The Various (47 page)

She had thought that the news she brought – the wonderful news of how the forest was to remain undisturbed, and its secrets undiscovered – would provoke more of a reaction from her friend than it seemed to. Pegs shook back his head, as though releasing a tension in his neck muscles, then turned to look at her. For a long moment he gazed into her eyes, searching, it appeared, puzzled almost.

I too have dreams, my friend. And through them I see ever more clearly. I am flying towards a great light, and as the light grows ever brighter, so does my understanding of what is, and was, and will be
.

‘But . . .
I
had a dream like that!’ cried Midge, astonished. ‘I was flying . . . towards a light . . . and
you
were there!’

Yes. I was there. Be accepting, maid, accepting of who you are and of what may happen to you. And know this – all that may happen has already happened. Aye, and all that has happened will happen again. Know that there is a circle, unjoined as yet, and that you are a part of it. Know also that you will come to no harm. Have no fear, and you will take no ill from this – I am certain of it
.

Midge had expected a little more gratitude for the fact that she had brought a promise of safety for Pegs. She felt a bit peeved, suddenly, that he talked as though it was to be the other way about – that he was promising her own safety. Easy to say, now that all danger seemed to be past, she thought. And those other things he said . . . she simply didn’t understand.
They
just seemed to be riddles.

‘Well, I very nearly
have
come to harm, once or twice,’ she said. ‘That time when Scurl tried to shoot me – and he would have done too if it hadn’t been for . . . Maven.
And
that other time with Benzo. If you hadn’t been there, then, well . . . I don’t know what would have happened.’

Yet I
was
there. And am there. And will ever be there. As you were there, when I lay broken beneath a cruel wheel, and were ever there. Where else may we be, other than where we were, and are, and will be?

‘What? How do you mean? Do you mean that it’s all . . . I don’t know the word . . . I can’t think of it . . .’ She knew there was a word somewhere, but it had gone. ‘And what about Maven? Who
is
she, anyway?’

I cannot say. But I begin to see who
you
are, and what you are . . . and I say again – be accepting, and have no fear. Have no fear, Midge, no matter what may betide. And now, enough – for here are others, eager for your news
.

Henty and Little-Marten were making their way
along
the bank of the little stream. Shy with her at first, they were, tongue-tied, as she was with them. No amount of meetings could ever diminish the strangeness of it all. It would never feel comfortable, normal. She didn’t belong here. But the couple seemed glad to see her, and glad of the excuse to be away for an hour – for they had said nothing to Tadgemole yet, nor to anyone, of their being together. A union between an Ickri and a Tinkler was unheard of – and it was doubtful that either of their fathers would have approved. Eventually, they hoped, it might be accepted – but for the moment it was a secret, and besides, the future of the forest and of all the Various was so uncertain that now was not the time to seek approval.

But here was Midge, the Gorji maid, with news to gladden their hearts, and give them hope. The crisis had passed, they learned. They could not comprehend the details, and nor were they interested – they understood only that the forest was not to be destroyed, and that their peace would remain undisturbed. For the time being, at least, they were safe – and this was news indeed.

‘Nothing will change,’ said Midge. ‘I promise. And nobody will ever come here. Everything will be like it was – better, now that you don’t have to worry any more.’

Little-Marten and Henty were very happy at this, and inwardly planned to launch the announcement of their union on the tide of good news that they would bring to their fathers. Pegs remained thoughtful, though.

I knew in my heart that your coming here was meant to be – and that with your coming the wheel of our story would begin to turn again. Yet, as I have said, the circle remains unjoined, and we are not yet free to come and go as we will. For this is the birthright of all travelling tribes – to travel – and we have stayed here too long. We are but visitors here, maid – we come, and we go. All of us are but visitors, aye, even the Gorji – though few of them know it. For today, and this news, I am glad – and those who wait now for word in Counsel Clearing will be glad also. This will still the unquiet hearts, and bring us peace where all has been upset. Yet the soil remains thin, and the woods are not as fruitful as they were. We have some respite, but cannot stay forever. We shall talk again, maid – you and I – a task remains concerning the Touchstone, and I believe that your part is not yet played entire. There are other times to come – aye, other times to come. Remember that. Briefly parted, then, maid. And soon united, I hope
.

‘Yes. Soon united, Pegs – I hope so too. Goodbye, Henty. Goodbye, Little-Marten – you know where I’ll be from now on. Right here.’

The Tinkler maid stepped shyly forward, her beautiful dark eyes shining with pleasure, and she offered some bright object in her outstretched hand. It was the tinsy bowl. ‘A gift,’ she said. ‘And now ’tis mine to give. A gift from my father – a cup of kindness to thee for my safe return.’

‘Well, I’m not to thank for that,’ said Midge. ‘But I’d love to have it, and I shall keep it always, I promise. I never did get the chance to look at it properly.’

‘ ’Twas for Celandine,’ said Henty. ‘She that showed
us
how to sing. See – ’tis rubbed up now.’

‘Do you really think I should take it?’ Midge was speaking to Henty, but she glanced at Pegs. The white horse bowed his graceful head slightly.

It is for you, as it ever was. You should take it
.

Midge took the little bowl, polished and gleaming in the sunlight, and saw the finely engraved figures, tiny people, around the outer rim. And there was the picture of Celandine, standing in their midst. All their mouths were open. They were
singing
. Of course – now she could see it. And on the inside of the bowl, around the inner rim, was engraved the name Celandine. It was a beautiful, lovely thing.

‘They’re all
singing
,’ said Midge. ‘It’s gorgeous. Thank you, Henty. You’ll have to tell me the story of this – I shall come and see you, and we’ll sit down together, and you can tell me all about it.’

‘I can do singing,’ said Little-Marten proudly. ‘I be learning.’

The Naiad field workers straightened their backs and looked across the plantation as the white horse appeared among the cedar trees at the corner of the East Wood. They saw him pause there for a few moments with the Woodpecker and the Tinkler maid, then walk on, alone, towards Counsel Clearing. Maglin, they knew, would be waiting there, with the Elders and the tribe leaders – and Ba-Betts, perhaps, if she were up betimes. There had already been a reprieve, or so they had heard when Maglin and Pegs had returned the previous day – the forest might
survive
for a little longer. Another season, two seasons, maybe more. And now Pegs had met with the Gorji maid once again – she whose arrival would no doubt bring many changes, like the arrival of that other maid, so long ago. Whether those changes would be for good or ill they could not yet tell, but optimism and hope were in their nature – as it must be in the nature of all those whose lives are precarious. Perhaps there would be more news. They laid down their implements, and made their way to Counsel Clearing, to listen to whatever it was that the winged horse had to say.

But the Woodpecker and the Tinkler maid slipped away by themselves. They knew all there was to know, they felt, and more. Had they not faced the worst that the Gorji world could throw at them – certain death? And had they not clung to each other in that moment, prepared to face it together, rather than be separated? What else did they need to know? They would listen to no more speeches, or declarations or wordy arguments. There were other words, and better ways of using them.

Midge carefully parted the brambles at the gates of East Wood and slowly climbed the steep banks of the gully. She remembered the last occasion she had done this – her blind panic, her torn clothes, and her vow never to return. How differently she felt today.

Near the top of the gully she fumbled her footing slightly and put out a hand to steady herself. Her eye fell upon a small yellow flower, nestling in the rough
grass
, and her fingers seemed to reach out to it as she stumbled forward. It was a celandine, a single late bloom, and she crouched down on the bank to examine it. The moment seemed to have some sort of meaning, and she thought she would pick the flower and carry it home with her. But she didn’t. Instead, she turned round for some reason and looked back towards the brambles at the head of the gully. Standing down below, motionless beside the little stream, was a stooping figure – a fantastic creature, wreathed in trailing strands of ivy, robed in tattered emerald, hair and hands and features daubed in viridian. Midge looked down in shock at the silent figure, feeling that of all the strange things these woods had revealed to her this was surely the strangest – this fey yet deadly woodland spirit, this wild apparition, her guardian angel. Maven-the-Green.

Still as stone at the water’s edge, the crooked figure returned her wondering gaze, but made no sound and gave no sign – a woodland statue, expressionless, unfathomable. She reminded Midge of carvings seen in foreign shrines, there forever, decked in offerings, watching a changing world through changeless eyes.

If there had been a moment when she might have spoken, then that moment had passed. Midge felt calm, and content just to sit and stare – as one might stare at a deer or a fox in a rare and privileged encounter, each aware that the one does not belong in the other’s world, each aware that the one means the other no harm, a mirrored glance of curiosity and acknowledgement, before travelling on.

She picked the celandine after all, held it up for Maven to see, and thought that she detected the ghost of a reaction – the slightest inclination of the head, perhaps, the faintest of smiles. Maybe she had been mistaken – at any rate she was reminded, as she held up the flower, of the bunch of celandines that had been laid beside the woodland path, and she thought that she knew whose hand had placed them there for her. She rose to her feet and turned to go. After a few paces it became impossible to resist a last quick glance over her shoulder – even though she knew in advance that the figure would no longer be there.

Back down Howard’s Hill she walked, holding the cup of kindness, feeling the rounded lip of the rim between her fingers. A warm haze hung over the wetlands, softening the colours of the landscape and the rooflines of Mill Farm, down below. The air was alive with the sounds of insects and birds, everything busy doing what it was supposed to be doing. She had done what
she
was supposed to do, she felt – and soon would be as busy as they. But not today. There would be plans to make, and conversations to have, and a million things to think about. There would be architects and builders and decorators. There would be furniture and wallpaper to choose, schools to visit, clarinet lessons to be organized and everything, everything, everything. And there would be the Various, and other mysteries to unravel. But not today. Today she would lie in the sun.

* * *

She rested on her tummy on top of the low balustrade wall in front of the house, feeling the warmth on her back, and turning the little bowl round and round between her fingers as she gazed at the pictures. She thought, I live here. My name is Margaret Walters, and I live at Mill Farm, near Withney, Somerset.

Margaret Walters – nobody ever called her that, except when they had a supply teacher taking the register at school . . . Thomas Vincent, Margaret Walters, Astral Weekes. Then everyone would laugh, because it was never Margaret and Astral, always Midge and Azzie. She would miss Azzie. But she could come down from London, like Mum had said, and visit. Azzie would love it here.

She scratched at the flaky grey lichen with her fingernail, and tried to think of other things she would miss: trips to the mall on a Saturday afternoon, she supposed, and looking at the clothes. Mr McColl, her English teacher – he was a laugh. But then she thought, oddly enough, of Tojo – and thought that she would miss
him
almost as much as she would miss anything in London. And that was odd, because she’d hated Tojo when he was alive. He was part of Mill Farm though, a powerful presence – terrible, yet awe-inspiring at the same time. Like having a tiger or a grizzly bear in the yard. And now he was gone forever.

She wondered about Celandine and all the questions that remained unanswered, about the Touchstone, and what Pegs had said about there being other times to come. What sort of times? And all that business about being visitors – all just visitors. What
had
he meant by that? Was Tojo just a visitor? Was
she
?