The Sword of Straw (23 page)

“Of course,” she answered.

“I thought you knew this place?”

“Only on the borders. I’ve never been so far in.”

After a pause, she added: “Does it matter? When we want to go, I thought you could just—sort of—dream us away.”

“I’ll try,” Nathan said. He wasn’t at all sure he could recapture the certainty of the moment that had brought them there, but he decided not to worry about it. He was lost in the Deepwoods with the princess, and it didn’t matter at all.

He propped himself up on his elbow, looking down at her face, with her eyes half closed against a probing gleam of sunshine and her hair spread out around her, tumbled among the leaves. Then he leaned over and kissed her, a brief, tentative kiss, testing the water. He hadn’t done a lot of kissing but it was her reaction that made him hesitant, rather than his own lack of expertise.

“I don’t think much of that,” the princess said.

At least she hadn’t punched him across the stream in a flash of righteous rage.

Unable to think of anything to say, Nathan turned back to his contemplation of the sky.

“It was awfully quick,” Nell explained. “I thought kisses were supposed to last longer.”

Nathan started up—then lay back again. “I was forgetting,” he said, going on the offensive, “how often you’ve been kissed.”

“I—beg your pardon?”

“From what I’ve seen, it’s already quite—quite customary for the boys around here to kiss you. I don’t really want to join the crowd.”

“Crowd?
Crowd?
How dare you—”

Then
he flipped over, laughing at her, warding off a slap that—fortunately—had no magical force behind it.

This time, the kiss went on for quite a while.

The day drew on. They set off again, going in a direction that the princess insisted was west, claiming she could orient herself by the sun. As it was frequently obscured by trees, however, Nathan felt little confidence in her. It didn’t trouble him. For the moment, nothing troubled him at all.

There were birds singing somewhere above, hidden among the leaves, disconnected trills and descants piercing the quiet of the wood. They saw pink bluebells and lemon-yellow butterflies and grasshoppers that seemed to be made of grass and stick insects like bits of twig. And every so often there would be a whisk of movement among the branches or a ripple in the autumn carpet, as if some swift small creature had passed by.

“Are there many animals living here?” Nathan asked.

“Not as such,” said the princess. “There are squirrels and wood mice and other small rodents, and foxes and deer live on the edge, but that’s about all. Of course, there are the wood-people, or so they say, but you don’t see them very often.”

“Wood-people?”

“Werecreatures. Tree spooks, impies, brownies, gnomelins. There are supposed to be dryads and fauns and waterfay, too, but that’s nearer the mountains; I’ve never been that way. The trees are taller and darker there, and the ground is uneven and rocky, and there are deep pools and steep-sided dells and hollows hidden under leaves where you can fall in and never get out. Kern Twymoor went there to get the special honey to make the poultice for my father’s leg wound. He says he saw a dryad—a wispy little sprite with green hair who ran away when he called to her. Have you ever seen a dryad?”

“I don’t think we have them in my world,” Nathan said, “though they come into stories. Maybe they’ve all gone. But there’s a woodwose at Thornyhill where my uncle lives. We call him Woody.”

“I used to see woses when I was a child,” the princess said. “They’re shy of older humans—I expect we’re too big—but they’ll talk to children, if you stay very quiet, and still, and wait for them to come to you.”

“Are there…many woses here?” Nathan inquired, pointlessly. He already knew the answer.

“Probably,” said Nell. “But they’re very well camouflaged. You don’t see them unless they let you.”

Nathan said nothing. He was thinking:
This is where I found Woody. I must have been here many times, even as a baby. I found Woody, and he talked to me, and I dreamed him into my world, because I wanted a special friend to play with.
The arrogance of what he had done, the appalling responsibility, filled him with horror. Of course, he had been an infant at the time, acting in innocence, ignorant of his own power or its consequences—but somehow that only made it worse, not just selfish and heartless but terrifying. What else might he have done, in those far-off days of childish self-absorption? What other lives might he have uprooted and stolen? Most recently there was Eric—but Eric had been drowning; without Nathan’s impulsive rescue he would have died. And he was happy now, or so it seemed, married to Rowena Thorn, living in a world where he would die of old age after two thousand years of indefinite existence…

The value of a life is not measured by its length,
Bartlemy had told Nathan once—Bartlemy the ageless, who had seen centuries go by, whose oldest friends had died so long ago he couldn’t even remember their names. And then, quoting someone, Nathan didn’t know who:
The moment of the yew tree and the moment of the rose are of an equal duration.

Now, looking at the princess—thrusting the image of Woody to the back of his mind—Nathan understood.
This is a rose-moment,
he thought.
We’re from different worlds, thrown together for a while—a little while—until our fates, or whatever you call it, pull us apart. But what we have, no matter how brief, is as important as a lifetime of loving.
And he knew he must live the moment—live it with every cell in his body—before it slipped away.

Much later, the princess said: “I suppose we ought to go home.” She meant that she ought to return to Carboneck, but Nathan took the point.

“I’ll try,” he said again, “but I’m not sure…”

They were sprawled on a west-facing bank under a huge tree whose shimmery leaves hung down in tassels, swaying at the merest hint of a breeze. The princess allowed Nathan to cradle her in one arm, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Not yet,” she said.

Through a gap in the trees they watched the sky colors change, working their way through sunset before deepening into the blues of evening. A new moon appeared, considerably bigger than ours: the shadowy imprint of great mountain ranges and oceans of dust meant it really did seem to have a profile, with a half-smile, single eye, and flattened nose fitted into the curve. Unfamiliar stars came in its train. Nathan guessed one of them would be a spy-crystal for the Grandir, who might be watching them even now, but there was nothing he could do about it so he put the thought aside. The princess asked him about his own world and he told her—about his mother, and Uncle Barty, and the Grail, and some of his adventures last year. He knew they should leave, the princess would be missed, it was time to take her home, if he could, but this was their magic day—the moment of the rose—and neither of them wanted it to end. The evening grew cooler, and Nell snuggled closer, and Nathan put his arms around her, and felt his heart beat faster, and the tickle of her hair against his face.

Somehow, without meaning to, he fell asleep.

N
athan woke in his own bed, wrapped in an afterglow of happiness that lasted about five seconds. He started upright, swearing, hoping his mother wouldn’t hear—she still thought he was too young for the stronger four-letter words, at least in the home.
I’ve left her there,
he thought,
I’ve left the princess in the Deepwoods on her own. Anything could happen to her…
Nell hadn’t mentioned any hazards in the woods themselves, but it was a long journey back to the city, even if she could find the way, and there were Urdemons waiting in the marshes—and she would believe he had abandoned her. And if she went the wrong way she might wander toward the mountains, and fall into a dark hollow, and never be seen again. He
must
get back to sleep.

He couldn’t.

Since the kidnapping Annie had forgotten her edict about him being grounded, and when in desperation he told her what he had done she suggested they go immediately to consult Bartlemy. “Maybe he’ll have some sort of herbal soporific to
make
me sleep,” Nathan said hopefully. He had tried reaching for the portal in his mind but, as had happened once before, it felt oddly blank, like a door closed against him.

“We’ll see.” Privately, Annie was not so sanguine. “At least he’ll be able to advise you. I’m sure you’ll get back to your princess very soon, one way or another.”

“I must,” Nathan said tensely.

When they reached Thornyhill, Bartlemy didn’t advocate soporifics. “Drugs induce the wrong kind of sleep,” he explained. “Even the mildest sedative can affect your dream patterns. You’d do better to wait for tonight.”

“Herbs aren’t drugs,” Nathan objected, “are they?”

“What do you suppose drugs are made
from
? Think of the opium poppy, the coca plant. A drug is simply a plant that has been rendered down and put through certain chemical processes. The herbal remedy is the drug in its natural state. Happily, most of the remedies that you see nowadays contain herbs or plants that are fairly innocuous and generally legal.”

“What about yours?” Annie asked suspiciously. “Are they innocuous?”

Bartlemy only smiled.

“Or legal?”

“Never mind that,” Nathan said impatiently. “What am I going to
do
?” He was haunted by the memory of Kwanji Ley, left in the Eosian desert to die in the poisonous sunlight. Frimbolus had been right: he was no good for the princess. If anything happened to Nell because of him…

“Remember the time factor,” Bartlemy said. “Different worlds move at different speeds. You might go back in a fortnight only to find it has been just a few hours there, or a few minutes.”

“If I have to wait a fortnight,” Nathan said, “I’ll—I’ll probably kill myself. Anyway, usually when I go back
more
time has passed there, not less.”

“Then concentrate. Focus on the moment to which you wish to return.”

“I have no control—”

“You do sometimes,” Bartlemy pointed out. “You took the princess to the Deepwoods.”

“Yes, but I don’t really know
how
I did it. I’ve been thinking and thinking…There’s an instant when I can make it work—something sort of opens in my mind—and then it closes, and afterward I can’t analyze it, I can’t pin down what I did that was special…It makes me feel so stupid, so
helpless
. And wicked. I keep doing it—I move people about in their own world, or between worlds, for my own selfish amusement—and then someone gets hurt, or dies, and it’s all my fault. When naturalists study animals in the wild they’re not supposed to interfere, even if there’s a baby dying or something really unbearable: it upsets the balance of nature. But I keep interfering—playing God—and it always goes wrong. It always goes wrong…”

Bartlemy passed him a cup of tea, strangely perfumed, which he drank absentmindedly. “Be easy,” the old man said. “Understanding will come. Meanwhile, this princess of yours sounds like a resourceful girl. I’m sure she can look after herself. She’s in a familiar environment, with no immediate danger. And she appreciates the erratic nature of your visits—she must realize you would never deliberately abandon her.”

“She may realize it,” Nathan said, “but she won’t believe it—as a matter of principle. She’ll be furious. I don’t care about that, as long as she’s all right.” Mellowed by the tea, urgency was slipping away from him. He tried to hold on to it, clinging to his panic because it was all he could do—without it he felt distanced from Wilderslee, distanced from Nell, safe and remote in his own universe. He didn’t want remoteness and safety…

“Panic achieves nothing,” Bartlemy said, as if hearing his thoughts. “What’s more, it scrambles the brain—and you need your brain unscrambled, if you are to be of any use to anyone. Try to relax, if you can.”

“I can’t,” Nathan said. “Tonight is just too long to wait. Anyway, I’m afraid I’m so wound up I won’t sleep. What can I do?”

“Go to bed,” said Bartlemy, prosaically, “with a very dull book.”

The day dragged. Nathan knew he should talk to Woody about his discovery in the Deepwoods, or call Hazel—she hadn’t even sent him a text message all week—but although he gained nothing from doing nothing, he still feared any distraction. Annie stayed to supper at Thornyhill but Nathan excused himself, for once indifferent to good food, and walked home alone. At the bookshop there was little to do but worry, so he kept on walking, through the sleepy Sunday village and down to the river. Why he went that way he couldn’t have said—he’d always preferred to walk in the woods, but he might meet Woody there, or even the dwarf, and he wanted no company that day. Something drew him toward the Glyde, a tugging at his mind so imperceptible he barely felt it. The river path was a popular route for dog walkers, who would impinge on his solitude, but he saw none. He flopped down by the same willow-stump where Ellen Carver had sat, earlier that week, and he plucked a grass stem, fiddling with it—preoccupation for his hands—while restless thoughts continued to circle around and around in his head.

But gradually his thoughts slowed. The drowse of a bee investigating a nearby clump of clover soothed his ears. It had rained recently but now it was very hot, and a mist seemed to be rising from the water or the damp ground, turning the sunshine to a golden haze. The bee song became the sound of someone humming, quite close at hand, though there was nobody there. The water was all but silent, meandering lazily with the outgoing tide, but there were the little noises of the riverbank, the plop of a diving frog, the mute splashing of a duck or moorhen looking for food. Nathan found himself hearing the echo of the rhyme from long before.

Reed in the river pool

weed in the stream;

one there a-sleeping

too deep to dream.

Effie Carlow floating in the still water—hadn’t it been a Sunday when they found her? A warm, lazy Sunday just like this. His imagination pictured her—a hunk of sodden clothing tide-driven against the bank—an outflung arm, a drifting hand—algae in her hair. And a little farther down was Riverside House, where Nenufar the sea spirit had risen from the water and tried to drown Annie.
Death from the deep sea…
Strange to think that violence and pain could come here, where the pace of life was slow-to-stop, and everything was so peaceful, so quiet, save for the river song running through his head…

The humming deepened and changed, becoming the buzz of an engine from somewhere upstream, drawing nearer. Presently a boat came into view, a white motor launch chugging slowly downriver. Despite its leisurely passage it looked designed for speed, gleaming with luxury and expense. It should have been too big for the Glyde, but somehow it wasn’t, and in the hazy sunshine it seemed curiously insubstantial, like a ghost-ship seen through the mist on some haunted coastline far away. Nathan couldn’t see who was steering but a woman stood in the bows, a woman as beautiful as the launch, with long pale hair fanning out in a breeze as faint as a sigh. As the boat drew level with Nathan she turned to look at him, and beckoned.

The murmur of the engine didn’t stop, but it seemed to him the boat waited. The river flowed on, and the afternoon drifted, but the launch remained motionless, he didn’t know how, holding against the current. The fancy came to him that it was about to set off on some wonderful voyage, to seas of emerald teeming with jeweled fish, and islands of coral and palm trees, and there was room on board for one last passenger, and somehow—because he was there, because of some chance or fate—that one was him. The boat appeared to be close to the bank, and the woman held out her hand, and he knew he had only to jump, and he would land on the deck, and the engine would rev, and he would be speeding downriver to the sea. He was already on his feet when he heard the dog bark.

A man was coming along the path, still some way off, but the dog was running ahead of him—a dog Nathan had seen around the village before, an elderly black Labrador with a graying muzzle. It seemed to be barking at the boat. The engine accelerated, no longer a gentle hum but suddenly harsh, and the woman drew back, and the launch moved on, blurred by the heat haze, vanishing at last around a bend in the river.

When the man was in earshot Nathan said: “That was a big boat to see on the Glyde. I’m surprised it was allowed.”

“What boat?”

“The motor launch that went past just now. Your dog was barking at it.”

“Don’t know what made the dog bark: he knows you. There’s no boat, lad. You’ve been dreaming.”

“I do that,” Nathan admitted. He was fussing over the dog, ruffling its ears and tickling it under the chin. He knew he hadn’t dreamed. He, of all people, could tell the difference.

“Hot afternoon,” said the walker. Nathan couldn’t recall the man’s name, but he knew his face, and most of the residents in Eade knew him. “You dropped off. They’ve been working you too hard at that school of yours.”

“I expect so,” Nathan said.

He walked home thoughtfully, his mind on something other than the princess.

A
NNIE DIDN’T
return till after dark, and Nathan was in the kitchen making himself a sandwich when he heard the singing. Not the soothing murmur of the river song but a child’s voice, clear and sexless.

The white ship waits by the river strand

for one who will not go.

The silver witch holds out her hand

and sings the river’s flow.

Follow the wake of the sea mew’s flight

ride on the white wave’s crest;

follow the stars of the ocean night

into the dark of the west.

There are stars beneath the rolling wave

that never saw the sky

and burning fish light up the grave

where mermaids go to die.

The white ship waits by the river shore

for one who cannot stay;

the witch will wait a sennight more

to steal your soul away.

The song came from the garden. Nathan opened the back door and stared out. For a second he thought he saw a pale figure, child-sized, glimmering in the shadows; but it was gone before he could be certain. He remembered hiding in the kitchen at Thornyhill while his uncle drew the magic circle, and one of the spirits he summoned there, with the face of a child, and a choirboy’s voice, and eyes as old as Time.

“Thank you for the warning,” he called out, though he wasn’t sure if it
had
been a warning. It might have been a promise.

There was a sound of laughter, clear as a peal of bells, yet afterward he thought it held a note of malice—a pure silvery malice untouched by conscience or maturity.

Nathan closed the door and went back to his sandwich.

Later, in bed at last, he took his uncle’s advice, deciding Walter Scott was dull enough (
The Heart of Midlothian
), besides being full of people speaking Scottish. The print was small, the paragraphs long, the pages thin and crinkly. The words began to shrink and run together; the paper rustled like dead leaves on a forest floor. He was asleep even before he had switched off the light.

But he wasn’t in the wood.

There was music coming from somewhere nearby, the kind of music that is played on the lute and tabor, with a piper leading the tune, piping with enough energy to charm a townful of rats from their holes. Nathan was standing in a courtyard, and the music came from beyond a set of double doors, flung wide onto a great hall or ballroom. People were dancing there, performing the stylized steps and dance figures that Nathan associated with period films. The room was hung with colored lanterns and garlands of autumn leaves, and the dancers wore the medieval costume of Wilderslee, but richer and more sumptuous, with embroidery on cuff and lapel, and borders of fur, and bright jewels peeping out between folds of velvet and silk. He looked for Nell but there was no sign of her, though he was sure this was Carboneck—a different Carboneck from the one he knew, the Carboneck of shadows and decay. Perhaps this was Carboneck in the future, when the curse had gone and Nell had left to marry her preordained prince…That day in the woods was all they had had, all they would ever have, and now he was invisible again, the ghost of a thought haunting a party to which he wasn’t invited, looking for someone who had gone.