Winter Wood (32 page)

‘Ah . . . ah . . .' Henty lay on the slippery boards gasping for breath, but Little-Marten would give her no pause.

‘Crawl!' he shouted, and began to do so himself, moving towards the far bank on his hands and knees. He was raging at the Gorji for building so treacherous a bridge, and at himself for putting faith in any of their works. What a fool he was to take such risks, and to allow Henty to do the same. He had nearly lost her. Well then, enough. He hawked and spat far out into the roiling froth. Aye, enough.

There were tangled clumps of blackberry bushes growing on the far bank, spilling across the end of the plank-bridge itself, and these had to be gingerly pushed aside before Little-Marten and Henty could feel themselves safely back onto firm ground.

‘Henty, this ain't any good.' Little-Marten's words came tumbling out. ‘I be taking you home. No . . .
no
 . . .' He held up a hand as Henty opened her mouth to speak. ‘I be done with it, I tell 'ee. There's nothing for us out here but trouble . . . and . . . and . . . danger. We've no food and nowhere to stay and there's worse to come, I knows it. Far worse to come if we carry on like this.'

Henty said nothing, but moved in close and put her arms about his neck. She was shaking. Little-Marten drew her to him, but still he stumbled on, determined to say his piece. ‘I can't bear it, Henty – can't bear to sithee live so. Cold and hungry, and every step in fear o' what the next might bring. We'm like mice in a hawk's nest out here, and'll come to proper grief afore another day's out, 'tis certain. I just can't watch 'ee do it. Not any more. So I'll tell 'ee now – we're going back.'

He waited for her response, looking over the top of her head at the pale countryside. Already the sun was past its strength.

‘But I'm with you,' she said at last. ‘Don't you know that's all I care about?'

‘Henty, I thought I'd lost 'ee. I did true. Chance were with us this time, but what o' next time and the time after that? I could be standing here alone now – or you could. What then? We must go back.'

She said, ‘But we've come such a way that we can't turn round now. Why don't we just get to the Far Woods and see how 'tis? All we need might be waiting for us there.'

‘Ha. I don't know as I want to see what waits for us there. This don't feel right, not any of it.'

‘Well I'm not going back tonight.' Henty had stopped shaking and some of her spirit had returned. ‘Nor crossing that water again. And if you were so for giving up, then why come over to this side?'

‘Henty, I wasn't going to start some argle-bargle with 'ee out in the middle o' that lot! Listen . . .' Little-Marten sighed and looked about him. ‘We ain't going to reach the Far Woods this day, even if we did carry on. We'll look for shelter now, before 'tis too late, and then talk on it.'

Henty nodded. ‘All right.'

It was a compromise that each was happy to agree to – each believing that a little rest might help the other see sense.

There was a byre, a huge red building, two or three fields away. It was partially hidden by trees, but Little-Marten and Henty could see that the object appeared to have no sides – just a massive curved roof raised high from the ground on tall metal stanchions. A roof was better shelter than nothing, though, and nothing was their only other choice. They began to make their way around the edges of the fields, doubly cautious now that they were approaching a building where giants might be present.

An air of disuse hung about the place. From
beneath the cover of the last belt of trees Little-Marten and Henty peered forth in silence at the great open-sided byre, just a short distance away now, and a taller building than they had ever seen in their lives. It occupied the high end of a sloping field, and from here a rough snow-filled track ran down towards a distant gate. There were no other dwellings nearby, and no sign of movement.

The purpose of the byre had apparently been for storing hay. An uneven stack of bales still filled one corner, bales that had been long forgotten if their blackened appearance and sprouting tufts of grass were anything to go by. Low patches of brambles had spread from the surrounding field, and entwined themselves about the rusting stanchions. They had even begun to embrace a piece of machinery that stood half in and half out of the byre – some ladder-like object on wheels. It was plain to Little-Marten and Henty that the Gorji were not often in this place. They crept from beneath the trees and scuttled over to the building.

It was a better find than they could have hoped for. The floor was just bare earth, but quite dry – dusty even – towards the middle where snow and rain could not reach. And the hay bales that were beneath the shelter of the roof were also dry, though grey with age. Bits of Gorji rubbish lay scattered about here and there, things fashioned of wood and rot-metal and other less recognizable materials. Orange-coloured twine – there seemed to be a lot of that around. Little-Marten thought that he might remind
himself to take a few lengths with him when they left.

They found evidence of Gorji butchery, or so they assumed it to be – a rabbit skin stretched out upon a wooden pallet. The square pallet was propped against one of the metal columns that supported the barn, and the rabbit skin was pinned to the centre of it, hooked over splinters that had been cut into the edges of the wooden slats. The pelt was uselessly ruined, slashed about as though with a blade. Why?

The two of them wandered away in different directions. Little-Marten noticed a few pale scraps of something lying on the earth floor near the ladder-machine and went over to take a look. Bits of . . . apple? No, it was the remains of a winter root, gnawed by some animal perhaps and then discarded in the dirt. It could be a wurzel, or a turnip.

‘Henty – look at this.' Little-Marten stooped and picked up a piece of the grubby root, dusted the cleanest part of it on the front of his jerkin and took a bite. Wurzel! Hardly a luxury, but after two days without food it was welcome enough.

‘What is it?' Henty was struggling to move one of the hay bales.

Little-Marten didn't answer. He chewed thoughtfully on the scrap of wurzel root. It was half raw, but that was what puzzled him. He looked at the bit that remained in his hand, the bit that was blackened on the outside. Not grubby after all, but . . . charred . . . cooked . . .

Henty called across to him. ‘Marten, look – I've broke one of these bales open, and 'tis all good and dry. We can sleep on this.'

‘Aye, build theeselves a nest, my pretty birds. And I shall see as thee sleep sound enough.'

The harsh rasping voice froze Little-Marten's scalp. He swung round, horrified, the piece of root falling from his hand.

A wild and ragged figure stood at the open side of the byre, a bow in his fist, arrow ready notched. The remnants of his tunic and breeches hung about him in tatters, and round his shoulders was draped a filthy piece of Gorji sacking, tied at the throat with orange twine. His hair had grown longer and greyer, and the once-stubbled chin was now full-bearded, but Little-Marten recognized his old enemy in an instant. Here were the eyes that could stop his heart from beating, and here was a name at last to the fears that had dogged him all throughout this day: Scurl.

Scurl, once Captain of the West Wood archers, now banished from the forest by Maglin for his treachery. Scurl, who with his cronies had been cast out upon the lands of the Gorji, where it was assumed they would perish. Two seasons and more it had been since Scurl's departure and all had forgotten him. Yet here he was, still in the area, still alive, and as terrifying as ever.

Little-Marten felt his whole being go weak as Scurl raised the bow towards him, and drew back the arrow.

‘Now then, Woodpecker. I don't know what good fortune brings 'ee here to me, but I'll tell 'ee this – I ain't likely to waste it. Not this time.'

THE PROSPECT OF
an extra couple of days off school was always a good one, and Midge had intended to have a long and peaceful lie-in, with time to give some serious thought to the Orbis, and what she could possibly do next. But of course it was Monday morning – she'd forgotten that – and by eight-thirty the builders had well and truly arrived. The dumper truck was already roaring around the yard outside her window, and now it sounded as though somebody was trying to hammer his way up through the floorboards directly beneath her bed.

With a strangled squeal of fury Midge threw back the duvet. Was there never to be any
peace
around here? She stomped over to the shower cubicle as loudly as she could, her bare feet banging in time to the hammering below.

George was downstairs, she was quite pleased to discover, apparently having driven over with his mum.

‘We're just here until lunchtime,' he said, through a mouthful of toast and marmalade. ‘Thought we might go tobogganing. What do you reckon?'

The kitchen felt quite crowded. Midge's mum and Auntie Pat were sitting at the end of the breakfast table, drinking tea and surrounded by the inevitable piles of paperwork, and Uncle Brian was on the phone, staring out of the window and saying, ‘Yes. Yes . . . will do . . . right-ho, Cliff . . . see you sometime this afternoon then . . .'

‘Tobogganing?' said Midge. ‘Yeah, OK, then. I don't mind.' Anything to escape this mayhem, she thought.

‘Hiya, Midge. All right, lovey?'

‘Hi, Auntie Pat. Yeah, I'm fine.'

Her aunt smiled up at her, patting at the neat little lacquered hairdo that always looked to Midge as though it could withstand a tsunami. Midge smiled back and Auntie Pat returned her attention to the list of figures that lay before her. ‘So what's this then, Chris? Oh, I see . . . you've done it that way. Right . . .'

‘I had a bit of a go yesterday,' said George, ‘while you were out.'

‘What? Oh, the tobogganing . . .'

The room was too busy, and Midge just wanted to get away. ‘Come on,' she said to George. ‘I'll go and find my wellies.'

The snow didn't look as though it was going to be around for long. Already the whitened slopes of Howard's Hill looked a bit patchy, and the bright sunshine – such a contrast to yesterday's weather – felt warm enough to begin melting what was left. But you could see where George had been playing the previous afternoon, a long flattened track that ran
from the sheep-gate down towards the Field of Thistles, and perhaps this icy strip would resist the effects of the sun for a while yet.

‘But the weather was
horrible
yesterday afternoon,' said Midge, as she and George trudged up the hillside. ‘It must have been freezing out here.'

‘Yeah, it was a bit.' George had both hands behind his back, pulling the red plastic toboggan along by its length of thin rope. ‘Seemed a shame to waste it, though. I didn't go out until it was nearly dark, and I could only stand it for about an hour. But it had stopped snowing by then. Pretty much.'

They reached the top of the slope, close to the wall where the sheep-gate was, and George said, ‘I'll go first. Just to make sure it's safe. It looks a bit more slippery than it did before.' He manoeuvred the plastic toboggan out into the centre of the flattened track, straddled it and then plonked himself down on the moulded seat bit. ‘Give us a bit of a push, then, when I say “go”.' He grabbed the rope, and put his feet up. ‘OK – go.'

Midge stood at the back of him, put her hands on the shoulders of his padded jacket and gave him a good shove. ‘Agh!' She nearly overbalanced, and slithered a little way down the track before she could right herself. She looked sideways to see George bouncing down the hillside at quite an impressive speed. Blimey. Quite a scary speed . . .

‘Who-oh-oh-oh-oh . . .' George's fading yell was like that of someone riding a roller coaster, half terror and half excitement, but the sound was broken by every
bump that he hit, and there were a lot of them. His head was jiggling about as though it was being used as a cocktail shaker. The toboggan shot way past the point where the icy track petered out, and ploughed on almost to the hedge that bordered the Field of Thistles before hitting a final big hummock and stopping dead. George tipped neatly forward and fell face down in the snow.

Midge could hear him cursing from where she stood. He picked himself up and stomped about rubbing his backside. ‘What're you laughing at?' he shouted back up the hill – and it was true that now Midge had started she could hardly stop. She clutched at her stomach and bent over double, seriously worried that she was going to wet herself.

‘Sorry . . . sorry . . . ahhhha! You just looked so . . .
funny
! Ohhhh . . .' Midge straightened up and tried to regain some control, but then the sight of George's angry red face started her shrieking again. ‘It was your . . . your . . . head! It looked like it was going to fall off!'