The Various (31 page)

Chapter Seventeen

IT WAS THE
lamp-lighter who found Little-Marten, slumped in a heap on the bare floor of the main passageway, just a few yards in from the cave entrance. As the old Troggle-dame passed along the end tunnel, she happened to glance towards the entrance and saw the motionless form, a dark huddle against the harsh light that entered the cave from the outside world. She peered into the glare, drawing her little bundle of tinder and tapers closer towards her. Something there. What was it? Something from the outside. Massie didn’t like the look of it.

She drew closer, and a little closer still, until she was sure – yes, she could see now, the crumpled shape of the wings. It was a heathen. She went to seek help.

They had laid him on a low pallet in a little antechamber, bare but for the guttering tallow candle with its scent of lavender. He had been dimly aware of the strong hands that lifted him, aware of the rough woollen coverlet they had draped over him, the low voices and the soft departing footsteps. And he had slept.

Now he was awake, feeling much better, if astonished at his surroundings. He was conscious of general movement a little distance away – murmured conversations amid the shuffling of many feet – as of a line of people moving along a passageway. Closer still, somebody stirred and yawned. ‘Be you awake, Woodpecker?’

Little-Marten jumped, and sat up, shading his hand against the flickering light of the candle. A small figure was sitting by the open entrance to the stone chamber, leaning against the wall with legs outstretched and arms folded. Beside him, propped against the wall, was a hobble-stick. A little light entered the room from the corridor outside and one or two shadowy faces peeped curiously in, then quickly withdrew – whispering – to rejoin their fellows in the nearby moving line.

‘Aye,’ said Little-Marten at last, combing his fingers through his curls in bewilderment. ‘Awake. But still upsides in the head, I reckon. Who brought me here?’

‘Lamp-lighter found thee,’ said the Tinkler, taking hold of the hobble-stick and rising to his feet with a grunt. ‘And she ran to Tadgemole. Tadgemole would’ve slung thee straight back outside again, I reckon – but his daughter said she knew thee. Said you were Woodpecker, and pled to let thee bide till you’d had chance to speak.’

‘Tadgemole’s daughter?’ whispered Little-Marten, looking more bewildered than ever.

‘Do you
not
know her?’ said his companion. ‘Well I hope you ain’t going to make her out a liar. ’Twould
not
please her father to find her out in an untruth. Terrible fearsome he would be if . . .’

‘Enough, Pank.’

Tadgemole, the cave-dwellers’ leader, had appeared in the entranceway. The stocky figure stepped into the little chamber and, after glancing severely at Pank, stood with his hands on his hips, looking down at Little-Marten. His unsmiling face was colourless, ghostly in the flickering candle-light, and deeply lined.

‘Why did you come here?’ The low tones echoed in the confined space – a strange voice, the accent unlike that of the upper tribes.

‘I . . . was running away,’ said the Woodpecker. He struggled to his feet, feeling uncomfortable to be talking to Tadgemole from his position on the floor. Tadgemole waited, in cold silence, for further explanation.

Little-Marten hung his head. ‘I was running away from Scurl. He reckons to kill me – and has said as much. I . . . I led the giant, the Gorji maid, to the tunnels, as Maglin told me – and Scurl was waiting there. He was like to shoot us both, for he reckoned the maid would bring other Gorji down upon us. Then the old crone . . . Mad Maven . . . she up and killed Tulgi, and she made Scurl to let the maid and I go. And the maid
did
go. But I . . . don’t have nowhere
to
go. Scurl says he’ll kill me – and he will if he finds me. I
would
go too, leave the forest even, if I could – but I don’t have nowhere. And then I run – and I came here. I didn’t mean to. I just . . . came here.’

‘And you thought to – what? Stay here? With Troggles and Tinklers – those your kind despise?’

‘I didn’t think . . .wasn’t thinking . . .’

‘Think on this, then. You of the Ickri bring your troubles upon yourselves – and upon the innocent heads of all about you. I’ll have naught to do with you. Were I to give sanctuary to the longest line of blackguards from all the heathen tribes that ever were, then the last in that line would be an Ickri. These woods were ours long before your kind came, and now we live here perforce, upon your charity, or so you imagine in your ignorance. And you think to crawl in here begging for aid? Who are you?’

‘Little-Marten, the Woodpecker – least I was. Now I be nobody.’

‘Nobody. Well, Master Nobody, I think you must pick up your troubles and take them back to where they came from – for there’s no home for the heathen to be found here. Shameless you are – and all your tribe. And shame you may someday feel.’

‘I do – and did, long afore this day.’

‘What? What do you mean? How?’

‘I came here many a time – to be close . . . to listen . . .’

‘To listen? To spy, was it?’

‘No! The singing . . . I like . . . the singing.’ Little-Marten sought for the words to explain how he felt. ‘They said ’twere but the squawling of throstles, but I come here many and many a time. I hid by the thorn bushes, though ’twere the turn of winter and terrible
cold
, just to hear . . . and I never did hear such . . . could never hear enough. Then I felt shame. Then I wished that I could be – that I were not Ickri – that I were . . .’ – he said it at last – ‘Tinkler.’

Tadgemole took a step back at this, and regarded Little-Marten for a long time, deeply suspicious at first – was he being mocked? But then came the growing conviction that the youth was sincere, had been genuinely moved by whatever he had heard. He turned to look at Pank.

‘Are you listening to this?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Pank, his eyebrows raised in puzzlement.

‘And what do you hear?’

‘A song I never heard before.’

‘Hm. Yes. A good answer. ‘Tis a song I’ve never heard before, either. Bring him to Midnight Almanac. We’re soon to start. Let him hear some songs
he’s
never heard before, and then we shall see about this . . . winged Tinkler. Stay with him, Pank, and mind that he falls into no mischief.’ Tadgemole turned to go, but suddenly remembered something else. ‘My daughter, Henty,’ he said. ‘She knows of you. When have you spoken?’

Little-Marten, whose shoulders had begun to relax slightly, became tense again and said, as truthfully as he could, ‘She . . . found me listening one night. By the caves – here. But she’ve never . . . spoken. Leastways not to I.’

Tadgemole regarded him for a few moments longer, then nodded and left, saying no more.

* * *

‘Come, then,’ said Pank when Tadgemole had gone, ‘or we shall be late.’

The two small figures left the chamber and stepped out into the dim corridor. This was but a short spur, leading off to the right where it joined a larger and wider passageway. Pank led the way, shuffling along on his injured ankle with the aid of his stick, down the dark length of the main passageway. Little-Marten followed, frequently missing his footing on the rough stone floor. Small recesses were set into the tunnel walls at occasional intervals, each containing a tiny oil lamp. These were of clay – little more than a dish with a pinched spout to hold the wick. The burning oil gave off the sweet smell of lavender but not much light, and the distorted shadows thrown across the tunnel made the going seem more confusing than ever to Little-Marten. He was unused to dark cramped spaces, and felt nervous and uncomfortable.

A dim red glow became visible from a side-shoot a little further ahead and there was a sudden
tink tink
of metal upon metal. The sound echoed and bounced around the stone walls for a few moments and the high ring of it seemed to linger in Little-Marten’s ears, even after it had ceased.

‘What’s that?’ he said.

‘Only old Bibber,’ replied Pank, half-turning, and glancing over his shoulder, ‘we’ll give him how-do, shall we? Be sure and speak sweetly now, for he’s ’mazin crotchety – and ’ud fling his hammer at thee for a bad word.’

They approached the entranceway, Little-Marten
following
Pank’s cautious lead, and peered around the corner. A warm radiance fell upon their faces and the smell of burning charcoal was in their nostrils. In the centre of a high round cavern was a glowing furnace, built of metal and stone, and standing over it, was the red-faced and burly figure of Bibber, the Tinkler heavy-smith. He was holding a curved length of dull red metal in a long pair of tongs, and stood examining it, his perspiring brow furrowed into a deep frown. Around the walls hung great metal objects – curious and unfathomable things they seemed to Little-Marten – and on the floor stood a long stone trough, black with soot and half-filled with water. Into this water Bibber suddenly plunged the tongs, and there was a deep bubbling hiss and a cloud of vapour. The billowing cloud seemed to fill the cavern, then rose and disappeared into the high darkness above. Little-Marten had never seen such a sight, and was both awe-struck and frightened by it. He drew back into the passageway, but Pank suddenly collared him and pulled him forward into the light.

‘Ho there, Bibber!’ shouted Pank. ‘I’ve brought a young heathen for thee. He’s been calling thee a fat old wosbird, and says he means to set about thee. He reckons to teach thee a thing or two about smithyin’ too, for a blind toad couldn’t do worse than thee, ’cordin’ to him. What do ’ee say to that?’

Little-Marten’s mouth fell open in horror at this, and he quailed as the great scowling face of Bibber turned towards him, tongs raised in his soot-blackened fist.

‘Eh?’ growled the heavy-smith.

‘ ’Tis a young heathen, Bibber! Come to march thee up and down and give thee a good duckin’ in that trough of yours!’

‘No!’ gasped Little-Marten. ‘I didn’t . . . I never . . .’

‘Never fear,’ said Pank. ‘He’s deaf as an adder.’ He grabbed Little-Marten and dragged him out of the forge as unceremoniously as he had dragged him in, pausing only to bow briefly in the direction of the old heavy-smith before leaving. ‘We’re away to Almanac!’ he shouted.

‘Eh?’ said Bibber.

Pank hobbled on ahead until he reached the end of the corridor, and then looked back, beckoning to Little-Marten. ‘Come!’ he hissed, and turned the corner.

Little-Marten followed, deeply wary now, rounding the corner with great caution when he reached it for fear of further japes from Master Pank, but found his guide to be quietly standing a little way on, at yet another side entranceway. Here were mounted heavy wooden doors, dry and cracked with age, opening inwards. Bright candlelight spilled out from the portal, throwing a warm yellow glow across the grey stone of the tunnel, and illuminating the little figure of Pank, who stood waiting for him.

Little-Marten approached, and, although he heard no definite sound, he could suddenly and instinctively feel the presence of a hushed crowd beyond the doorway – a crowd who had seen Pank, and who were now anticipating the arrival of a stranger. He was aware of
the
slight
pad-pad
of his own footsteps in the passageway, and the bare stone, cool, beneath his toes. The scent of burning wax and lavender was very strong.

He reached the open doors and stood for a moment in the light, dipping his head in confusion at the daunting sight of so many faces, all turned in his direction. Pank put a hand on his shoulder and ushered him into a large crowded chamber, steering him towards a long wooden board, mercifully just a short distance from the door, where it was apparent that he was expected to sit – everyone else in the room being already seated in rows upon similar boards. He shuffled along and lowered himself awkwardly onto the unfamiliar object, gripping the rounded edge of the dark polished wood.

Furniture of any kind was a rarity among the upper tribes, the tree-dwelling Ickri in particular having no use for it. The Queen had her Gondla, and some of the more elderly had upturned wicker baskets to sit on, but little more. Yet here, in the large candle-lit cavern, side by side and in neat rows, sat the Tinklers and the Troggles on wooden seats built for the purpose. Little-Marten could hardly have been more surprised if he had found them hanging from the roof like bats.

Abashed at being the object of such open curiosity, the youth hung his head and put his hands between his knees, but gradually the staring faces turned to the front once more – amid much whispering – and Little-Marten was able to look up. Pank, sitting next to him,
put
his finger to his lips – an unnecessary warning – as Little-Marten glanced surreptitiously about him. How could it be that those who lived above ground had so little knowledge of those who lived below?

To his left sat an old Troggle-dame, who had moved as far away from him as possible yet continued to gawp at him, grinning toothlessly and nodding, half-frightened by him, half-fascinated, it would seem. Around the cavern walls were fixed devices of metal, each of which held several brightly burning candles. Candles, again, were a rarity among the upper tribes – not because they were so very difficult to make – but because any visible light at night was a dangerous thing. Hollowed-out wurzel lanterns were sometimes used, sparingly, but open flames were forbidden. Certainly there could be no open fires – willow charcoal and earth ovens were used for cooking and for hardening the arrow-tips of the Ickri archers. The bright glow of Bibber’s forge and the flaring candles on the walls undoubtedly amounted to more naked fire than Little-Marten had seen in his lifetime.

At the front of the room, patiently waiting for the crowd to settle, stood Tadgemole. His hand rested upon another wooden construction – somewhat akin to the seats, but larger. The Naiad carpenters, Little-Marten knew, deployed a similar object – a work-board they called it – kneeling at it as they carved. This board had longer legs, and upon it stood several solid looking blocks of some strange stuff, wood perhaps – but hued in blue and green and scarlet.