The Stones of Ravenglass (12 page)

Timoken lifted a block of stone out of the willow basket. Measuring seven paces from the edge of the cliff, he laid the stone on the ground. One by one he put the blocks in a straight line, then stood back and regarded his small wall with a frown of concentration. What next? Where to begin building a castle?

The ancestors had been standing as motionless as statues. Now they came alive and placed their blocks side by side, continuing Timoken’s line. When they stood back, their wide mouths were closed, their lips didn’t move, but a sound came from them; a deep humming and, from somewhere beyond the hum, drumbeats.

Timoken had always multiplied with his hands. Why not his feet? Leaping on the first stone, he began to sing. He ran along the line and back again, still singing. Eighteen blocks became thirty-six; thirty-six became seventy-two. The line grew longer, the song became louder, and the drumbeats crescendoed.

‘One hundred and forty-four,’ Timoken sang. ‘Two hundred and eighty-eight; five hundred and seventy-six; one thousand, one hundred and fifty-two . . .’

The thousand blocks multiplied, their line snaked along the cliff-top; it edged through the sparse trees and disappeared into the shadows. The line became a wall, two blocks, three blocks, four blocks high. The thin moon descended and Timoken rested beside his camel. He laid his head against Gabar’s warm flank, and fell asleep.

When he opened his eyes again, the sun was up, but Timoken sat in shadow. He was staring at a red wall. His gaze travelled up the wall, higher and higher. His eyes widened so much, he thought they might pop out of his head. For, standing before him, was a great, red castle.

Timoken stepped back; back and back until he nearly fell off the edge of the cliff. The castle loomed above him. It didn’t resemble any that he’d seen on his travels through Europe, and it was not at all like Castle Melyntha.

Dizzy with astonishment, Timoken followed the great red wall as it stretched towards the sun. Facing south, he found two broad pillars, one each side of a massive wooden door. Hardly believing what he saw, Timoken walked out into the trees. When he had gone some distance he looked back, half expecting the castle to have vanished. It hadn’t. What he saw kicked at his heart like a giant’s foot. He was looking at a building with a domed roof and four steeply pointed towers. Apart from its colour, the building was an exact replica of the palace where he’d been born.

He ran back to Gabar, his heart pounding. When he saw the camel, idly munching dry grass, Timoken cried, ‘Look! Look! Can you see?’

‘I’m not blind,’ said Gabar.

‘Did I build this in my sleep?’ Timoken pointed at the great red wall.

‘Hardly,’ said the camel. ‘The spirits made it.’

‘My ancestors,’ – Timoken sank to his knees – ‘from the secret kingdom.’

The spirit ancestors had gone, leaving him with a home fit for a king. But who would live in it?

Timoken rocked back and forth. His dream had come true. The dream he had held for more than two hundred years; and now he knelt before his dream, too amazed and too fearful to enter it. ‘I must,’ he told himself.

He got to his feet and walked round to the massive doors. He pushed and they opened. Inside was a courtyard paved with coloured stones. Timoken crept across the glassy floor. Ahead lay five arches. He took the centre arch and walked down a long passage. At the end was a room bright with painted walls and patterned carpets. A gold couch stood on a raised platform and, in his mind’s eye, Timoken saw his parents sitting on their golden couch, just as they had before their kingdom was invaded.

Timoken brushed away his angry tears and ran out of the palace. He wanted to tell someone, he wanted to share his wonderful new home.

Leaping on Gabar’s back, he urged the camel into the air. ‘We must find Eri!’ he cried. ‘And Sila and Karli.’

‘Your family,’ snorted Gabar.

‘Yes,’ said Timoken, happily realising the truth. ‘But they could never replace you, Gabar.’

‘No,’ said the camel.

They flew above the forest, and Timoken peered down through the trees. He saw the clearing, or thought he saw it, but the shelter had gone. ‘Down,’ he told the camel.

Gabar landed in an empty clearing. There was no sign that anyone had ever been there. No charred remains, no cut wood, no chewed bones.

Timoken slipped off the camel’s back. A twig snapped; a bush rustled. Timoken swung round as a boy emerged from the trees. He was tall, with matted blond hair and a broad forehead lined with scratches.

‘Shrivel my soul,’ said the boy. ‘It’s the one with the fire in his fingers!’

Chapter Thirteen

‘You!’ said Timoken.

‘Thorkil,’ snapped the boy. ‘Rightful Earl of Holfingel.’

They stared at each other, both frowning, and Thorkil’s sister, Elfrieda, emerged from the trees behind her brother. She was followed by several of the children Timoken had seen before.

‘Why are you here?’ asked Timoken.

‘Why shouldn’t we be?’ Thorkil retorted. ‘This isn’t your forest.’

‘But your homes are in the trees,’ said Timoken. ‘Have you left them for good? They were so well hidden.’

‘Leaves fall,’ said Elfrieda in her hard, disdainful voice. ‘We always abandon the tree-houses in autumn.’

‘We can be seen in naked trees,’ added Thorkil. ‘You hadn’t thought of that, I suppose.’

Timoken noticed the dagger in the boy’s belt. Thorkil’s hand rested on the hilt.

The sight of it made Timoken’s fingers itch. ‘There were many more of you,’ he said. ‘Are you all here, somewhere in this forest?’

‘The others were caught,’ Thorkil said bitterly. ‘Edwin’s brother was taken.’

‘My twin,’ said a boy with a long, narrow face. He had small dark eyes and his thin hair was cut in a crooked line just below his ears. ‘Conquerors!’ He spat the word.

‘They were looking for you.’ Elfrieda stared accusingly at Timoken. ‘They saw us in the trees.’

‘When they began to throw their spears we had to come down. Some of us didn’t stand a chance.’ This was said by a boy with long dun-coloured hair. He wore a cap made of straw and feathers that looked very like a bird’s nest.

‘But you stood a chance, for you are here,’ Timoken said bluntly.

‘Wyngate is speaking of the younger ones,’ said Elfrieda. ‘We have longer legs and we can run. The soldiers didn’t bother to follow us.’

‘They caught enough children to work for them,’ Thorkil added bitterly. ‘My friends were too badly wounded to move. I had to leave them.’ It was clear that this distressed Thorkil, although he tried hard not to show it.

Timoken didn’t know what to say. He wondered what had made Thorkil come to this particular forest when there were so many other directions he could have taken.

‘We followed the coast,’ Thorkil said, almost as if he’d read Timoken’s thoughts. ‘Now and again we saw the camel’s footprints. Wyngate is an excellent tracker.’ He nodded at the boy with the bird’s nest cap. ‘I had heard about the Deadly Sands and we avoided them. At the edge of this forest we heard laughter . . .’

‘And singing,’ said Elfrieda. ‘I thought I recognised the tune. We followed the sound. It came from this very spot.’

‘But there was no one here.’ This was said in a quiet voice by a girl who peeped over Elfrieda’s shoulder.

‘Except you,’ said the boy beside her, grinning at Timoken.

They looked very alike, with their thick, dark hair and wide-set hazel eyes.

Timoken judged them to be about twelve and thirteen.

‘I’m Esga,’ said the girl with a smile. ‘He’s Ilgar.’ She gave the boy a friendly poke.

‘I’m called Timoken.’ He was about to introduce his camel when someone laughed, very close to his ear. He stared at the others. They had heard the laughter and looked equally baffled.

‘What’s going on?’ Thorkil demanded.

‘I’m not sure.’ Timoken looked up at Gabar.

The camel blinked. ‘Small family-boy,’ he grunted.

Timoken thought he recognised the laughter. Now he knew it was Karli. But Karli was nowhere to be seen. The others were peering into the trees. Thorkil strode about, kicking the undergrowth. ‘It’s that laugh again. We hear it, but we can’t see it. Why?’

Eri’s wall,
thought Timoken. It had to be. He hadn’t expected it to be so powerful. He was impressed, and then uncertain. What was he supposed to do? Somehow the spell-wall of leaves and flowers had made Eri, Karli, Sila and the shelter invisible.

Thorkil gave up. He shrugged and sat on the ground. ‘Is this where you live?’ he asked. It was clear that he expected Timoken to advise him about where to sleep and what to eat.

The others joined Thorkil on the grass and looked at Timoken hopefully.

‘I sort of live here,’ Timoken admitted. ‘More or –’ He was interrupted by a loud squawk and, looking up, saw Enid hovering above him. She was carrying a large fish in her jaws and appeared to be in some confusion about where to deliver it.

Thorkil and the others leapt up, some of them screaming.

‘What
is
that thing?’ cried Elfrieda, pointing at Enid.

‘A dragon,’ said Timoken. There seemed to be no point in keeping the truth from them.

‘Dragons don’t exist,’ Thorkil sounded uncertain.

Let him think what he wants,
Timoken decided. In a series of hoots and grunts he called to Enid, ‘I can’t find the wizard.’

‘Don’t tell us that you can talk to dragons,’ Elfrieda muttered.

Timoken saw no reason to argue. He was about to go in search of a gap in the spell-wall when Enid suddenly plummeted on to Gabar’s hump. The camel gave an indignant yell.

‘Talons!’ he bellowed, looking beseechingly at Timoken.

‘Your claws are hurting my camel,’ Timoken told Enid.

The dragon curled her talons under her feet, folded her wings and stared at the tree-children with puzzled golden eyes.

The children were equally puzzled, and a little afraid. But they had seen so much that was horrifying and unbelievable, they were not easily daunted. In fact, hungry as they were, most of them showed as much interest in the fish as they did in the dragon.

‘That’s a mighty fine fish,’ Thorkil remarked.

‘Enough for us all,’ said Esga.

‘And some for tomorrow,’ added her brother.

‘Make the dragon give it up!’ Thorkil demanded, looking at Timoken.

‘I won’t make her do anything,’ said Timoken.

‘Then we will.’ Thorkil strode up to the camel. ‘Come on, Edwin, Wyngate. Help me to get that fish.’

‘DON’T YOU DARE!’ boomed a voice.

Thorkil stopped in his tracks. ‘Who said that?’ he asked, in a slightly shaky voice.

‘I did.’ A floating mob of frosty hair materialised just below the camel’s nose. A long, weathered face, with storm-cloud eyes and a silver-streaked beard, appeared beneath the hair and, suddenly, there was Eri. He looked younger, fiercer and more impressive than he had before. It was as if, within his own spell-bound wall, he had become a more definite wizard, not an ageing, tattered man. His staff had acquired a pale and mysterious sheen that was reflected in the wizard’s dark eyes.

Eri’s sudden appearance caused a shocked silence. Even Thorkil’s mouth fell open.

‘So, you would steal my fish, would you?’ Eri stepped close to Thorkil and scowled in the boy’s face.

‘I-I didn’t know it was yours, sir,’ Thorkil stammered.

‘But you knew it wasn’t yours.’ Eri banged his staff on the ground and, immediately, Enid flew down and dropped the fish at his feet. Thorkil had already leapt back, and there was a gasp of wonder as the dragon spread her wings and soared up into the sky.

The group of children watched the dragon disappear above the trees, and Wyngate murmured, ‘Where’s it going now?’

‘Not it,’ said Eri sternly. ‘She. And she’s going to get another fish, seeing as there’s more of us for breakfast that she’d bargained for.’ He covered the fish with leaves and then counted the children’s heads. ‘Ten of you. Hmm. So how many of you were captured?’

‘Some died, sir,’ Edwin said. ‘Near twelve.’

‘Eleven,’ said Thorkil, in a superior voice. ‘I taught them how to count, but they don’t always get it right.’

Edwin scowled and Wyngate said, ‘I could count before I came to the forest.’

‘I asked how many were captured,’ Eri said impatiently. ‘I shouldn’t have thought it a difficult question for one who teaches others to count . . .’ He stared at Thorkil.

The Earl’s son cleared his throat, thought a moment, and then said, ‘There were thirty-three of us, once.’

‘So twelve were taken,’ Eri said thoughtfully. He pinched his forehead.

Timoken was wondering why the wizard was so interested in numbers, when a high, clear voice said, ‘But not us, sir.’

Thorkil gave a start. ‘Sila?’ he said, frowning into the trees.

‘Step out, Sila,’ said Eri. ‘You too, Karli.’

As the two children materialised before them, Timoken observed how much brighter they appeared. Behind the spell-wall they had become what they might once have been, before the conquerors came. Sila had lost the dark circles beneath her eyes and acquired a strong, confident look.

The other children seemed to notice the difference. Astonished by Sila and Karli’s sudden arrival, even Thorkil couldn’t find a word to say.

‘Hullo, Thorkil,’ Karli said boldly.

Thorkil could only stare.

‘So you couldn’t save our friends,’ Sila said accusingly.

Thorkil shook his head.

Elfrieda was the first to find words. ‘I see that a wizard has worked his spells on you.’ She spoke with a familiar sneer in her voice.

‘There’s nothing a good dose of herbs can’t cure,’ Eri told her. ‘Now, we won’t turn you all away, but you’ll have to build your own shelters, and fast; I can feel rain coming on.’

The tree-children stared at the wizard uncertainly.

‘Come on!’ He thumped the ground with his staff. ‘Don’t know how? Then look at this!’ He took a few paces back, waved his shiny staff in the air and murmured something incomprehensible.

Timoken watched as the shelter slowly took shape in the centre of the glade. He noticed that a low wall of leaves and flowers had been laid all round the base.
A double wall of spells,
he thought. Eri wasn’t taking any chances.