The Various (28 page)

Then Uncle Brian turned round and leaned back against the sink, his arms folded. He still looked a bit cross. ‘It’s my . . . let’s get this right . . . it’s my grandfather’s sister. So that makes her my great-aunt. She’d have been your great-great-aunt.’

‘What, she’s Midge’s great-great-aunt too?’ said George.

‘Well, yes, you see, Midge’s mum is my sister, Christine. So
my
grandad was Christine’s grandad too.
So
my grandad’s sister, my great-aunt, was Christine’s great-aunt too. Which makes her Midge’s great-great aunt as well as yours.’

‘It
is
confusing though,’ said Midge. ‘I never knew that I had a great-great-aunt.’

‘Well, I could probably explain it better on a piece of paper,’ said Uncle Brian, ‘but, yes, she’s one of your relatives, ancestors, whatever.’

They sat in silence and looked at the picture. The girl seemed to stare back at them, and past them, the dark eyes far away, looking beyond the camera at something else. The pale round face was echoed by the blurred clock face in the background. Twenty-five past ten. Unusual, those dark eyes seemed, in combination with such fair hair – a flossy cloud that must have been the despair of whoever had charge of it. The girl’s dress had many buttons and the high collar was drawn up tight about her slim neck. Her boots, Midge thought, must have taken all morning to put on – so long and complicated were the lacings, criss-crossed from instep to shin. She could imagine what it must have been like to put them on . . .

‘What’s that in her lap?’ said George. He had asked this question before – had had this conversation before – but was secretly intent on improving his father’s temper, till such time as he could safely reintroduce the topic of the tree house.

‘Don’t know,’ said Uncle Brian. ‘Looks like a rattle or something. Although she’d have been a bit old for that. They might be bells, those little round things. She lived here, you know – in this house – grew up here.’

‘And went nuts,’ said Katie, bluntly.

‘Yes,
thank
you, Katie – always useful to hear the informed opinion of a medical expert. Certainly she had . . . problems.’

‘But she’s so beautiful,’ said Midge. ‘I love her hair. She doesn’t
look
, you know . . . mad . . . or ill or anything. What was her name?’

‘Oh, lovely name,’ said Uncle Brian, cheering up a bit. ‘Celandine. Unusual, I think, for the time. They were quite a well-to-do family, so to be named after anything less exotic than a rose or a lily would have been a little out of the ordinary. A celandine isn’t even a garden flower, really – more of a woodland thing. I like it, though. Celandine. Has a ring to it.’

‘What was the matter with her?’ said George, encouraging his father more, letting him talk his way out of his bad mood.

‘Oh, voices, I think – hallucinations. Seeing and hearing things that weren’t really there.’

‘Like what?’ Midge started to say – although her tongue seemed to have gone all funny. She swallowed and tried again. ‘Like
what
things that weren’t really there?’

‘Well . . . like . . . fairies, I suppose, for a kick off. And for want of a better word.’

Chapter Fifteen

THE DRONE OF
the Counsellors’ voices below mingled with the surrounding hum of summer insects, and Little-Marten’s aching head began to droop. High among the bleached and leafless branches of the Rowdy-Dow tree, there was nowhere to hide from the glaring sun, and no escape from the dull drubbing beat that thumped at his temples. Sick with apprehension, and dizzy with long hours of waiting in the heat, he clung miserably to his Perch and cradled the polished clavensticks – almost too hot to hold – against the soft leather of his jerkin.

After closing the wicker gates of the East Wood tunnel upon the Gorji maid, Little-Marten had fearfully made his way back through the humid forest, keeping well away from the main paths – and expecting at every minute to be waylaid by Scurl. He was alone and frightened among the silent looming trees, from any one of which a sudden arrow might come, and so by the time he had reached the relative safety of Counsel Clearing his clothes were sticking to him with the
perspiration
of terror. He thought in desperation to fling himself before Maglin, to tell all and beg protection – but why would the fearsome General take the part of the lowly Woodpecker against his own captain? And Scurl’s cronies would back their leader’s word, for certain sure. Snivelling would do no good – ’t would make things worse, if worse they could be.

In the end he had sought out Aken and simply reported that the giant had gone. His other troubles he had kept to himself – he said nothing of what had happened at the spring. Aken, preoccupied, had merely glanced at him and sent him home. Little-Marten had then spent a fearful night, sleepless in dread anticipation of the wrath of Scurl, who would surely come and strangle him if he once closed his eyes.

And now, today, he had been forgotten. He had sat upon his Perch, hour after hour, awaiting orders with his head bowed, and slowly roasting in the unforgiving sun. The voices of the Elders and the tribe leaders rose and fell, endlessly. It was supposed to be a closed Counsel, yet few could keep away, and around noon more of the Various arrived in the clearing below, to listen, respectfully at first, to the long arguments of their leaders – but gradually, as the impossibility of their predicament became clearer, to disrupt and argue. The farmers and fishers, their wives and children, came in from the plantation, until soon all but the Tinklers and Troggles were gathered beneath the Rowdy-Dow tree – summoned, not by the clavensticks, but by rumours of disaster. The Gorji
were
coming. The Gorji were coming – nobody knew when, but soon. The noise grew louder. Little-Marten could hear Maglin’s voice, calling for order.

He rested his head on his forearm and looked down at the crowd. He saw Tod and Spindra, returned in the night from the Gorji settlement, and whose opinions on the ways of giants were now in great demand. The news of Lumst’s death, slain by a Gorji felix, had caused many a mouth to fall open in horror – though few would have known who Lumst was. He saw his father arguing with ’Pecker-Petan – not violently, but red in the face nevertheless, tapping the finger of one hand against the palm of the other as he made his point. Then Little-Marten saw Scurl.

The Ickri captain had appeared, alone, at the edge of the clearing, and was now making his way through the crowd. He looked up and caught Little-Marten’s eye, paused for a second, fixing on him, and then held him in his impassive gaze as he calmly continued to weave his way among the restless woodlanders. Little-Marten felt the back of his neck go cold, prickly cold, even in the searing heat, and was certain that Scurl was coming for him then and there. He was going to shoot him, put a feathered arrow straight through him, in front of the whole crowd – Maglin or no Maglin. He gasped and shrank back against the hot dry trunk of the dead tree.

Scurl had stopped. He was standing next to his father and Petan. The two old men were still arguing. Scurl looked at the ageing fletcher and then looked back at Little-Marten. He raised his thick black
eyebrows
and, with a horrible smile, drew a lazy finger across his throat. What did he mean? What was he going to do? Little-Marten wrapped an arm back around the tree trunk behind him, trying to steady himself, trying to focus. It was so hot. The sweat trickled into his eyes and he couldn’t seem to see properly.

Scurl, standing behind old Marten, raised his hand and suddenly clapped it down on the fletcher’s shoulder. Little-Marten saw his father turn, his expression startled, as Scurl quickly whispered something in his ear. Then Scurl pointed up at the Rowdy-Dow tree, sharp white teeth showing in a wolfish grin, and his father looked across. His father smiled up at him and began to laugh. Petan leaned over in query, one hand to his ear. Scurl muttered something to him and Petan also looked up into the Rowdy-Dow tree. Then he began to laugh as well. What – what was happening? Scurl had his arm around his father’s shoulder, as though he were a friend. Like three old friends, the men were sharing a jest. They were waving at him. The laughing faces, three laughing faces, like wurzel lanterns, seemed to rise up strangely then, on the noise of the crowd, lifted high upon the noise of the darkening crowd, before spinning away into blackness. Hwa hwa hwa!

The Woodpecker’s wings must have half-opened by instinct, for his limp body spiralled down into the noisy throng, to slump, more or less unharmed, at the feet of Glim, the archer. Glim’s wife, Zelma, gave a
little
gasp of shock but then quickly moved towards the crumpled figure. ‘ ’Tis Little-Marten,’ she said, kneeling on the dusty earth and looking up at Glim. The archer leaned forward. ‘He’s in a swound. ‘Tis the heat, most likely. We’d best bring him to shade.’

The tribespeople in the immediate vicinity of the Rowdy-Dow tree had pulled back in surprise, momentarily silenced by the incident, but seeing that Little-Marten was already beginning to stir and groan as Glim lifted him up into a sitting position, they gradually returned to more urgent considerations. Fletcher Marten and Petan, who had seen the young Woodpecker fall, pushed their way anxiously through the crowd and helped Glim and Zelma to carry the invalid into the shade of the trees. He was still, miraculously, holding on to the clavensticks. They propped him against the cool trunk of a great sycamore, and Zelma sent her husband for water.

‘He’ll mend,’ she said to old Marten, seeing the worried look on the fletcher’s wrinkled face. ‘He’s been too long in the sun – and no cap for his curls neither. ’Tis no small thing to sit up in that tree from sun-wax till noon.’

‘You’m right there,’ said Petan, with feeling – he remembered such duties all too clearly. ‘How be doin’, young ’un?’

Little-Marten had turned a pale yellow colour and didn’t look at all well, but he groaned and said, ‘I improve.’

Glim returned with a stoup of water, and old Marten lowered himself stiffly on to one knee to offer his son
a
drink. The lad took a few sips, and the fletcher dipped his fingers into the plain wooden bowl, bathing the bruised forehead of his son in cooling drops of water.

‘Don’t ’ee try such frolics again,’ he said softly. ‘I were near frit to death.’

Little-Marten was properly conscious now, and beginning to remember what had happened. He looked over his father’s shoulder, anxiously searching for Scurl – but the Ickri captain was nowhere near. ‘Scurl . . .’ he whispered, grasping urgently at his father’s woollen sleeve, ‘he means us harm . . . he . . . put his finger on his throat . . . he wants to . . . kill me . . .’

‘Scurl? No, no,’ said old Marten, ‘bide still. You’m all mazed. Scurl means ’ee no
harm
– he were makin’ jest wi’ I and old ’Pecker-Petan, thass all. ’Twere a bit o’ chaff, nothing more.’

‘But ’tis so, Father – he tried to shoot the giant . . . then Mad Maven was there . . . Tulgi’s dead . . .’

‘Hush, boy . . . nobody’s dead but a Troggle. You’m mazy . . .’

‘Let him rest,’ said Zelma, ‘that’s what he wants now. Close your eyes, Little-Marten, and take some ease. Come, Petan, Marten, leave the lad be. We’ll return presently. He’ll do better without us fretting round him. Rest now.’

Little-Marten closed his eyes obediently – he would have liked nothing more than to sleep peacefully beneath the trees – but he was still whispering ‘no, ’tis so, ’tis so,’ as the others drew quietly away.

* * *

Maglin was finding it warm work trying to maintain some sort of order in the crowd. All attempts at reasoned debate had come to naught, and once it became clear that the Elders and tribe leaders could offer no immediate plans or solutions regarding the imminent arrival of the Gorji destroyers, the task of keeping control became increasingly difficult. Ba-betts had remained in the Royal Pod all morn – not that Maglin wished her present. His own archers were scattered who knows where, and those who were distantly visible, Benzo and the like, were more intent upon having their own say than in quieting the rising hubbub. Scurl was nowhere to be seen.

Only faithful Aken was on hand to help. Together they moved among the confused woodlanders, separating those who were close to blows and ordering one and all to return to their homes. If there had been any likelihood of this happening, a fresh piece of startling news soon put paid to it. Another death – Tulgi had been killed!

The rumour flew from mouth to mouth – Tulgi was murdered! Killed yestere’en by the mad hag! She had slain him with curses – with evil looks – with poisoned darts! The noise grew to a crescendo. What was happening to their world? They didn’t understand.

Maglin glanced over at the Rowdy-Dow tree. Where had that hemmed Woodpecker got to? He caught a glimpse of Petan’s white head, bobbing among the crowd, and plunged in after it.

* * *

On hearing the news of Tulgi’s death, old Marten and Petan immediately remembered what Little-Marten had said. Perhaps the youth’s words were not all the result of his fall. Together they pushed their way back to the edge of the clearing and hurried over to the sycamore tree. Little-Marten had gone.