, but his words were for Pegs.

‘A welcome return,’ he said, allowing the butt of his spear to rest on the ground, ‘though in a manner so unforeseen that I might be dreaming. I, and all those about me. What be
you
dreaming of, Pegs, to bring the Gorji within our midst? You are ailing, so we learn. Did you lose your wits along with your wings?’

I am ailing, Maglin, it is true. And without the kindness of this maid, there would have been no return, welcome or otherwise, for me. The news that she bears would not then have reached you until it was too late. As to my wits, you shall judge. And all here shall judge. Help me to my feet, maid, then remain as you are
.

Midge shuffled forward and put her hands under the horse’s belly, helping to support the weakened animal as it struggled to a standing position. She stayed kneeling, hunched over a little, her shoulder
now
being about level with the horse’s back. Her hand strayed, comfortingly, to the base of Pegs’ damaged wing, and she allowed it to gently rest there as he continued.

When I flew from this place, five nights ago, I made way across the dark wetlands as was intended. I saw the lighted Gorji settlement far below me, and beat on till at last I gained the Far Woods beyond – much exhausted, for I have never flown a distance greater than the length of the clearings of the Royal Forest. I was in great need of rest, but I dare not lay me down for fear of what might befall me in the darkness
. Pegs paused for a moment, as if gathering the strength to continue.
I can scarce recount the loneliness of that night – nor the terrors of the following day. If we had hoped that the Far Woods might provide us with the means of our further existence, then we must abandon such hopes forthwith
. Pegs paused again and Midge felt the creature’s body shudder slightly beneath her touch.