Winter Wood (54 page)

‘Yeah.'

They turned towards the glare of the outside world. Celandine lived here, thought Midge. It just seemed impossible. She ran her fingers along the walls as she followed George and Katie. Smooth flat stone on this particular bit, chalky patterns . . .

‘Hang on a minute.' Midge stepped back and looked at the marks on the wall. It wasn't patterns. It was writing.

‘Look at this.'

‘What?'

Some of the words were still visible, big round letters, written in a child's hand.

‘What does that say?
Early one
 . . . something . . .
just as the
 . . . something . . .
was
 . . .
rising
? Does that say “rising”? Is it a poem?' Midge put her head to one side, trying to figure it out from a different angle.

‘That word's “maiden”,' said George. ‘Next line down. Definitely “maiden”.'

‘Oh,
I
know what it is.' Katie had got it. And to George and Midge's surprise she began to sing, her voice echoing softly around the cave.

It was lovely. The tune was so pretty, and Katie sang it so beautifully that Midge felt the sudden stab of tears. She didn't trust herself to speak and was glad when George said something first.

‘I never heard that before.'

‘Yeah, we learned it at playschool. Good old Miss Reade. She misread me, I can tell you. Thought I was her little angel. It's surprising how far being able to sing in tune'll get you. I used to nick her mint imperials and some other poor sap always got the blame.'

Midge burst out laughing and took the opportunity to quickly wipe her eyes. Katie was such a hoot sometimes.

‘But this is so . . . fantastic,' she said. ‘Don't you see? Celandine wrote this, when she was a girl. She ran away from home – well, from school – and lived here for a while. Right here in these caves. It's just . . .' She couldn't find the words to explain. ‘I can't believe it.'

‘Yeah, it is pretty amazing.' Katie and Midge stood looking at the chalk writing in awe. Ninety years ago those words had been written, and by a child from another age. Their great-great-aunt.

‘Hey . . .' George had found something else. He'd moved further back down the cave and was reaching into a small alcove that had been cut into the opposite wall, a thing that they hadn't noticed before among the deep shadows.

‘What's this?' He came back towards them holding a little piece of grey pottery in his hand, a circular dish that had been pinched together on one side to form a spout.

‘Is it like an oil lamp or something?' The dish was half full of some waxy substance, and there was a bit of blackened string poking out from the spout. George sniffed at it.

‘Oof. It smells perfumey. There you go.' He handed the object to Katie. ‘You have it. A relic.'

‘What? Can I? Hey, thanks, George. That's really sweet of you. I think it
is
a lamp, you know.'

‘Yeah, they had lavender oil, the cave-dwellers,' said Midge. ‘I don't know how, quite. I haven't noticed that much lavender about.'

‘It's probably just scented with lavender,' said Katie. ‘She sniffed at the lamp. Yeah, it's probably tallow.'

‘What's tallow?'

‘Some sort of animal oil, I think. Or maybe it's whale. Dunno. Anyway, I've got a relic now. Thanks, George.'

‘That's OK.'

It was a harmonious moment, a rare enough event in the lives of George and Katie, and perhaps as good a time as any to be thinking of leaving. They slithered down the bank of shale and made their way back towards the tunnel.

‘You know what?' said Katie. ‘This is all ours. I mean, I know it belongs to Dad and Auntie Chris, but it
will
be ours, won't it? How lucky is that?'

‘Yeah, hadn't thought of that,' said Midge.

‘I might build a proper tree house here,' said George. ‘A really big one – or maybe even a whole adventure trail. Hey – we could start charging people to come in!'

‘Nah.' Katie stepped from stone to stone as she headed into the wicker tunnel. ‘We see enough of the “guests” as it is. They're not my blimmin' guests.'

Midge was last out of the tunnel, and she pulled at the rickety wicker doors, closing them behind her and rearranging the brambles as best she could. The entrance was better hidden now. No stray country walker would ever know it was there, and soon it would become even more overgrown. She followed George and Katie, climbing up the steep bank of the gully to throw herself down onto the grass beside them. They sat for a while looking out across the hazy expanse of the wetlands. It had been a year now, Midge realized,
since she'd first come here. And so much had happened since then that it made her head spin.

From a distance Mill Farm looked pretty much the same as it had last summer – the farmhouse itself and the stables and the cider barn still standing where they had always stood. But how life down there had changed. There was a part of Midge that wished it could all have stayed as when she first saw it: a glorious jumble, the yard and barns piled high with junk, chickens running in and out of the hallway. The Deputation from Rhode Island, she had called them. Then there was the old Wellington boot that lay permanently on the front path with the Favoured One as its occupant, the cider barn that had become the Orphanage, Tojo the Assassin, the Summer Palace . . .

And herself, of course, as mistress of the whole wonderful ramshackle mess – the Mistress of Mill Farm. She smiled to think about it. Things were so different now.

Perhaps the change was for the best. Ever since the guest apartments had opened they'd been pretty well booked up. Mum was happy in her little office, Uncle Brian was happy, pottering about with his napkins and corkscrews. There had been a couple of hints lately that her cousins and Auntie Pat might be moving in, and that would be good. Barry was OK. Sometimes he stayed over, sometimes he didn't. He and Mum didn't appear to be in any rush to go and get married or anything yucky. Although maybe that would be OK too, Midge supposed. Whatever Mum decided to do would be right. Her decisions usually were.

And what they had done today had definitely been right. They'd taken the thing out of its box, and looked at it, and then put it away again and closed the lid. It was still a mystery, something that might never be explained. Something that might be forgotten, or not. But there was nothing in there to be frightened of.

She didn't think she was likely to come up here again, though. Not for a while. And she doubted whether George or Katie would bother. There was no need. Not any more.

‘It's good, though, isn't it?' she said. ‘I mean, what they've done with the place. My mum, and your mum and dad. It is good.'

Katie tugged at a long stalk of grass, pulling it gently from its sheath so that the soft end was still intact. She put it between her teeth and bit into it, her blue eyes glancing briefly down at the farm buildings below.

‘Yeah,' she said. ‘It's not bad, I suppose.'

The Birds and the beasts had done their grisly work, and there was little enough left of the old Queen now. A few bones lay scattered about the tiny glade, some scraps of stained and rotten material, and of course the ancient wicker Gondla, overgrown with grass and weeds. Such were the remains of Ba-betts.

It was a gruesome sight, but this was the way of the Ickri, to give back sustenance to those creatures that in turn sustained the tribe. And so this was a scene to be witnessed in respect before passing by.

Likewise the hidden world of the cave-dwellers was to be explored and explained: the main forge, cold and silent now, and the meeting hall that contained the almanacs – but also the weaving chamber with its empty loom, the storerooms, the inner depths of the smithies, and finally the morgues. Here were the burial chambers of the Tinklers and Troggles, their rituals revealed and then abandoned for ever.

Together they had looked upon each other's past, and so understood one another the better as they planned their future.

They had decided that they would live neither as Ickri nor Tinkler, but rather as the Naiad and Wisp had done. They would learn to crop the land and fish the waters. They would learn to make their winter charcoal, and to weave the withy and the willow into such traps and pens and shelters as they might need. In this way they would add to the knowledge that they already had, and should they ever have to travel out upon the lands of the Gorji again, then they would be prepared.

But meanwhile they were staying put. The long hazy summer lay ahead of them, and so there was opportunity enough to store both food and knowledge against the far-off days of winter. These were easy times once more for Henty and the Woodpecker, last of the little people.

Journeying was not for them, they had decided. Better the certainty of being together in this world than chance to find themselves apart in another. The Various might travel where they would, but Henty and Little-Marten had travelled quite enough already, and had seen what such excursions might bring. They had made their choice – to remain where they were – and in this they had no regret.

What had they to fear? The Gorji were no great threat that they could see, and had brought them no harm. The long-predicted invasion never came. Henty and Little-Marten had walked and talked amongst giants and had witnessed how they lived. What would such a busy people want with this place? No, the two of them were safer now, they felt, than they had ever been.

The archers had gone, and so the throstles and the coneys would soon multiply. There would be meat, and birds' eggs again in season. With only two mouths to feed they would find more than enough here to live on.

That was if there were only ever to be but two mouths . . .

‘Dost reckon we shall have childer?' Little-Marten wondered.

‘Childer? If we did, then strange childer they'd be,' said Henty. ‘We be of a different feather, you and I, like raven and magpie. What sort of wean would a raven and magpie bring into this world?'

‘Casn't say.' Little-Marten laughed. ‘A rag-pie, maybe?'

‘Aye, a rag-pie. Or a maven.'

‘Ha! A maven! It don't sound very likely, do it?'

‘No,' said Henty. ‘Not very.'

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Steve Augarde was born in Birmingham, but spent most of his life in the West Country, working as an illustrator, paper-engineer, and semi-pro jazz musician. He has written and illustrated over 70 picture books for younger children, and has produced the paper-engineering for many pop-up books, including those by other artists – as well as providing the artwork and music for two animated BBC television series. Steve lives in Yorkshire.

You have been granted three wishes,

The Various
was but the first,

Celandine
the second.

Now, all will be fulfilled as you enter

Winter Wood
 . . .

 

Also by Steve Augarde:

THE VARIOUS

Winner of the Smarties Bronze Award

CELANDINE

WINTER WOOD

AN RHCP DIGITAL EBOOK 978 1 409 09873 7

Published in Great Britain by RHCP Digital,

an imprint of Random House Children's Publishers UK

A Random House Group Company

This ebook edition published 2012

Copyright © Steve Augarde, 2008

First Published in Great Britain

Corgi Childrens 2008

The right of Steve Augarde to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.