The Various (22 page)

Midge instinctively bent down to pick up the cap, and Maglin shot her a glance of surprise and irritation as he continued to address his underling. ‘Since I
have
your ear, at last, perhaps you’ll heed me when I speak. Walk with this Gorji maid, and lead her back to the East Wood tunnel. See that she don’t miss her way. Then, when she has departed, report directly back to Aken or me – unless she decides to carry thee off on her shoulder to roast on a Gorji spit. Aye, and a spit-roast Woodpecker might seem pretty eating to such as they, for aught I know. Go. And mind me better, if you would keep your Perch.’

The Ickri General released the errant Woodpecker from his grasp, and the youth quickly took a couple of steps sideways, rubbing his ear – which had turned bright scarlet. He looked up uncertainly at Midge.

‘Go!’ roared Maglin. Little-Marten ran a few yards out into the clearing, and turned, waiting for Midge to follow. He was like a little brown dog.

Midge put out a hand to touch Pegs. ‘How will I know . . . when . . . what to do?’ she said, utterly confused.

I will bring word. Have no fear. But, friend – if true friend you be – say naught to anyone of what you have seen here today, for we are all at your mercy
.

‘No, of course I won’t.’

All speed, then, till we meet once more
.

‘Briefly parted, soon united?’

I hope it may be so. And remember those words, maid, should you enter this place again – they will open the gates to you
.

Midge walked out into the clearing, to where Little-Marten stood waiting for her, his dark eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun.

Maglin looked up into the dense foliage of the sycamores, and he nodded imperceptibly to the hunters who were hidden there. Child or no child, the Gorji were the enemy, and had to be watched. He would take no more chances – had taken too many already, it would seem. For what had become of the five who had been sent to seek for this wayward beast? Once the Gorji had gone, there would be time for more questions.

* * *

Midge followed the Woodpecker closely along the well-worn track that ran through the hazel bushes. His hair was a deep reddish brown, cola-coloured, and she loved the way the loose curls fell upon the nape of his boyish and rather grubby-looking neck. His wings, protruding from roughly hemmed slits in the back of his leather jerkin, were similar to Pegs’ – in that they were like a soft parchment membrane over bone – but proportionately smaller than that of the horse. They were partly extended, and he seemed to use them to help him keep balance as he jumped lightly along the uneven surface of the well-worn dirt path. She noticed that there was a small design painted on one of his wings – a dark blue motif of some sort, like a tattoo.

They came to the Great Clearing, and Midge stopped to marvel once more at the rows of pea sticks and the patchwork greenery of the vegetable beds. A motley collection of colours among the currant bushes on the other side of the clearing caught her attention, and she realized that another group of the little people stood watching her from a safe distance. Their appearance was dissimilar to that of the warlike Ickri, dressed as they were in broad-brimmed hats of straw, or dried grass perhaps, smocks and leggings in various dull hues of green, yellow and brown. She gazed at them in fresh disbelief, and the little group stared back at her, leaning towards one another, curious, whispering. These were the Naiad, presumably – the farmers and vegetable growers.

Little-Marten stood beside her and waited, happy to be at the centre of so much attention. He ran his
fingers
casually through his dark curls, as though being in charge of a giant was all in a day’s work to him.

‘What’s your name?’ said Midge, and the Ickri youth jumped sideways. He looked up at her and quickly recovered himself.

‘Little-Marten,’ he said, almost inaudibly. He swallowed, and then said boldly, ‘I knows thine.’

‘Do you?’ said Midge.

‘Aye. ’Tis
Girl
. I heard them say.’

‘No,’ said Midge, turning away from the strange sight of the distant Naiad to look at him. ‘I
am
a girl. Like you’re a . . .’ But what was he? A boy? Or would that be like a foreign word to him? ‘Girl is the same as . . . maid,’ she said. ‘So I’m a girl, a maid, but my
name
is Midge.’

The small brown face looked up at her gravely for a moment, and was then suddenly split apart into a huge grin of delight. ‘Midge? Like this . . .?’ He made a pantomime of scratching his head furiously, as though being bitten by insects.

Midge laughed. ‘Well, sort of. But it also means small, in a way. I
am
small, you see. For my age.’ Little-Marten looked her up and down. ‘Small?’ he said, doubtfully.

‘For my age. For a Gorji, I’m not very big.’

‘Comprend. I am also small, for my years. But I improve, I think.’

‘Yes,’ said Midge. ‘I think I do, too.’

They began to walk slowly along the grassy track that bordered the vegetable plantation. Midge put her
hands
in her pockets, and suddenly realized that she was still carrying Little-Marten’s cap. She must have put it in her pocket as she was saying goodbye to Pegs.

‘Here,’ she said, stooping slightly and handing him the rather battered and greasy piece of brown felt. It looked as though it may have been cut from the crown of an old trilby. Little-Marten reached up and took the object, but he didn’t put it on.

‘Thank ’ee,’ he said shyly, and rolled it up. Midge was curious.

‘Where did you get it?’ she asked. ‘ ’Tis Woodpecker’s cap,’ replied Little-Marten, and there was a note of pride in his voice. ‘ ’Pecker-Petan gave it me when I took the Perch.’ He looked up at her and smiled. ‘I be Woodpecker, now. And I shall be but sixteen fourseasons, next moon.’

He might have been speaking a foreign tongue for all Midge could make of this, but she gathered that her strange companion had been honoured in some way. ‘Gosh,’ she said, ‘that’s very good . . . is it?’

‘ ’Tis,’ said Little-Marten, firmly. He had a quick and lively air about him that Midge found friendly and comforting. There was none of the mysteriousness that surrounded Pegs, who, though also young in years, still seemed older than the universe somehow. Pegs was deep, and distant and wise. Little-Marten was as cheerful as a cricket, and about as capable of keeping still.

‘Looksee!’ he said, and half-hopped, half-flew along the grassy verge in front of her. He had spotted something, a splash of colour – bright yellow – on the path
ahead
. He crouched down and picked up a bunch of flowers that had been laid on the verge. His quick eyes scanned the plantation, as he waited for Midge to catch up.

‘Thine,’ he said simply, and handed her the little bouquet. Midge took the flowers. The stalks had been neatly bound with dry grass.

‘Mine?’ she said. ‘Are you sure they’re for me? Who are they from?’ No one had ever given her flowers before. Little-Marten looked about him again and shrugged. Midge sniffed the bouquet and said, ‘Well, if you really think that they were left there for me, then thank you – whoever. I love buttercups.’

‘Not buttercups,’ said Little-Marten, combing his brown fingers through his curls. ‘Celandines.’ He glanced up at her as he spoke, and his fingers paused as he caught a glimpse, over the giant’s shoulder, of a grey and white figure moving through the trees. He didn’t see who it was. So. The archers had been sent to follow them after all. Little-Marten frowned, irritated that Maglin had apparently not seen fit to trust him.

‘Come,’ he said to Midge. ‘Away.’ He spat, unselfconsciously, into a clump of cow parsley, and continued along the verge. Midge followed, and couldn’t help looking at the little fleck of white spittle on the plant as she passed.

They made their way through the tall rough grass that marked the end of the Great Clearing, and walked among the cedar trees on the downward slope of the East Wood. Once again the heady scent of wild garlic
rose
up from below as they clambered sideways down the slippery shale path towards where the caves were cut into the side of the hill. Little-Marten, nimbler on his feet than Midge, paused for a few moments to wait for her, watching the clumsy giant as she gingerly negotiated the steep descent. He instinctively looked across the banks of shale towards the mouth of the large cave where he had first encountered Henty, the Tinkler maid – and was absolutely astonished to see her appear once again . . .

From the darkness she came, as before, not dancing this time, but in a sudden movement nonetheless – as though someone had been trying to hold her back and had then let her go. She threw her hair back, glanced behind her, defiantly it seemed, and stood framed in the dark mouth of the cave. Her eyes became huge as they fixed upon the Gorji giant, who came skittering and sliding down the stony path. Little-Marten caught the dull glint of some metallic object, which Henty clutched in one of her hands. He couldn’t see what it was.

‘Whoo!’ said Midge, arriving in a scatter of stones and dust. ‘It was easier getting up there than it is coming back down again.’ She locked her right foot firmly against a hawthorn root and leaned forward, one hand upon her knee, the other still clutching her bouquet of yellow flowers. ‘Phew!’

A couple of seconds passed in silence and Midge glanced at Little-Marten, wondering at his sudden stillness. She followed his gaze and saw the object of his attention standing in the mouth of the cave. It took
her
by surprise. The bright eyes of the Tinkler maid were staring straight at her, and Midge let out a little gasp. She was just so beautiful. Perfect she was, a perfect, perfect thing, utterly amazing, and wonderful.

‘Who’s this?’ she murmured to her escort. Little-Marten hesitated. He had never spoken the name aloud before – though he had whispered it to himself, aye, and many a time.

‘ ’Tis . . . Henty,’ he said, at last, reverently. And – now that he had a legitimate excuse – he said it again: ‘Henty.’

The little figure in the mouth of the cave turned once more to look behind her, as though distracted momentarily, then shook her head and stepped further forward into the sunlight. She stood, barefoot, on the rough grey shale that sloped away from the entrance to the cave, her small pale hands cupping some object to her. A single brief glance at Little-Marten, and the dark eyes, wide with wonderment, turned to gaze at Midge once more. Then she spoke. Her voice seemed distant, tiny, yet very clear – and filled with excitement.

‘Be you Celandine?’ she said.

‘What?’ said Midge.

A sharp memory came rushing back to her, apparently unconnected to this moment, yet so powerful, so strong, that she could almost taste it. She was sitting on her father’s shoulders, and they were standing by a gate looking at a big grey horse in a field. Her mum was there. Her mum said, ‘Oh, look – violets! Aren’t they sweet?’ And she stooped to pluck something from
the
grass beside the gate. Her mum had then reached up to Midge, high as she was, higher than the world on her father’s shoulders, and handed her a small flower. ‘Look, Margaret, a violet.’ It was blue, and she could see it now, the small blue flower, coming up towards her and the sun shining on her mother’s upturned face. She had held the flower, and sniffed at it as the big grey horse began to amble slowly, heavily, towards the gate. Tall as she was, on her father’s shoulders, the horse, shaking its massive head alarmingly, was taller still. It was huge and alive, and it made funny whiffly noises as it came up to them. She began to be frightened. ‘Don’t worry, sweetheart.’ Her father’s voice. ‘She won’t hurt you. It’s only old Violet, come to say hello. Hello, Violet. Hello, old thing.’ Her father’s hand reaching out to pat the massive head. Violet. Midge had dropped her flower and begun to cry. She hadn’t understood how the tiny blue flower and the huge grey horse could be the same thing.

‘What?’ she said.

‘Be you Celandine?’

Midge raised her bunch of yellow flowers to her nose and sniffed at them. Celandines. That was where that long-forgotten memory had sprung from: the name of a flower being the name of something else also. The fairy girl thought that she was
called
Celandine. But why would she think that?

‘No,’ she said. ‘My name is Midge. Well, it’s Margaret, really, but nearly everyone calls me Midge. Henty’s a nice name. That’s what you’re called isn’t it
–
Henty?’ She looked at the beautiful little creature – how pale her skin was, strange, and so unlike the nut-brown complexion of her now silent guide.

But the Tinkler maid didn’t answer. She seemed disappointed somehow, and uncertain. She looked down at her hands and made as if to move closer, then paused and began to back away again. Finally she ran forward, her bare feet making a light tip-tap sound on the grey shale, and reached up to Midge with both hands. She was holding up a small cup or bowl. For a moment, Midge had the startled idea that it was a begging bowl and that she was required to put something in it. Then she realized that the object was being offered to her. She stooped to take it with her free hand, her fingers making brief contact with the cool delicate hands of the woodland girl. Henty immediately turned and ran back towards the safety of the cave, her long black hair streaming behind her.

‘Henty!’ Little-Marten’s voice sounded almost desperate. ‘Don’t go . . .’

But Henty, glancing once behind her – at Midge, not at Little-Marten – ran into the darkness and was gone.

Midge looked down at Little-Marten and saw the anguish on his small brown face. ‘Is she your . . .?’ she began to say, and then thought better of it. ‘She’s
very
pretty,’ she said instead.

Little-Marten muttered, ‘She’m a Tinkler,’ and turned away. ‘Come,’ he said. He began to make his way down the slope once more, and Midge followed. The back of his neck had gone quite red, she noticed.