Winter Wood (8 page)

She tried to focus.

‘Well . . . what is it you want?' she said.

To be gone from here, maid. We must find what we have lost, and so return to our own.

Midge turned from Tadgemole, and looked at Pegs. He seemed changed from when she had last seen him, not just older, but with an even deeper wisdom in his dark glistening eyes. And as Midge stared into those eyes she became hypnotized by the little pinpricks of light that were reflected there. Twinkling like far-off stars . . .

A strange feeling slowly came over her. It was as though she were being lifted up and carried away from this place, rising into the darkness. She was floating, tumbling end over end among the milky heavens, a windblown straw in the vastness of the universe.

‘What do you mean?' she whispered, and her own voice seemed to be coming to her from a long way off. ‘What is it that you've lost?'

The Orbis, child. We seek the Orbis. Our time has almost come, and we must leave this world and travel to Elysse. If
we stay longer we shall perish. Help us to find the Orbis. Do you know what it is that I speak of?

‘The Orbis? Yes . . . the Orbis.' And again Midge could hear her own voice, echoing through the darkness. Then came a picture, a memory. She sat by water – a pool or a fountain – and held some object in her hand, felt the cool weight of it, the smooth curve of metal against her palm. A sun, and a moon and a star. The Orbis.

‘I . . . remember it.'

You remember it. And now you must find it and bring it home.

‘But . . . where shall I look?'

The picture-memory began to fade, and Midge was floating back through space, returning from wherever she had been. She blinked, and became aware of the wind rattling the rusty panels of the barn roof.
Tap-tap . . . tap-tap
 . . .

‘Where shall I look?' She said it again, and her voice was back where it belonged. But now her head felt all spinny. ‘Sorry,' she said. ‘I'm going to have to . . .' She moved shakily over to the grey tractor, and perched herself against the front wheel. With a hand on each knee to steady herself, and her head lowered, she felt better. This was just too weird, though.

Tadgemole, show the child what you have brought.

Midge raised her eyes. What now? Tadgemole was reaching into his rough cloak and bringing something from it. A piece of paper – quite large. He carefully unfolded it, looked it for a few moments, then moved towards her, offering it to her.

Midge automatically leaned forward to take the paper from Tadgemole's outstretched hand, but now she felt self-conscious at being so close to him – and so huge and awkward by comparison. His head was only a little higher than her knee. She found herself staring dizzily at the silver-grey stubble on his face. How did he keep it so short? Did he have scissors? And where did he get his clothing from? He wasn't dressed in the rag-bag of oddities that she had seen on others of the Various – the scraps of sacking and cut-down shirts and waistcoats that had so obviously started life beyond the forest. The material of Tadgemole's cloak was coarse and loosely woven, but it fitted him properly and might have been made especially for him. Did they weave their own cloth, then? How? She caught his eye and realized that she was being studied in return, a look of grave curiosity that took in her hair, and the zips on her fleece, the blue charity bracelet that she wore on her wrist. And the sheer size of her, she supposed, would make her as much an alien to him as he was to her. Another wave of dizziness passed over her, and then receded. She shook her head and took a deep breath before trying to focus on the piece of paper.

It was a double sheet, ruled – perhaps from an old exercise book. There were words on the left-hand page, very tiny, written in pencil, and a drawing on the right. The drawing was of a girl, or a woman, wearing a long dress and some sort of funny headgear. There was a big cross about her neck. A nun?

The words on the left-hand page were carefully
printed, with serifs and curly ‘g's, as though somebody had copied the shapes of the letters from a book. ‘At my going . . .' Midge began to look down the page. The words blurred, and then came back into focus. It was like a will, or a testament.

‘Read it aloud to us,' said Tadgemole, ‘so that Pegs may hear again what is written there.'

‘All right, then,' said Midge. She went back to the beginning.

‘“At my going, I, Micas, now task Loren to write my words for me, my eyes grown too weak to see. The leadership of our tribes I pass on to Bron, here present this day, and would also pass on the care of the Orbis, if it were still with me. But the Orbis has gone, longseasons since. To Celandine I gave it, when our tribes were in peril, and I have seen it no more, nor she who keeps it safe for us. Yet still I know that the Orbis will be brought to this place again, by her hand, when sun and moon and stars fall aright. The day will come. This I have been told by one who knows more, and such is now my belief. And this belief shall be passed on from leader to leader, and from heart to heart, so that all our tribe shall carry it with them. The good maid was sent to us as a sign from Elysse, to prepare us for our return. And to Elysse we shall return, when we are deemed ready. Celandine will know the day. Until then we must follow the teachings of the almanacs she gifted to us, for therein lies all the knowledge that we shall need. Come for me, when you make your journey, my friends. I shall be waiting for you along the way.”'

Then there was a very scrawly signature – ‘Micas' – at the bottom of the page. Midge stopped reading. What was this all about? It talked about her great-great-aunt as though she were like a saint or a prophet, or something.

‘I don't understand it,' she said. ‘What does it all mean?'

Tadgemole bowed his head briefly, before raising it to speak. ‘These are the words of Micas, who was leader of the Tinklers and Troggles when Celandine first came among us longseasons ago. Celandine taught us our letters, and how to sing. All our knowledge she brought to us, that which sets us apart from other tribes. Then the Ickri came and would have stolen the Orbis from us, aye, and murdered us all. The Orbis was given to Celandine for safekeeping, and she fled the forest in danger of her own life. She was seen but one more time, and that from a distance, by my brother Loren. 'Twas he who wrote the words and made the drawing you see before you.' Tadgemole's voice became firmer, almost as though he were issuing an order. ‘Find her, child, and bring her back. Bring her back, and the Orbis with her, so that all may be made right.'

‘
Find
her? But . . . but Celandine must have died years ago. She'd have been about a hundred by now, if she was alive. Maybe more.'

‘A hundred? A hundred fourseasons?' Tadgemole's heavy eyebrows rose in a look of faint surprise. ‘Is that such a long life, then, for a Gorji?'

‘Er . . . well, yes, actually. It is. Not many of us reach a hundred.'

Yet some do. Have faith, Midge. Celandine may be in this life still.

Pegs took a step forward, and Midge began to feel that she was being hemmed in.

‘I really don't think she is. You see, I've . . . well, sometimes I think I've seen her . . . or at least felt' – she didn't like to say the word, but could think of no alternative – ‘felt her ghost.'

Her ghost?

‘Yes. Her . . . spirit. I can't explain it. It's like she's here sometimes. With me. Or I'm with her. Oh, I don't know. But I'm sure it means that she must be dead.'

We all of us have many lives, child. The spirit of a traveller may move from one life to another, and from one part of a life to another. Perhaps Celandine is such a one – a traveller, who comes to you from elsewhere. Find her. Speak with her when you see her, and she may answer.

Midge didn't like the thought of that at all. It was too creepy. Much too weird. And sitting here in the draughty gloom of this old barn, talking such impossible talk – this was too weird also. She wanted to escape, now, to get away.

‘Well, I could try and find out what happened to her, I suppose,' she said. ‘Maybe.' She could hear the lack of conviction in her words, even as she spoke, but what did they expect – that she could work miracles? She gave a shrug of her shoulders.

Nothing more was said for a few moments, and Midge was conscious of the disappointment hanging in the air. Tadgemole reached up and gently took the piece of paper from her hands. He began to fold
the sheet along its original creases, handling it with such care that Midge felt her heart suddenly go out to him. His strength and pride had disappeared, and he no longer looked like the leader of a tribe. He looked like an old man, tired and worried and worn down by care, a man who had lost his way. All of them had lost their way. Midge watched the top of the aged head, bent in concentration, and knew that she could not ignore the pain that she saw there, or just walk away from it. There was no escape after all, and there never had been. She made a decision.

‘All right,' she said. ‘I don't understand any of this, but I'll try. Honestly I will. I'll do everything I can.'

She meant it, and she saw a new expression in Tadgemole's grey eyes as he lifted his head to look at her – a glimmer of hope, perhaps, and gratitude. And renewed curiosity.

Pegs came up to her and briefly nuzzled her hand, the warmth of his breath passing softly across her fingers. How miraculous he was. She remembered how she had cared for him, brought him back to life in this very barn when he lay crushed beneath the hay-raking machine. She shyly reached out to touch one of his wings, feeling once again the curious texture of the velvety membrane and the long quill-like bones beneath. So fine and delicate. And so beautiful that she felt suddenly awkward, as though she had no right to be so familiar with him. She withdrew her hand.

Do you see, Tadgemole, why this maid has all my faith? If not for her I would have passed from this life long ago. Midge was sent to our aid, as Celandine, her kin, was sent before
her. We hide from the Gorji, and go in fear of them. If we cannot escape them we know that we shall perish. And yet we are helped on our way by their own childer.

Tadgemole nodded. ‘Aye. This is a strange world. And a stranger day than ever I thought to see.' He hesitated for a moment and then said, ‘Take this, then, maid – Midge. Perhaps it will help you.' He held the folded piece of paper out towards her.

Midge briefly wiped her palms on the knees of her jeans, and stood up – rather shakily. She had the sense that she was being trusted with the care of something precious, and as she gently slid the piece of paper into the inside pocket of her fleece she said, ‘Thank you. I'll look after it, I promise.'

‘Aye. It is all that our tribe have of Celandine, and all that remains to me of my brother's hand. If it can serve a purpose, then I am glad that you should take it – but I should like to see it safe again.'

‘Did your brother . . . I mean, is he . . .?'

‘Loren died young. The winters were ever a hard time for us.'

It was plain that Tadgemole had no wish to say any more. Midge pulled up the collar of her fleece and turned hesitantly towards the doorway of the barn.

‘But what shall I do,' she said to Pegs, ‘if I find out anything? About Celandine, I mean. Do you want me to come and tell you?'

You must keep away from the forest, Midge. Much has changed since you were there, and little for the good. The old Queen has gone, and now Maglin rules in her stead. All tribes are divided, and there is much foolish talk . . .

‘Pah! Treacherous talk!' Tadgemole's pale face had begun to redden. ‘
Heathen
talk!'

Midge looked at Tadgemole, surprised at his sudden anger. What was all this about?

. . . which things do not concern you, maid. Do your part, if you can, and all will be made right. If you would speak with me, then come here. Come to this place, and at this light of the day if you can, and I shall do the same if I can, each day and at this light until we meet again.

Midge wanted to learn more, but decided that it might be better not to ask. And besides, she had quite enough to think about as it was. ‘All right, then.' She sidled through the barn doorway, narrowing her eyes against the sudden bite of the wind. ‘Brr! I'll um . . . well, I'll see you . . .'

Briefly parted, maid. And soon united.

‘Yes. At least . . . I hope so.'

But as Midge stepped away from the barn, it seemed hardly likely that this parting was to be a brief one. She thrust her hands deep into the pockets of her fleece and started to negotiate the steep descent of Howard's Hill, dodging among the coarse tufts of wet grass. How did you go about tracing long-lost ancestors? Where on earth would you even begin? No, she didn't think that she would be seeing Pegs again for a while. She looked over her shoulder for a moment or two as she clumped down the slope, in order to take one last glance at the pig-barn. The Summer Palace. There wasn't much that was summery about it today. Or palace-like. But what amazing secrets it held. Just so amazing . . .

A few paces more and the little building had bobbed out of view.
Tap-tap-tap
. Midge heard a last faint rattling of the tin roof, an eerie sound floating away on the January wind. Maybe there was something unsettling in that sound, or maybe it was just the need to get warm, but at any rate she turned and gave in to gravity, allowing her legs to be carried forward in ever larger strides, one . . . two . . . three . . . four, until finally she was running – and very quickly running out of control. Arms flailing, she leaped and bounded down the hillside, kept upright only by a series of miracles, saw the sheep-gate rushing towards her and just managed to grab at one of the rails as she crashed up against it. She hung there for a minute, horribly winded, her heart thumping painfully in her bruised ribcage.