The Various (9 page)

But Little-Marten did not share the opinions of most of his kind – for he had a secret. A shameful secret. He had heard the Troggles sing, and he liked it. He had crept down to the hawthorn bushes near the entrance of the caves many times, even through the cold evenings of late winter and early spring, and had stood hidden, listening, enthralled by the curious sounds echoing from deep within – the voices that rose and fell together in patterns, patterns that he instinctively understood, that reminded him somehow of the clavensticks and made him itch to tap his fingers. This was bad enough, but there was worse. He feared that he was in love with a Tinkler maid. He even knew her name – Henty.

The evening when first he had seen her still danced
through
his dreams at night, and though he had tried to forget her, he could not. He had grown reckless on his last visit, and, as the light began to fail, at dimpsy dusk, he had emerged from the bushes and edged close to the cave entrance, the better to hear the Troggles at their singing. A single voice chanted softly:

Then, it seemed that a hundred voices joined the single voice, yet still softly, deeply . . .

Little-Marten was won over heart and soul at this, and was even tentatively trying his own voice – a shocking heresy – to see if it too could perform such magic – when a Tinkler maid suddenly twirled out of the darkness of the cave. Little-Marten had been caught with his eyes half closed, his mouth half open, and his whole being off-balance, as the dark-haired creature came spinning to within a yard of where he stood. Her huge eyes flashed white in the dimness of the evening, her pupils as black as charcoal, as she stared at him, horrified. An Ickri! The singing had ceased.

‘I . . . I . . . I was . . . I heard . . .’ Little-Marten began to stammer, feeling the hot tingle of blood rushing from his cheeks to his hair roots – but the Tinkler
maid
was already backing away from him, drawing the thin, loosely woven cloth of her shawl protectively around her neck and shoulders. Her pale round face, with its shocked expression, beautiful, so beautiful, retreated into the murky cave – disappearing like a spirit. A faint orange glow illuminated the corner of a passageway far back inside the cave, but the maid had vanished into some darker side-shoot. Little-Marten heard a muffled voice calling ‘Henty?’ and thought he heard a murmured reply, but no more. He stood at the mouth of the cave a little longer, till the silence gradually made him feel self-conscious and then he eventually left, walking back across the Great Clearing through the deepening darkness, smitten, moonstruck, hopelessly conquered. And ashamed.

Now, from the high vantage point of his Perch, Little-Marten watched as the Various began to arrive in response to his summons.

The Rowdy-Dow tree stood in a corner of the Royal Clearing, where South Wood and West Wood met, and so the first to arrive were the Ickri, the winged hunters, who patrolled these nearby stretches of the forest. Scurl, captain of the South and West Woods, and some of his younger followers – Benzo, Grissel, Dregg, and Flitch – came gliding down from the trees. They swaggered over to the baskets and nonchalantly emptied their pecking bags, tossing the limp carcasses of birds and squirrels into the wicker receptacle for meat. Tulgi and Snerk, two more of Scurl’s crew, arrived soon after and did likewise. The seven Ickri
sprawled
around the base of the Rowdy-Dow tree, chewing grass stalks, comparing the latest decorative designs which they had painted, tattoo-like, on their wings, and boasting idly of their exploits that day. Occasionally they would punch or kick each other in response to some insult or slighting remark. They were young, apart from Scurl, their captain. Unattached, unruly and unchallenged – they thought highly of themselves. Scurl was cock-of-the-woods in his own estimation, and his followers encouraged him in this belief. He was flattered by their admiration of him, and they in turn were flattered to be chosen as his disciples.

Little-Marten, high above the seven lounging hunters, kept still and hoped that he wouldn’t be noticed. No such luck, however, for presently Benzo shaded his eyes against the evening sun and looked upwards.

‘Greetings, Petan. How quiet you be. Or do you still catch breath, you old fool? Hullo, though! ’T’ain’t Petan at all! ’Tis some young snip! What, is the old ’Pecker finally dead then? Did ’e finally come unsticked from his Perch?’

The others looked up and laughed at this, and Grissel said, ‘Now I wonders if young’un here is made o’ stickier stuff. I means to find out.’ He fitted an arrow to his bow and flicked it lightly upwards at Little-Marten. The arrow glanced harmlessly off the end of the broken limb, but it made Little-Marten jump.

‘Grissel, thee shoots like an old hag!’ cried Benzo.
He
hopped to his feet and said, with exaggerated menace, ‘Now then, young Woodpecker! What have ’ee done to our poor old Petan?’ He drew his bow back to its full extent, aiming an arrow directly at the little Ickri, who shrank back in fright against the trunk of the Rowdy-Dow tree.

‘Don’t!’ he whispered.

Benzo shifted his stance slightly, and let fly. The arrow whipped past Little-Marten’s cowering head, so close that he heard the zing of the feathered flights.

Scurl growled, and kicked out at Benzo from where he lay. ‘Leave ’un be, Benzo. ’Tis Fletcher Marten’s cub.’

‘Is it then? Well, I suppose
’twould
be a sad day for a fletcher to see his cub come home stuffed full o’ feathers,’ laughed Benzo, sitting down and making himself comfortable once more. ‘ ’Specially feathers he’d tied hisself.’

In truth, Scurl cared little or nothing for the wellbeing of Little-Marten, but he had caught sight of Aken and some of the North and East Wood hunters dipping through the branches on the other side of the clearing. Braggart though he was, he didn’t quite like to be seen allowing his underlings to fire arrows at an unarmed youth, even if it was only in jest. ‘Now then, Aken!’ he called, rising to his feet and dusting himself down, ‘What sport?’ He adopted the bluff brotherly tone he reserved for the captain of the East and North Woods, his equal in rank, but who nevertheless contrived to make him feel inferior.

Aken strolled up to the baskets, flanked by two of
his
archers, Uzu and Raim. ‘Fair,’ said Aken, calmly. ‘A few finches. A pigeon,’ – he dipped his hand into his pecking bag, and looked directly at Benzo – ‘but no Woodpeckers.’ Benzo dropped his head, glanced sideways at his friends, and smirked. Aken turned to Scurl. ‘If I find anyone at that sport again, Scurl, then they’ll answer for’t. If not to you, then to I.’

‘Garn,’ muttered Scurl, ‘ ’Twas only chaff.’ But Aken had already turned away, having spotted Glim and his wife, Zelma, descending from the East Wood trees. He walked over to meet them.

Feeling safer now that Aken and Glim were on hand, Little-Marten turned his attention to the crowd beginning to arrive from the Great Clearing at the far end of the forest. The Naiad, once a water-tribe, now farmers for the most part, came bearing fruit and vegetables, which they carefully placed in the baskets. Phemra, Spindra, Stickle, and two of their wives, Zophia and Fay, stood in a group and stared up curiously at him. Finally Zophia recognized him. ‘ ’Tis Little-Marten.’

The others raised their eyebrows. ‘What? Be he Woodpecker now?’

Members of the Wisp tribe, Peter, Tod, Will, Isak and Little-Isak, brought strings of eels, their catch from the previous night, and threw them in the fish basket. Two of the Wisp children, Etta and Lori, danced around the Rowdy-Dow tree and tried to catch Little-Marten’s attention – but Little-Marten was suddenly oblivious to their cavortings. A hundred Benzos firing
a
host of arrows could not have distracted him at that moment, for the Troggles and the Tinklers, so rarely seen by day, had appeared at the far end of the Royal Clearing.

They made their way along the narrow pathway between the bushes that separated Royal Clearing from the Great Clearing beyond, a straggly line of hooded creatures, wingless, like the Naiad and the Wisp, but generally smaller and stockier.

The muted chatter of the upper tribes gradually ceased, as all became aware of the approaching cave-dwellers. Even Scurl and his crew rose to their feet and watched in silence as the Troggles and Tinklers made their way to the middle of Royal Clearing. They stood in a huddle by the Whipping Stone, the age-old lichen-covered hamstone post that marked the centre of the clearing. Ghostly they looked. Their skin, what little could be seen of it, was very white. Dressed in drab grey cloaks, their huge eyes peered out from the cowls that they wore to protect themselves from the sunlight. Yet their heads were not bowed, and their bodies were not bent. They stood upright and gazed about them, meeting the stares of the curious onlookers – until it was the onlookers themselves who dropped their heads and stared uncomfortably at their own boots.

Little-Marten, of course, was on the lookout for Henty, the Tinkler maid, whom he had last seen at the entrance to the caves – but the faces of the hooded figures below him were mostly hidden from his view. One of the hoods was suddenly thrown back, however,
and
the close-cropped head of Tadgemole, the leader of the Troggles, was revealed. Tadgemole was a stocky figure, broad in the shoulders, as befitted a miner – still strong and upright despite his years, although his face looked gaunt and pale. He left the group and walked over to the provender baskets, drawing something from the folds of his threadbare cloak, a large dead animal which he held, cradled, in his short powerful arms. It was a hotchi-witchi – a hedgehog. The gathered crowd watched him in silence. Tadgemole leaned over the meat basket and put the hotchi-witchi into it – not tossing it in casually, as the Ickri hunters might have done, but placing it carefully on top of the pile as though it was the most precious object he possessed – which may have indeed been the case. Such a thing was unheard of! A soft ripple of sound ran through the crowd, and Little-Marten heard Grissel muttering to Benzo, ‘Vurst useful thing
’e’s
done this day. Or any other.’ But Aken, who was standing directly below the Perch, hissed up at Little-Marten. ‘Maglin!’

The Ickri General had appeared from the direction of the Counsel Pod, the wicker construction that hung from a low outer branch of the Royal Oak. Little-Marten just had time to beat his arrival on the clavensticks, as the old warrior landed and took command.

‘Circle the clearing!’ shouted Maglin.

The Tinklers and Troggles moved away from the central Whipping Stone towards the edge of the clearing and joined the circle that the Naiad and the Wisp
had
already begun to form. The Ickri stayed more or less where they were, spreading themselves out a little until their numbers joined with the first of the Wisp. Soon the outer rim of Counsel Clearing was lined with all members of the five tribes – Ickri, Wisp, Naiad, Tinklers and Troggles.

Maglin strode towards the Whipping Stone, his dark eyes scanning the semicircle. ‘Where’s Maven-the-Green?’ he growled. Silence. Nobody had seen the old hag for a moon or more. Maven was a law unto herself, mad as a pike and almost as dangerous, with her poisonous darts and fearful incantations. She was given a wide berth by all – the youngsters were frankly terrified of her, and even the Ickri hunters were glad to avoid her. If she was missing, then so be it. Nobody would be very inclined to go and seek her out. Maglin decided to let the matter pass. He turned in the direction of the Rowdy-Dow tree and shouted up to Little-Marten, ‘Woodpecker! Sound the Counsel!’

The clavensticks drummed on the hollow beech,
drrrr
–
drrrrrrr–drr
, and the entrance cloth to the Counsel Pod, just visible among the shadows of the Royal Oak, was drawn aside. Out stepped the three ancient Counsellors – Crozer, Ardel and Damsk, eldest members of the Ickri, Naiad and Wisp tribes. They slowly negotiated the little willow ladder that had been placed at the entrance to the pod and made their way unsteadily to the ground, where they stood waiting – three grey and wizened figures, leaning heavily on their hazelwood staffs.

Little-Marten wiped his hands surreptitiously on his
leather
jerkin and grasped the clavensticks in readiness once again. He knew what was coming next, and bit his lip as he rapidly ran through the patterns in his head. Queen’s Herald. He kept his eye fixed on Maglin, who for some reason was walking over to the edge of the circle where stood the Tinklers and the Troggles. Maglin said something to Tadgemole, the Troggles’ leader, and then returned towards the Whipping Stone. Little-Marten’s eye was still fixed on Maglin, waiting for his signal, but he was aware of some movement among the Tinklers and Troggles. He glanced at them quickly, and saw that they had all thrown back their hoods, their dark hair and delicate skin exposed to the day. How very pale they were. Their faces were the colour of moonlight. Just like moonlight . . .

Then Maglin shouted up at him, ‘Queen’s Herald!’ and made him jump. For a horrible moment his hands fumbled and one of the clavensticks turned a somersault into the air – but he caught it and beat straight into the pattern of Queen’s Herald, the woodpecker rattle sounding clear and true through the evening stillness of the forest. He
was
good, and was conscious of the many faces that had turned their attention from the Royal Pod to look at him instead. His fingertips flew like the wings of a sparrow as he reached the final long crescendo of Queen’s Herald.
Drrrrrrrrrr
–tappity–
drrrrr
–tappity–tap–tap–
tap
. He stopped abruptly. A pause. Another short rattle. Pause. Three more quick taps. Finish. Perfect.

He glanced over to where his father stood, along
with
Petan, and the approval on their faces made him feel very happy. He tried not to look directly at the Tinklers on the far side of the clearing, but couldn’t help peeking slyly over to see if Henty was there. He saw her eventually, half hidden behind the shoulder of Tadgemole, and his heart jumped as he recognized her. She was holding the hand of a tiny Tinkler chi’ – a brother perhaps? Her hair was tied back and she was looking less wild than when he had first seen her. Fragile she seemed now, and ghostly in the slanting shafts of sunlight. And yet still so beautiful. She was not looking at him.