Winter Wood (40 page)

‘Aye. Now give me the Orbis.'

Their voices rang back and forth above the tumble of the water.

‘But how do I know you won't shoot me if I do?'

‘Well, thass just it, maid. Thee ain't likely to trust old Scurl, I reckon, so we don't get very far, do us?' He was playing with her, Midge was sure of it. Just playing for time. But then so was she.

‘All right. Let Little-Marten untie Henty. Give your bow and arrow to him, and then I'll give you the Orbis.'

Scurl laughed outright at this. Midge could see his sharp yellow teeth beneath the greasy beard. ‘Now that be going just a little too far down t'other path, maidy. Give my bow to the Woodpecker? And what do 'ee think he might do wi' it? No. But don't let I stop 'ee talking. I be enjoying myself – and still willing to hear 'ee out.'

Midge tried to think. There must be some way of doing this, some suggestion she could make that
would test whether Scurl was serious or not. He wasn't going to just give up the bow and arrow. It would leave him with no hold over her, and in too much danger. How badly did he want the ‘Orbis'? He didn't seem very bothered about it, but then maybe that was the whole idea.

‘Look,' she said, ‘the Various have been trying to find this thing for years and years. You know how important it's supposed to be. If this was yours then you could take it to the forest, and . . . and everyone would be very proud of you for finding it. They'd forget what you did, and forgive you and everything. They might even make you King or something, for all I know. It has to be worth letting us go in exchange.'

Scurl had stopped laughing now. ‘'Tis thee that put me out here, maidy, to rot and to starve – as all my company did rot and starve – and I s'd be glad to put an end to thee in return. Aye, and I've tried to do it more 'n once. I casn't stand to look at 'ee, nor these rag-tags that hang by thee, nor any such traitors. But I'll tell 'ee this true. If I was to hold the Orbis then I'd give up my hold on thee, and never think on 'ee again. Now there's my word on it. Find the way, and I'll make the bargain.'

Midge had seen enough of Scurl to know that his word was hardly to be trusted, but she wanted to believe him nevertheless. He made no attempt to hide his hatred of her, yet he would put that hatred aside for the sake of something that meant more. She had to make this work. It was their only chance.

‘What about this then,' she said. ‘Let Little-Marten
untie Henty, and let them come over to this side of the weir. Then put down your bow and arrow, on the bridge, where you're standing now. And then come and meet me here in the middle and I'll give you this.'

‘No,' said Scurl. ‘For as soon as I got to the middle, thee'd all turn tail and run – and take the Orbis with 'ee. My bow'd be back here, and I'd lose the lot of 'ee.'

‘Well, you think of a better way, then.'

‘Woodpecker and the Tinkler stay this side,' shouted Scurl, ‘I ain't letting go of 'em. Not till I gets what I want.'

Midge tried to think this through. How could she keep Little-Marten and Henty safe? Maybe if Scurl were to put down the arrow . . . or give it to Little-Marten . . . keep the bow . . .

No, she just couldn't seem to find any way of . . .

‘Tell 'ee what I'll do,' Scurl's harsh voice called out again. He took the arrow from the bow, and held both of them up for Midge to see. Then, with a sudden swing of his arm, he flung the bow far out into the weir. Midge watched in astonishment as the bow twirled out across the water, a bright spinning arc, to be swallowed up into the tumbling foam. She couldn't believe it.

‘There. What do 'ee think to that?' Scurl was grinning at her. ‘Now thee've naught to fear. But hark 'ee – I've still got this 'un.' He held up the arrow in his fist. ‘Aye, and more like it. So if either of 'ee try to come at I – thee or that other Gorji snip – then thee s'll find I've a sting yet. And if 'ee were to run, or keep the Orbis from me, then I've still got the Tinkler maid.
She ain't going anywhere, nor Woodpecker neither, not whilst she'm snared. And I s'll stap this arrow through her eye, or worse, I can promise 'ee, if there be any Gorji tricks. Woodpecker!' Scurl turned round and shouted for Little-Marten. ‘Come up here – away from that maid! Get theeself up here, where I can sithee!'

Little-Marten was still on his hands and knees beside one of the bramble bushes. He rose hesitantly to his feet, but remained where he was, looking completely dazed.

‘Up here, dammee!' Scurl watched for a moment as Little-Marten began to stumble forward, then he turned back to Midge.

‘Now then, maidy. Here be the way of it. I s'll come to thee – and I warn 'ee, thee'd best not run. Then we shall make our trade – the arrow for the Orbis. Agreed?'

Midge couldn't get her thoughts straight. This was all moving too quickly. She needed to work this out, but she was being given no time. Already Scurl was beginning to step forward.

‘Don't trust him, Midge!' George's voice called out from behind her.

‘Stay out o' this!' Scurl roared back. ‘And stay down! I ain't coming across with two of 'ee on the bridge!'

‘It's all right, George, he can't hurt me,' said Midge. But her words sounded more confident than she felt.
Could
he stab at her with that arrow?

‘Hold the arrow the other way round,' she shouted to Scurl. ‘With the feathers pointing towards me.'

Scurl nodded. ‘Agreed, then.' He held the arrow by the tip, loosely pinching it between finger and thumb so that it dangled harmlessly downwards, the feathers tilted in Midge's direction.

Midge was still nervous, still trying to see how Scurl might use the arrow to harm her. He couldn't shoot her with it, and she didn't think he would be able to throw it hard enough to do much damage. She still had the pillow clasped to her body if he should suddenly try to stab at her. Would he really risk losing what he was after just for the chance of wounding her? Would he have thrown the bow away like that, if he wasn't serious about trying to do a deal? No, he had kept the arrow for his own defence, not to attack her. Once he had what he wanted he'd go away, surely? And as long as she and George stayed here, Henty would be safe enough.

‘Come on, then,' she called to him. ‘But keep the arrow like that.'

He looked so awful, that was the trouble. As Scurl stepped out above the pounding waters and drew closer to her, she saw how disgusting he really was. His hair and beard were matted into great clumps, solid with grease, and there were fingermarks smeared all down the front of his leather jerkin. Around his feet and legs were wrapped bits of old sacking, cross-tied with orange binder twine. As he spread his tattooed wings and edged along the planks towards her, Midge caught the animal scent of him – strong as a monkey house. It turned her stomach over, filled her with fear and revulsion just to be anywhere near him, but at the
same time she couldn't help feeling a stab of pity for this terrible creature. He looked so completely derelict.

Then she caught sight of the oilskin quiver, slung around his back. She'd forgotten about that.

‘Those other arrows,' she said, pointing. ‘I don't want them near me. Put them down.'

Scurl said nothing, but once again he did as he was asked. With his free hand he unslung the quiver, bringing the leather strap over his head and lowering the bundle onto the planks at his feet. Then he stepped over the object.

‘Bist ready?'

‘Yes.'

Scurl was almost within reaching distance now. Every sense in Midge's body was alive, straining to stay sharp. She was aware of the crash and rumble of the weir beneath her . . . the anxious figure of Little-Marten hovering near the other end of the bridge . . . Henty, white-faced and helpless among the briars . . .

She knew that George would be tensed and alert on the bank behind her, waiting, trying to be ready for whatever might come. There was nothing more she could do but get it over with.

Midge gripped the pillow closer to her body and leaned forward, holding the clock out towards Scurl. Her hand shook with nervousness, and the scuffed and battered little object looked pitifully unconvincing in the bright sunlight.

But Scurl didn't even glance at it. His eyes were on her, and they were still the eyes of a predator, unblinking, fierce in their concentration.

‘Take it,' he said, and held the arrow out, raising it so that the feathered flights were pointing towards her. Midge hesitated. Unless she let go of the pillow she would have to take the arrow in the same hand that the clock was in. She didn't want to do that in case he grabbed her, but nor did she have any intention of dropping the pillow.

She shook her head. ‘No. I'm going to have to put the cl— the Orbis down.'

It was a gamble. Midge lowered herself into a half-crouching position, feeling horribly vulnerable. Her eyes were almost at Scurl's level as she let the alarm slip through her fingers. It tumbled forwards onto the boards with a soft clunk. Midge quickly stood up again.

‘
Take
it.' Scurl thrust the arrow towards her. He still showed no interest in the clock. Midge didn't want the arrow – didn't want even that minimal contact with this awful being – but this was the deal that they had struck, and the look in Scurl's eye told her that she had no choice. She reached out and grasped the arrow, feeling the bristly texture of the trimmed feathers sharp against the palm of her hand.

Scurl didn't immediately let go of his end. He resisted her pull just for a moment – enough for Midge to know that it was deliberate, and enough for her to know that she'd made a mistake. As Scurl released his hold on the arrow, he took a step forward, placed his foot next to the travel alarm – and kicked it into the weir.

The clock skittered across the boards and was
immediately gone, lost in the broil of froth and spray.

Midge was still frozen in position, holding the arrow out in front of her like a fencer. She looked down in horror at the water, then back at Scurl. What was he—?

‘Dost think me a
fool
?' Scurl roared. His red face danced just beyond the sharpened point of the arrow. ‘Dost think I don't know yellow-metal when I sees it? And glass? These be
Gorji
things! Gorji work!'

He'd known all the while, then. Right from the very start he'd known, and had played her along in order to get as close to her as he could.

Midge felt her legs going. She tried desperately to keep the arrow upright, pointed at Scurl's face. It was her only chance. Just keep jabbing . . . and jabbing . . .

Scurl retreated, but remained calmly beyond her reach. He let her take a couple more feeble little stabs at the air, then he hitched aside his leather jerkin, crooked an arm behind his back – and drew out a knife.

In his hands it looked like a sword . . . some great military thing . . . curved and horrible. Scurl grinned at her.

‘Now we be matched,' he said.

Midge thought that she would faint. The dizzying roar of the water was all around her, and the sunlight seemed blazingly bright. She saw the arrow drop from her helpless fingers and bounce towards the edge of the planking.

‘Thee'd best run, maidy.' Scurl's voice was like a whisper in her ear.

‘No!' Another voice, shouting, from far away. Henty. ‘Don't run! Don't show your back to him!'

Don't run? Midge looked at the knife. Scurl was changing it from one hand to the other, holding it by the blade now, raising it high as if to throw it. She turned from him and felt the pillow slide from her grasp. Don't run? But she must. She must run and run . . . faster than a knife could fly . . . faster than it could cut through the air . . . blade spinning end over end . . .

She must run. And yet she couldn't move.

Little-Marten
was
moving, though . . . dashing along the planks . . . and then flying . . . soaring upwards to land on Scurl's shoulders, grabbing the arm that held the knife. ‘
Nooooo!
' Midge heard his furious yell – and felt the boards tilt beneath her. She saw Scurl and Little-Marten tumbling sideways, locked together in a dark tangle as they fell from the bridge, and knew that she was falling too, helplessly off balance on the rocking planks. Midge flung out her arms as the water rose to meet her, but was then swinging back round and crashing against the boards. She landed on her knees with her arm twisted up behind her. George was there, gripping her wrist, hauling her back to safety.

‘Agh . . . agh . . . let go. Little-Marten . . .' Midge gasped, and staggered to her feet, frantically scanning the weir. She heard Henty's screams from the other bank, but couldn't take her eyes from the seething waters.

‘There!' shouted George. ‘Over there!'

A head had bobbed up, midstream. It disappeared
for a moment, then came up again, sweeping away from the main current and into the slow circling eddy at the far side of the weir-pool. A clumsy splash of arms and wings and the head turned round. Scurl. He cursed and spat, thrashing at the water, his attempts to stay afloat hampered by the fact that he still held the knife in his hand.

‘He's gone! Little-Marten's gone!' Midge was beside herself with anguish. She tried to push past George, but George shouted, ‘No! Look!'

And there he was – Little-Marten – miraculously coming to the surface in a flurry of movement, coughing and spewing water, not two feet from Scurl. He was facing the opposite bank, and immediately began trying to paddle towards the heavy clumps of reeds that grew there, grabbing at the water in panicky little strokes.

Little-Marten was obviously unaware of the danger that was right behind him. But Midge saw it, and grabbed George's arm in horror as she realized what was about to happen. Scurl gave a great surge forward, lunging out with his free hand and grasping at Little-Marten's ankle. The two of them disappeared for a moment, and when they rose again Scurl was roaring with fury. He lifted the knife high into the air, plunged it into the foam, lifted it a second time . . . and then his whole body seemed to scoot sideways, propelled across the weir-pool by a hidden force.