The Various (34 page)

Tingel had hobbled back to his seat, and Tadgemole stepped forward once more.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘a worthy discovery, Tingel, and a credit to the long hours of labour which I know you devote to your letters. Flying fishes. Remarkable. Now, who will come and sing? One of you youngsters, perhaps? Come, our guest has arrived on his very hands and knees for the privilege of listening.’

None seemed inclined to lead the way – an Ickri in
their
midst was enough to bring on a general attack of bashfulness, certainly among the younger element who regarded the Woodpecker as being a personage of some reckoning – a fact that would have astonished Little-Marten had he realized it.

‘Very well,’ said Tadgemole, with a slight show of impatience. ‘I shall exercise a father’s right, if there be such a thing, and call upon Henty to begin. A reasonable request, as she holds
some
responsibility for the heathen’s presence. Henty, come.’

From a knot of other youngsters on the farthest side of the cavern, towards the front, rose Henty – unnoticed until now by Little-Marten. So transfixed had he been by all that was happening, that he had not given the possibility of her presence a thought until Tadgemole had mentioned her name. She walked quickly to the front and turned to face the crowd, flashing her father a dark look as she passed him. She was furious with him. He had embarrassed her – not so much by making her sing, as by alluding to the fact that she had begged him to allow Little-Marten to stay.

‘Take the Songbook, Henty,’ said Tadgemole, his voice echoing slightly in the hushed room.

‘I’ve no need of it,’ said Henty. Tight-lipped, and looking even paler than usual, she ignored her father and the almanacs, standing to one side of the table rather than behind it, her hands clasped in front of her. ‘“Early One Morning”,’ she announced, and began immediately.

Early one morning
,

Just as the sun was rising
,

I heard a maiden sing in the valley below –

O never leave me
,

O don’t deceive me
,

How could you use a poor maiden so?

Her anger could not disguise her beautiful voice. There was no whisper of sound in the crowded cavern as Henty moved into the song, weaving her way through its simple tapestry, the clear high notes reverberating softly against the bare stone walls, gently echoing, and threading their way into the very hair roots at the back of Little-Marten’s neck. Then, all around him, there was a slow intake of breath and the crowd began the second verse, as Henty stood silent:

Remember the vows
,

That you made in the garden
,

Remember the vows
,

That you made to be true

And then Henty, singing all alone once more:

O never leave me

O don’t deceive me –

And finally the whole room joining her, for the last line:

How could you use a poor maiden so?

The voices lingered over the last few words, slowly filling the cavern with a huge warm harmony that seemed to melt the very walls. Little-Marten, awestruck, would have given his wings to have been able to join in. And, as the sound died away, he made a small vow of his own: he would learn this – how to do this. Singing.

Henty walked back to her seat, bearing Little-Marten’s heart and soul with her, and Tadgemole, slightly humbled as he always was whenever he heard his daughter sing, said, ‘Thank you, my dear. Prettily done,’ and secretly thought there was none to touch her for carrying a tune. The child
could
sing. He lifted his head and looked towards the back of the cavern. ‘Come, Massie,’ he said. ‘Choose a partner and give us “No John”.’

The old Troggle-dame next to Little-Marten made a brief show of protest, but was on her feet far too quickly for this to be convincing, and began shuffling along the row of benches toward the centre aisle. She put her hand upon Little-Marten’s shoulder as she passed and gave him her toothy grin. ‘Do ’ee sing, master?’

Little-Marten looked up at her, horrified. ‘Nn . . . no’, he stammered .

‘Oh, no John, no John no?’ she queried. There was laughter at this and Little-Marten hung his head.

‘Well then, Gudge,’ called out Massie. ‘ ’Tis thee and me again. I thought as I might find a younger John, and a prettier one, but ’tweren’t to be.’ A bald Troggle with amazingly bushy eyebrows stood up from the next row, grumbling good-humouredly, and the
pair
made their way to the front, he ceremoniously lending her his arm.

They took up one of the almanacs, a blue one, and once again Little-Marten watched curiously as Gudge split this in two, thumbed it back and forth a few times, then, apparently satisfied, offered it to Massie to share as they held it between them. Pank gave Little-Marten a nudge and whispered, ‘You can sing too on this. We all do – just watch your place.’

Little-Marten looked startled at this, and nervously rubbed his palms upon his knees.

‘Ready?’ said Gudge, his eyebrows rising high up his forehead.

‘Always ready for you, my dear,’ said Massie, and there was a general chuckle.

‘“No John”,’ announced Gudge, and began to sing.

On yonder hill there lives a lady
,

But her name I do not know
,

I will court her for her beauty
,

Will she answer yes or no?

Then everyone joined Massie in singing:

Ohhh, no John, no John, no John no!

‘See?’ said Pank. ‘Nothing simpler.’

Two more verses and Little-Marten had caught on to it, singing out ‘
Ohhh, no John
,’ with the best of them, as though he’d been doing it all his life, and thinking himself no small potatoes for his efforts.

Gudge then stood alone, leading the company with ‘Drink To Me Only With Thine Eyes’, which Little-Marten found impossible to follow, and so became rather crestfallen – but he cheered up at the sight of the jugs of hawthorn-beer which were thoughtfully provided as an accompaniment to the song, for singing was proving to be thirsty work, and took a draught and passed it on – and laughed with the rest as Bibber the heavy-smith arrived at last, just in time, as always, to prove that his throat was as dry as any present, though he sang not a note.

They worked their way through ‘The Skye Boat Song’, ‘The Road To Mandalay’ and ‘Waltzing Matilda’, with Little-Marten having but the faintest idea of what any of them could be about – though the chorus of the latter was repeated enough times that he was soon able to grasp it and join in, and then, finally, Tadgemole said it was time for the vesper, or the night would be over and no work done.

There was some protest at this, with cries of ‘No, no! One more song, one more song!’ and Little-Marten turned to Pank and said, ‘Work? Do ’ee go out now and work?’

‘ ’Course,’ Pank replied. ‘Forage nights, sleep days – that’s us. But never fear, we’ll have one more yet.’ And he broke off to add his voice to the cries for more.

Tadgemole raised his hands in defeat, amid cheers, and said, ‘Very well, we’ll have “Celandine”, before we go. And I think that, this being something of an occasion, and it being many years since we had a visitor in our midst, we might bring out Celandine’s
Cup
. You will be too young, many of you, to know aught of this – but Celandine’s Cup was fashioned and engraved by our forefathers, long ago, for that dear maid. Alas, she left us before it was finished, and she never received it – but we keep it still, awaiting her return, though return she never will. Our gift to her, it would have been – and a precious gift at that, much skill having gone into the making of it. Now, I think, it could be used as a cup of kindness – raised as a toast to
all
strangers who come here in faith, as she did. We shall raise it tonight as a toast to
this
young stranger – that perhaps he and his kind may think the better of us and we of them. Where one may lead, others may follow – and we shall not be the ones to refuse to meet respect with respect. Henty, my dear, fetch it to me, as a favour – you know where it is kept. “Sweet Celandine” it shall be, then. Who’ll lead us?’

Little-Marten watched Henty as she rose and walked down the side aisle towards the door where he had entered. Her head was low, but as she turned to pass through the doorway he caught the briefest of glimpses from her as their eyes met. Recognition he saw there – but also deep confusion and fear. What ever could be the matter? She left the room, and it was as if all the candles had been blown out.

‘Sweet Celandine’, the song that had first drawn Little-Marten towards the caves, rose and fell in soft harmonies about him, but his mind was on Henty, and that troubled little glance. Why would she look at him in such a way? The song came to an end, and all about him rose to their feet.

Henty had not returned, and Tadgemole looked impatiently towards the doors. The crowd stood in silence for a few moments longer, and Tadgemole nodded at Pank, who left his place and hopped out into the corridor, to see if the maid was on her way. He came back into the cavern and shook his head.

‘Hmph,’ said Tadgemole, obviously annoyed at the delay. ‘Well, we’ll wait no longer. I’ll say the vesper. Remember, those who would have been pestling tonight, please join the trufflers on this occasion – there’s a good early crop in North Wood, I’m told, and I should like to see them gathered in by sun-wax. Remember, also, that at Almanac tomorrow night we shall be keeping memoriam for poor Lumst. And now, “No Busy Tongue” – he waited a few moments for silence, then spoke:

No busy tongue, nor idle hand

Shall ever enter that dear land
,

Nor faithless pass beyond the gate
,

Where all our fathers stand in wait
.

So must we hammer, hard and true
,

The soul each day to forge anew
,

Our better selves may yet evolve
,

Upon the anvils of resolve
.

And when, at last, we grasp the key

To virtue’s kingdom – we are free
,

And thus shall find our sweet release
,

Upon the borders of Elysse
.

The crowd softly murmured, ‘So,’ and began to break up. Tadgemole caught Pank’s eye once again and beckoned him and Little-Marten to the front.

‘My regrets, Master Ickri,’ he said to Little-Marten, ‘my daughter seems to have lost herself. Our cup of kindness will have to wait on another occasion. What would you do now?’

‘I . . . don’t know,’ Little-Marten hesitated. ‘Could I stay, awhile longer? I’ll . . . work, or do anything . . .’

‘
Work?
’ said Tadgemole, incredulously. ‘Well now, that might be an interesting sight to view, an Ickri who . . .’ – he broke off and sighed. ‘I must learn to be more charitable. Old habits die very hard, I’m afraid, and treating an Ickri as a person of faith and good intention, let alone industry, may take some getting used to. But I shall do so from now on, until shown to be wrong. Stay, then, and welcome – and yes, you shall work, as we all must. I must also do you the respect of remembering your name – what was it again?’

‘Little-Marten.’

‘Of course. I think I know of your father – a craftsman, at least. And you, too, have a talent, I recall. The Woodpecker. Yes. Well, then, Pank, take Little-Marten into your care and put him to truffling – this night at any rate – and we’ll see what the morrow brings. Now I must find what has become of Henty.’

By the time the foraging parties left the caves, the moon was sailing very high, bathing the forest floor in a silvery grey light, criss-crossed with the deep blue shadows thrown by the ancient trees. The Troggles
and
Tinklers moved silently among the oaks and hornbeams, stooping low, occasionally probing the ground, kneeling to dig or moving on, depending on their findings.

Little-Marten, girt about with a forage bag and carrying a rough metal trowel, followed Pank and tried to emulate the actions of his companion – with the least possible success. Not a single truffle had he found so far – indeed he hardly knew what he was looking for, the tuberous fungi having no place in the diet of the upper tribes. Pank had shown him some of his own trove, but the small dark objects may as well have been clods of earth for all Little-Marten could see.

‘How do ’ee know,’ he asked, talking in a whisper, ‘where to look?’

Pank was rather at a loss as to how to explain what was very largely instinct. ‘Sort of smell ’em,’ he murmured, casting about beneath a mid-grown oak. ‘And, see? Look at the ring, see, about these roots – how ’tis cracked a bit, and how the ground raises up. That’s a good sign.’ He knelt and dibbled around with his trowel, eventually revealing more of these strange fruits of the earth.

‘And I always thought ‘ee only lived on what came from the baskets,’ said Little-Marten. Pank snorted with contempt. ‘Precious few of us there’d be if that were the case,’ he said. ‘The only reason we take it is that Tadgemole says ’tis sin to see even scraps go to waste.’ He dusted the loose earth from the truffles and added them to his growing store.

Little-Marten despaired of ever finding one, and scratched about hopelessly, until Pank eventually took pity on him and said, ‘Do ’ee know a mushroom from a toadstool?’

‘Yees,’ said Little-Marten, perhaps not as confidently as he might have, had the same question been asked in daylight.

‘Then take yourself yonder – see down between the coppices – there’s a place there, good as any for mushrooms, I know.’

So Little-Marten wandered off among the trees, feeling that he had been demoted, but he cheered up within a short while on discovering three fat puffballs, pale and strange in the moonlight, taut-skinned, damp from the night air, and as fresh and sweet smelling as you could wish for. These filled his bag to bursting, and so, feeling that he might deservedly rest for just a few moments after what had suddenly seemed an endless day, he flapped up to a low overhanging beech branch, shimmied along it, and climbed a little higher till he found a comfortable crook to sit in. He would just stay a short while, till he judged that Pank might have found a few more truffles, and then perhaps they could go home. Home. He yawned – where was that? He let his tired shoulders drop, and tried to empty his crowded mind. Scurl and Tadgemole, his father, Petan, Pank and Henty – all were there, jumbled about and claiming his attention in one way or another. The peaceful night air stole about him, and gradually washed away all his thoughts, save one.