Fire: Tales of Elemental Spirits (7 page)

Sonny contemplated it for a moment, then picked it up, stalked the length of the bed and placed it neatly between Mr. Askey's lips.

There was a pause, and the mask became human, became the face of their friend, drawn and lined with illness, but known, admired and loved.

Mr. Askey opened his eyes and looked at them and smiled.

ʺOh, that's good,ʺ he whispered. ʺThat's good. That's good. Thank you for everything, Dave. Thank you, Sonny. Glad you made it home in time. Give my respects to his lordship. Tell him it's all been worth while, all worth while.ʺ

He closed his eyes and died.

The earl bore the loss of his heir characteristically. His only known show of emotion on the subject came when some titled tub-thumper publicly congratulated him on setting an example to the nation by giving his son's life for the cause. He glared at her briefly, then snapped, ʺDon't be a fool, woman. I didn't give it. He did,ʺ and turned his back on her.

Fourteen years later, he was to endure another bereavement when his grandson (mad on motor-cars) killed himself at Brooklands while road-testing a straight-eight speedster of his own design, leaving a great-grandson to inherit the earldom at the age of five when the old man eventually died in 1932.

The madness that caused the eleventh earl eventually to be known—notorious, even—as the Green Earl was not immediately apparent. The seeds from which it was to grow were probably sown soon after his great-grandfather's death by a Miss Wells, recently engaged as governess to his two elder sisters.

Miss Wells was a tall, plain young woman in her early thirties, with a wide mouth, wide-set eyes and a pale but not unhealthy complexion. She had a look of pleasant calm, with reserves of determination below the surface. She was a governess because she had been denied a formal education beyond the age of twelve, when her mother had fallen ill from an hereditary disease and her father had withdrawn her from school to help with the household chores. From then on she had educated herself in her spare time, choosing subjects that interested her, at first generally botanical, but concentrating more and more on native British trees, since there were subjects for her to study locally in the Forest of Dean, where her parents lived. By the time of her mother's death and her father's almost instant remarriage, she was a considerable expert on some of the larger species and had had technical papers published in professional journals; none of this was much practical use to a woman turned out of her home with no more than a token allowance and with no academic qualifications whatever. One of her brothers-in-law, a motoring crony of the young earl's father, had recommended her for the post of governess, and the post had seemed right for her the moment she set eyes on the woodlands that mottled the estate. It was not surprising therefore that at almost the first opportunity she visited Dave's Wood. Since it was the afternoon on which the girls had their riding lessons and the nursery maid had her afternoon off, she was in charge of the earl, so she took him with her. Besides, there was a Mr. Moffard, whose permission she would apparently need. If he proved difficult, she could tell him she wanted to give the earl a botany lesson.

There was no such difficulty. Mr. Moffard seemed a courteous old man, though somewhat withdrawn. Just before leaving, Miss Wells asked him if he had any idea of the age of the magnificent oak tree that stood on the other side of the clearing opposite his front door.

Mr. Moffard seemed to open up a little.

ʺNot to say for sure, ma'am,ʺ he answered. ʺSeventeen 'undred eighty-two she was there, full-grown—that's in the diaries—an' there's oaks in there 'alf grown as aren't down as full-grown for another 'undred, 'undred an' twenty years. So give 'er a couple of 'undred on before the diaries, I reckon she was a young'un when the Armada come by.ʺ

ʺNot a Domesday oak, then?ʺ

ʺAh, no, ma'am. Fewer of those than folk make out, and what there is more dead than alive. An' Domesday this'ld 'a' been forest far as you could see. Thissair wood's maybe a bit o' that left over, but there aren't a tree in it anythin' near that old, not in the diaries, neither.ʺ

ʺDo you mean you've got diaries about the wood going back to—seventeen eighty, wasn't it?ʺ

ʺEighty-two, ma'am. Fifth earl begun it. Liked collectin' stuff, 'e did, anything old, almost, and gettin' it written down in a book. Sees thissair wood, full of old trees. ‘Get 'em all writ down,' 'e tells my great-granddad. Thassow it begun, on'y no one never told us to stop. You interested in trees, ma'am?ʺ

Miss Wells looked at him almost shuddering with excitement.

ʺMore than anything in the world, Mr. Moffard,ʺ she said. ʺMay I look at your diaries?ʺ

ʺReally old ones, they're over in the Library at the House, ma'am. Eighteen forty-two thissair lot go back to. . . . Careful, m'lord! She'll bite, 'cos she don't know not to. Get 'er out for you, shall I?ʺ

Miss Wells had managed to keep half an eye on her charge as he nosed cautiously round the room. The obvious danger came from the log fire burning in the enormous open hearth. It was piled surprisingly high, even for a dull, chilly April afternoon, but so far the earl had been more interested in the mass of other attractions in the room, all stowed as neatly as if in the cabin of a careful sailor. His latest find had been a small crate, adapted into an animal cage. She watched briefly while Mr. Moffard opened it and fished out a fox cub for the earl to look at and touch, and then turned to the diaries. There was almost a shelf of them, in different shapes and sizes; each covered two or three years. She opened the earliest and was immediately enthralled. Every major tree in the wood seemed to have its own entry, with a number, a code for its location, and then a record of its progress through the year: measurement of girth, first bud, leafing, flowering, general health, creatures using it to nest and roost, loss of branches and other damage (a close-range blast from a shot-gun to an ash in one instance) and so on. She pulled out a diary forty years on to see what had happened to the ash, and found that it was now dead all down one side. Another twenty and it was gone, apart from an entry recording the fungi on its stump.

By this time she could hardly think for excitement. She knew of no other record in the country remotely resembling this in completeness of detail. She glanced up to check if Mr. Moffard was yet free and saw that he was putting the cub back in its cage. As he came towards her an oddness struck her. Her heart sank.

ʺThese are quite extraordinary, Mr. Moffard,ʺ she told him. ʺBut . . . but . . . I mean, it's been over ninety years, and they're all in the same handwriting.ʺ

ʺAh, no, ma'am. Just the two of us, me an' me uncle. Spittin' image of 'im, I am, folk tell me, an' it's the same with the writing. Remarkable long life 'e lived, too. Born 'tween the last day of seventeen ninety-nine, 'e used to tell folk, an' the first of eighteen 'undred an' and nowt, and din't—ʺ

ʺThat's extraordinary, Mr. Moffard! So was I! A hundred years later, of course, but between the last—ʺ

There was a stillness in the room, a sudden surge of tension, enough to startle Miss Wells into silence and a quick check round the room. She gasped, suppressed the automatic shout of warning and rushed towards the fireplace. The earl was standing actually inside the chimney breast, having worked his way in between the glowing mass of embers and the side wall of the chimney, and was now leaning forward over the fire to crane up into the dark cavern of the chimney above. She reached in, grasped his arm and dragged him out.

ʺOh, but please—ʺ he began.

At that moment her fears seemed to be justified. A glowing mass slid down the chimney and landed in the heart of the fire. Flames blazed up around it, too bright to look at. They settled. The mass shook itself and became a distinct shape, which rose and stepped forward onto the hearth. Miss Wells found herself staring at a bird about the size of a farmyard cock, with apparently normal avian plumage, except that it was a brighter, fierier orange-yellow than she would have imagined possible.

The earl turned to her, earnest-faced.

ʺWelly, you mustn't tell anyone,ʺ he commanded. ʺIt's a secret.ʺ

ʺNo, no, of course not,ʺ she muttered, still staring.

ʺThat's the Phoenix, that is,ʺ said Mr. Moffard calmly. ʺSeems 'e's wanting for to meet you.ʺ

ʺWe been makin' a game between us, Welly and me, when you'd get it,ʺ said Dave. ʺShe said as it wouldn't be that long now.ʺ

ʺBut how . . . how . . . ?ʺ

ʺLivin' backwards. This ninety year that's what I been doin'. 'Undred afore that was forwards, same as anyone else, so put 'em together and I'm an 'undred an' ninety. 'Ard to take in, I dessay, but don't you fret on it now. You'll get it soon as you've met Sonny. Nothin' to be feared of—'e's been around since you first come, on'y you won't 'ave seed 'im. 'E'll be down when 'e's through with 'is 'ymn.ʺ

Ellie continued to stare while Dave returned to his notes as if nothing of more than passing importance had happened. At last he looked up and grinned at her, a normal boy's grin of pure, harmless mischief.

ʺBit much to take in, I dessay,ʺ he said. ʺCome along, then. Wouldn't want you to miss this.ʺ

They walked together back towards the cottage, past grown trees, some of which, Ellie was creepily aware, must first have shouldered their way out of the soil long after the boy beside her had been born. The idea made her shiver, not with fear, but from its sheer strangeness.

Back at the cottage she settled beside Welly to help her enter up the day's notes on the PC while Dave cooked—strong tea with lots of sugar, and fried potato baps with bacon scraps and onion in the mix, greasy but crunchy crisp on the outside, and utterly contrary to all Mum's dietary rules. Delectable. She was finishing her second helping when Dave picked up his mug, handed it to her and rose.

ʺ'Bout time now,ʺ he said.

Welly backed her chair from the table and wheeled herself to the door, down the ramp and round beside the bench, where Dave and Ellie settled. All three waited in silence.

The front of the cottage was in shadow now, with the setting sun just lighting the topmost branches of the trees along the eastern edge of the clearing. Above that the sky was a soft, pale blue. The evening was full of the good-night calls of birds. They hushed, and the whole wood waited.

The song began so softly that Ellie wasn't sure at how long it had been going on when she first heard it, a series of gentle, bubbling notes, close together but distinct, so like a human melody that Ellie felt she could almost have put words to it. It became louder, wilder. Ellie closed her eyes and in her imagination saw the song as a swirling fountain of individual droplets above the trees, each note glittering into rainbow colours in the sideways light, the fountain rising and spreading into a circling canopy of light, which then un-shaped itself and fell in a gentle shower onto the waiting leaves below.