Celandine (11 page)

Celandine felt dizzy all over again, as she gazed up at the silent gathering. A thousand questions battered away at the inside of her aching head, confusion upon confusion. How could all this be happening to her? How could this be? But at last she was beginning to understand the meaning of what it was that she had stumbled upon. This was another world. This was the secret thing that was spoken of in countless stories. This was the world that existed behind that first glimpse she had caught of Fin, so long ago – a world that had been hidden away, maybe for centuries,
whispered
about and rumoured for all time. And these were its people – the little people. She was looking at the little people.

So it was all true. The muttered tales of tiny shadows that crept through the ditches at first light, the implements and items of clothing that the fieldworkers mysteriously lost when their backs were turned . . . such things always pointed to ‘the little people’. And the night lines that the local gamekeeper found on his stretch of the river that were later passed around at the inn for all to see – these too were said to be the work of the little people. ‘For who’d carve a fish hook out of a bit o’ bone, when they could be had three-a-penny from Moffat’s?’

Here they were then, uncovered at last, living in the deserted woods on Howard’s Hill. It was too much to bear, too much to know. The crowd of little figures gazed down upon her, and Celandine realized that they were viewing her as they would view a disaster. She had ruined everything.

She desperately wanted to show that she would not harm them, that they could trust her, that she would bring no danger. She looked down at Pato, still standing defensively before her, still holding his trident – Freddie’s trident – in readiness. His small brown face looked battered, weather-worn by summer sun and winter wind. Celandine caught a glimpse of the nature of this miraculous world she had tumbled into, though it seemed more a world of hardship than of miracles.

It was overwhelming – too much to take in – and
she
must go away and think about it all, if they would only let her. She had to find the right words.

‘Do you know what a promise is?’ Celandine looked down into Pato’s eyes and spoke slowly and quietly. ‘A promise? A . . . a vow?’

She thought she saw a flicker of recognition there, and although there was silence for a long moment, he eventually replied.

‘I knows what a vow be.’

‘Then if I made a vow to you, would you believe me? If I vowed that I should never tell . . . if I vowed that I should never say
anything
 . . . not to anybody . . . about this . . . about you being here . . . would you believe me? Because that’s what I
do
vow. I shall never tell. Not if I live to be a hundred – I shall never, ever, tell.’

She saw Pato shift his barefoot stance a little, saw him look sideways at his companions. One or two of them shook their heads. He returned her gaze once more, searching, it seemed to her, for a way out of this.

Celandine tried again. ‘I know . . . well, I
think
I know . . . what you must be thinking. You must be thinking that if you let me go, I might bring others here. But I never would. I promise . . .’

‘You brought another ’un here afore. I saw ’ee. I saw ’ee the fust time, and I saw ’ee agin – wi’ another. Long-seasons since.’

‘I’m sorry – what did you say?’

‘I saw ’ee afore. Yere wi’ another – arter a way in yere.’

‘After a way in here? Looking for a way in, you
mean?’
Of course. With Freddie. She’d forgotten all about that. ‘But that was a long time ago,’ she said. ‘I was only a child then. We were just playing . . .’

‘A child? A chi’? What bist now, if not a chi’? And why were t’other ’un yere, if thee hadn’t already told ’un what thee saw? Now what good’s this
vow
o’ yourn, if ’tis already broke?’

He was right. What earthly good was it to promise not to tell, when she had already done so?

‘Yes,’ she said, and hung her head for a few moments. ‘It’s true. I thought everybody knew you were here. I was only young. I asked them who you were. They didn’t know what I meant, so I told what I saw. I told . . . my brother . . . and my mother . . . and . . . well, it doesn’t matter. They didn’t believe me, anyway.’ Celandine wanted so badly to explain, and it was an effort to remember to speak slowly. ‘They thought it was just a story . . .’ This was no good at all and she felt miserably at a loss as to how to continue.

‘A story? Wass that – a tale?’ Pato looked about at his companions and, most surprisingly, they all grinned.

‘There’ve been many a tale about we, I reckons,’ said Pato. ‘And few enough believed, thanks be. No. Thee won’t be the fust as’ve see’d us, nor the last neither.’ His face grew serious once more. ‘But thee’m the fust as’ve come in yere, and thass the worry, see. Thass the worry. ’Tis one thing to tell as how ’ee see’d us, but ’tis another to tell where we be.’

‘Oh, but I wouldn’t! I promise I wouldn’t.’

‘Thass another vow, is it? Well, thee med take thee vows, maidy, and put ’em somewhere safe – and we s’ll take our chance as we always must. Away with ’ee, I say. ’Tis more sense to let ’ee go than to make ’ee stay.’

‘She wouldn’t be yere at all, if ’twasn’t for that young zawney o’ yourn, Pato.’ The one with the window-hook spoke, and his voice was bitter.

Pato snapped back at him. ‘What would ’ee have I do, then, Emmet? Keep ’un tethered? ’Tis more work to look out for Fin than one pair of eyes can hold a sight of.’

‘Well, it still ain’t your say-so to let ’er go.’ Emmet sounded more subdued.

‘Oh? Be it thine? Go on, maidy, get away from yere.’ Pato looked meaningfully at Emmet. ‘There’s none as’ll stop ’ee.’

‘Pato, this needs more chewing on. We casn’t just let ’er go.’ This time it was the one with the feather necklace.

‘Do ’ee not see, Rufus – and
all
of ’ee – ’tis done.
’Tis
over and
done
. We allus knew that this day’d come, and now ’tis yere. Perhaps ’twere my blame. But ’tis done, and casn’t be undone. How can us not let ’er go? What should us do? Hobble the maid to Fin and have an end to it? Put her in the ground and wait for her own to come looking for her?’ Pato sounded tired. He turned towards Celandine and studied her, looking up into her eyes, making sure that his meaning was plain. ‘This maid must do as she will. If she do tell and they giants believe her, then ’tis all up wi’ us. They’ll come wi’ hounds and dig us out like moles. They’ll come wi’ fire and snares and never let us bide till every last one o’ us be skinned and skewered. For thass the Gorji way. Go on, chi’, away with ’ee – what’s done is done. And we s’ll see how long this vow o’ yourn do hold.’ He jabbed the trident towards her.

Celandine felt her eyes prickle with tears. There was nothing she could say. She put her hand in the pocket of her pinafore and felt her bracelet catching on the calico hem as she did so. The bright colours of the beads sparkled through her tears as she drew out her handkerchief. She blew her nose and saw the company jump back in alarm at the sound. It might almost have been funny, but she didn’t laugh. She put her handkerchief back in her pocket and then, on an impulse, undid the clasp of her bracelet. The glass beads shimmered and glittered in the sun. She extended her arm, very slowly and deliberately, and gently hung the bracelet over one of the prongs of the trident. It felt like a gesture of friendship and, as she saw the lines on Pato’s determined face soften into
puzzlement,
she thought that perhaps it might be accepted as such.

Nothing more was said. Celandine looked up once more at the crowd of little people that lined the ridge, then pushed her hair back over her shoulders and turned towards the tunnel, stooping in readiness for her uncomfortable return to the world she knew.

Her shoes and stockings were soaked through and stained with mud – something else to add to the list of crimes that she would be held to account for when she got home. Perhaps her muddy things would look better when they had dried out a little. Celandine shifted her position slightly, altering the way she sat, so that her legs were in direct sunlight on the grassy bank of the gully. The breeze would help.

She would go soon – she must – but not just yet. There was so much to think about, and she didn’t feel at all well. Her head was pounding, aching with the confusion of everything, and everything, and
everything
 . . . and the inside of her mouth was dry and sore. She tried to work up some saliva, but there was nothing there.

The mowing machine still clanked away in the distance and the lapwings still called to each other across the moor –
peeeeewit . . . peeeeewit
. So far away they all were, yet so clear on the soft breeze. She could almost pretend that nothing had changed.

And nothing
had
changed, really. The mowing machine clanked, and the lapwings cried, and the grasshoppers sang – and the little people lived in
the
woods, just as they always had done. Nothing had changed.

Except that she knew about them. That was what had changed. She knew something that nobody else knew, and if she were to ever tell . . . well, then everything
would
change. Men would come with traps and guns and shovels and terriers . . . just as Pato said they would.

Another thought came to her – a shocking, horrible thought – and she raised her head, dizzy with the awful prospect of it. She pictured the travelling zoo that she had seen when she was small, and saw Fin . . . in a cage . . . like a marmoset . . . hanging onto the bars . . .

It could happen. It
would
happen, if she didn’t keep what she had seen to herself. It was in her hands. How could she bear such a burden as that? How could she keep such a secret for the whole of her lifetime and never, ever, tell? And to think that she had
already
told – had insisted over and over, that there were little people living in the wood. What if they had believed her? The thought of it made her shudder.

Well, then. She must make sure that nothing of the sort ever
did
happen. She must guard this secret with her life, because other lives depended so entirely upon her doing so. And she must guard those other lives against the murderous outside world.

Celandine stood up. Her head still felt very swimmy, but at least her thoughts were clearer. She had stumbled upon an astounding thing, a secret so deep that it made her heart jump up into the back of
her
throat to think of it. In fact it was impossible to think of it and be able to breathe properly at the same time. But it was for her. This had happened to her, and to nobody else. She would never be able to share it, but at the same time she knew that she would never want to. This was hers. She had been chosen.

It was time to go. Celandine made her way slowly down Howard’s Hill, dazed, but determined to do good somehow. And yet the further she left the woods behind, the more her amazing discovery was pushed to the back of her thoughts, and the closer she drew to Mill Farm the more her other problems enveloped her.

The thought of her terrible attack on Miss Bell rose up like a dragon to greet her. What frightened her most of all was that she had been capable of such a dreadful thing – that she could suffer such a fit of rage and misery that her actions had been so out of control. Could she have stopped herself? She remembered picking up the scissors, the feeling of them in her hand, and wanting to stab at . . . the world. Yes, she remembered that. She hadn’t wanted to attack Miss Bell in particular. She had just wanted to make everything go away, to make it all . . . stop. The pain – yes – she had been stabbing at the pain of losing Tobyjug. But Miss Bell had been where the pain was. So did that make her any the less guilty? No, she thought not. Was she sorry for what she had done? Yes, she was sorry. She was very sorry, and she was very frightened, for what would happen to her now? Would they put her in prison? They might. People went to prison for far less.

They would be waiting for her. They would hear the clang of the sheep-gate that she now closed behind her. They would be watching her as she came down through the paddock, the thistly paddock, forlorn and empty now, where she had spent her few happy days with Tobyjug. They would see her reach this metal gate at the corner of the stables. They would see her cross this cobbled yard.

And yes, they saw her – for there was Mr Hughes, the foreman, pausing to look at her as he stood speaking to Robert by the door of the cider barn. And there was Lettie’s face, pale and shocked at the scullery window, her mouth moving – saying something to somebody – and then Cook appearing, to look over Lettie’s shoulder. They all saw her, but none could see how her stomach churned, how hot she felt, and then how icy cold, the effort it took to stay upright. None could see how her knees ached as she climbed the two steps to the front path, how all her joints were so stiff and painful that her finger knuckles would hardly bend around the hooped iron door handle, how her frame was barely capable of pushing the heavy oak door on its hinges.