The Various (33 page)

They watched for a while, quite a long while, and were eventually rewarded with the eerie sight of the stone disappearing slowly, slowly, beneath the surface. Gone, forever.

‘Isn’t it
great
?’ said George, and actually it
was
pretty great.

‘Let me have a go,’ said Midge. She picked up a large triangular piece of orange-coloured roof tile and took it down to where George had been standing – although she didn’t venture out onto the surface. She swung her arm back and forth a couple of times, and let go. The broken tile landed on the edge and stayed upright, held by the thick consistency of the ancient slurry. It sank in a very slow and satisfying manner, reminding them both of the stern of the
Titanic
, disappearing beneath the icy waves, with the loss of many lives.

It was a very good game, and when they had exhausted their supplies of missiles they hunted around for more. This time it took longer to find anything worthwhile, and they drifted apart as they searched the ground at the back of the stables. Midge had managed to retrieve a whole red brick – a real treasure – after much kicking down of thistles, and held it aloft to catch George’s eye. She saw him stoop to pick something up, something far too small to be of any use, and then saw him drop it – simultaneously hearing his voice, ‘Ugh! Ughhh!
Ughhhhh!
’ as he backed away in horror, wiping his hands frantically on his khaki combat trousers.

Midge put down the brick. ‘What is it?’ she called.

‘Ughhhh!’ George had half-turned away, his hands up to his face now – he looked like he was going to be sick or something. What had he found? She half-walked, half-ran, through the scrubby dock leaves and dandelions to where he was.

‘What is it?’ she said again. His face was white, really white, and he was shuddering. He pointed, and Midge crept fearfully towards the spot, moving sideways, ready to run, and almost as terrified now as her cousin. A small brown thing was lying on the ground where George had dropped it. A sparrow, or a dead toad or something? What? She couldn’t make it out – then suddenly she could, and jumped back in gasping horror, as George had done. ‘Ughhh!’

It was a hand. A tiny severed hand, swollen and a purply-brown, the fingers curled and puffy, the thumb bent inwards. It lay on a patch of bright green grass like a small creature on its back, locked in a last hopeless struggle, clutching desperately at nothing at all.

George was backing quickly away, his eyes still wide with horror. He glanced briefly at Midge, not really seeing her, and turned, undecided as to which way to run. The quickest route back to the house was by the metal gate at the end of the stable block, and he began to stumble uncertainly in this direction.

Midge, after staring in horror at the thing on the grass for a few moments longer, suddenly seemed to come back to life, and became aware of George’s departure.

‘Wait!’ she called, realizing instinctively what he was about to do. ‘George, wait!’ George stopped running, but continued to move away – walking backwards, arms straight by his side, fists clenched, and staring once more towards the spot where the hand was.

‘Wait a minute!’ said Midge, ‘Stop!’ She caught up with him and grabbed the olive-green sleeve of his T-shirt.

‘George – I . . . I know what it is,’ she hissed. ‘Please, listen, I know what it is.’

George stared through her, wild-eyed, and panicky. ‘So do I,’ he croaked. ‘It’s a . . . baby’s . . . I’m gonna get my dad. Tell my dad . . .’

‘No!’ said Midge urgently. ‘It’s not that. It’s not what you think. You don’t understand, George, but I do. You’ve got to stop and listen to me for a minute.’

George looked at her, seeming to focus on her at last. He grabbed her wrist. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘my dad’ll know what to do . . . get the police . . . they’ll know. It’s not our fault. We didn’t do anything.’

‘George,
please
,’ begged Midge. ‘Please listen. You don’t understand. It’s not what you think it is. Come back to the tree house – I’ve got something to tell you. I
promise
you it’s got nothing to do with the police . . . I mean, it’s . . . well there hasn’t been any crime . . . but it’s just really
really
important that I talk to you for a minute. Don’t tell your dad, George, not for a bit – just let me
explain
something first.’

She had got through to him, she could tell. George frowned slightly – his face now puzzled – but his eyes had lost that wild panicky look. He flicked his hair back.

‘What?’ he said, his voice sounding a little more normal. ‘Tell me what?’

It took quite a long time. They sat on the tree house platform, and Midge talked – letting it all spill out at last, the whole confused impossible story, from the moment she had found the winged horse to the moment she had entered the kitchen to find George and Katie staring at her dishevelled state in amazement. She recalled the night that Tojo had woken them; the presence of something inexplicable beneath the kitchen sink, and her guess that the hand was the remains of whatever it was that Tojo had caught. She held back, though, from saying that the winged horse could communicate – could talk in strange colours, could make words appear like soft explosions inside her head. There just didn’t seem to be a way of getting this across – it sounded
so
impossible.

George listened to all that she had to say. He didn’t interrupt, but gazed out over the moorlands, shimmering gold in the evening sunshine, occasionally giving her a sideways glance, and taking deep, slightly shaky, breaths.

Midge came to a halt at last, and waited for George to say something. He remained silent, picking at a small hole in the knee of his trousers. A terrible realization stole over the girl.

‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ she said. George didn’t speak, and Midge felt a rising pain in her chest.

* * *

He didn’t know what to say. He just didn’t know what to say. How
could
it be true? And yet the hand was there, and perhaps it
hadn’t
looked much like a baby’s . . . apart from its size. He remembered the clutching fingers, but then didn’t want to remember. There was nothing he could think of to say – yet some words finally came out.

‘Let’s . . . go back, then . . . have another look.’ He didn’t know why he’d said that – it was the last thing he wanted to do – but without waiting for a reply he got up and began to descend the rope ladder once more.

Midge followed, feeling as though there was a tennis ball stuck in her throat. She could hardly breathe. After all that had happened to her, all that she had carried by herself, the weight of her secret and her promise not to tell – it was just unbearable. And now, to have broken that promise, to have told, only find that she was disbelieved . . . she trailed across the lawn behind George, speechless with misery. A robber band of jackdaws flew across the lawn, squabbling noisily, and flapped up to the roof of the old farmhouse. The children glanced towards the chimney-stack, watching the clamorous birds beating their wings at each other.

‘I keep asking Dad for an air-rifle,’ said George, ‘but he won’t get me one.’

Good, thought Midge – inwardly punishing her faithless cousin.

They climbed back over the gate that led into the Field of Thistles, and walked down the long shadow
behind
the rear wall of the stable-block, tense and nervous. It was worse, in a way, knowing what they were about to see, than it had been the first time. George was trying to catch his breath – but Midge was lifted slightly by the thought that here, at least, was some proof that her tale was true. And yet there wasn’t – for it became apparent, even from a distance, that the hand had gone. The patch of grass was bare.

They stood and stared hopelessly at the place where the thing had been, then kicked around half-heartedly amongst the already trampled thistles and dock leaves.

‘Where exactly did you find it?’ asked Midge, just for something to say.

‘Just there, where you are now,’ said George. ‘It was hidden in all the thistles and stuff. I thought maybe it was a bit of tree root or, I dunno, a toadstool or something. Couldn’t tell
what
it was, till I picked it up. Then when I saw . . .’

‘Well, it’s gone, anyhow. Something’s taken it. No point in telling your dad about it now.’

‘S’pose not . . .’

‘He wouldn’t believe you,’ said Midge. ‘Even though you were telling the
truth
,’ she added, pressing the point home.

‘I didn’t
say
I didn’t believe you,’ said George. ‘It’s just, well you have to admit . . .’

‘Yeah, I know. It’s mad. Do you think
I
might be mad? Like Celandine?’

George – to whom the thought had most definitely occurred – shook his head. ‘Nooo . . . but, well . . .’ Another thought occurred to him. ‘I mean, take that
 . . .
that hand. Say it
wasn’t
a hand at all. Say it was a
paw
. Like maybe a monkey’s paw. It
could’ve
been.’

‘It wasn’t a monkey’s paw, George.’

‘But it
could’ve
been. It
looked
like a hand, but it could’ve been something else.’

‘Oh, I see. Right. So you’re saying that I
thought
I saw a horse, but it
could’ve
been a . . . a . . .’ Midge sought for a word, ‘a hatstand.’ George laughed at that. He thought that was quite funny. Midge didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

They walked slowly back to the tree house and George asked Midge if she knew how to cook scrambled eggs. The jackdaws were quieter now. Perched upon the TV aerial, they surveyed the farmyard with eyes that seldom blinked.

Chapter Nineteen

‘FLYING FISH,’ SPOKE
Tingel, pausing to look at the expectant faces before him, ‘are frequently to be seen in southern waters, and are capable of flying considerable distances – a quarter of a mole or more’ – he hesitated – ‘no, that cannot be . . . ah, comprend, a quarter of a
mile
or more, without touching the water. They can be caught in nets, while in flight.’ He kept his finger on the place in the Cyclopaedia, and allowed the full effect of his words to sink in. A buzz of excitement ran round the candlelit room. Flying fish! So it was true – there
were
such things!

‘Is this not news of some import, my friends? Once again we turn to the almanacs, and so we come to truth. If only we will seek hard enough, and long enough, then all is delivered to us. Flying fish – I have them here beneath my finger! Flying fishes! Now, did not she who gave us voices sing to us of such creatures? And did not she who taught us our letters give us the power to discover the knowledge of all such things for ourselves?’

Tingel closed the Cyclopaedia, lowered it gently
to
the table and placed his hand upon it.

‘These gifts,’ he said, indicating the almanacs, ‘were bestowed upon us long ago, not by chance, but by providence, I believe.’ The old Tinkler’s eyes were shining with delight and enthusiasm. Little-Marten leaned forward, holding on to the rim of the long bench.

‘Do you see how we learn?’ continued Tingel. ‘Hardly a day goes by without some fresh revelation to astonish us. What may we not know, come tomorrow? And all of it from here – from the almanacs.’ He spread his arms and beamed at his audience. ‘Of Bread, To Make, we learned, from the Cyclopaedia. And of Jam, Blackberry, we learned – from the Cyclopaedia – and how precious this knowledge has been to us, these last few winters. Of The Dove-Tail, and all the cunning secrets of Joinery, we learned from The Home Workshop, aye, and much of Metalcraft also. Of songs, and verses, and fables we learned – and what comfort they bring. Are we not the most fortunate of forest-dwellers, to have been given so much?

And there are more boons to come, of that I am certain. The Campfire Songs we all know by heart – yet only understand in part. We have learned what a boat is, but as yet we have no clear notion of what a
sky
-boat is, or whether it may truly speed, like a bird, over the sea to sky. And we have no notion at all of what Matilda may be, or how it may be Waltzed –
but we may learn
.

‘Flying fish were, but yesterday, seeming words of
fancy
.
Today
, we learn that such things are
truly so
. Is that not wonderful? If fish may fly, then, surely,
all
things are possible. And all things
are
possible, through knowledge and belief. For knowledge and belief are the steps upon which we climb – away from fancy, towards truth.

‘So we
shall
climb, my friends, even up to Elysse – itself no mere word of fancy – upon those steps of knowledge and belief. I marvel at how much we learn. What may we not discover? What may we not do?’

Tingel stepped back from the high board, and Little-Marten nearly jumped out of his skin as all about him made a sudden and loud clattering noise by smacking their hands together. He’d never seen or heard such a thing. Should he do the same? He clapped his palms, experimentally, one upon the other. A good sound it made – a bit like the clavensticks. He applied himself with enthusiasm and fell into a pattern – part of Queen’s Herald – but then faltered, in confusion, when he realized that everyone else had ceased. He sat on his offending hands, mortified.