Celandine (13 page)

On her way out she noticed a cricket ball sitting at the back of the bookshelf, next to
Pears’ Cyclopaedia
. It was the bruised sheen of its polished surface that had caught her eye – so like the colour of the planet in her dream. How funny. She reached out to press the tips of her fingers against the smooth red leather for a few moments, feeling the warmth of it, and then took her hand away. There were no fingerprints that she could see.

Celandine made a promise, although only to herself, that the flat rock that she now sat upon was as far as she would go. To venture further would be an intrusion. She hoped that the little people would see that she understood this, and that she had no intention of moving beyond this point without their invitation. The trouble was, they were nowhere to be seen.

At least two hours must have passed, probably more, and there had been no sign of them. But it was peaceful sitting upon the rock, the waters of the
shallow
stream trickling around her, and she was happy enough to wait. With her legs tucked beneath her and one hand resting on the warm stone, she reminded herself of a picture she had once seen: the statue of the Little Mermaid in Copenhagen. Perhaps little mermaids really existed, as well as little people? It was possible. Anything seemed possible, now.

She had the fish hooks ready, still wrapped in their piece of wax paper, and she played with the packet for a while, tapping it with her finger, chasing it back and forth across the surface of the stone as a cat might play with a mouse. They would be glad of some proper fish hooks, she thought. What else might they need? A needle and thread? Yes, that would be useful. Scissors? Scissors reminded her, inevitably, of Miss Bell. She didn’t want to think about that.

They weren’t coming. She could sit here until nightfall, and they still wouldn’t show themselves. Well, it didn’t matter – she knew they were here, and that they were watching her. Somewhere up among the high line of trees, or perhaps closer, hiding among the brambles, crouching in the tall grass, their dark eyes were looking at her, waiting to see what she would do, wondering whether she brought danger to them. But she had been most careful. For a long time she had sat at the top of the gully, scanning the landscape, making sure that there was nobody in sight before slipping off her shoes and stockings and entering the wicker tunnel.

Nobody had seen her come here, and nobody would see her leave. Celandine reached forward and
picked
up a piece of shale from the bed of the stream, shook the droplets of water from it and carefully placed it on top of the packet of hooks. Then she folded her navy blue stockings, tucked them into her shoes and stood up. She hoped that Pato, or perhaps Fin, would see the little offering, sitting there in the middle of the flat rock. A corner of the wax paper was just visible.

Celandine bundled her shoes beneath her arm and gingerly made her way back to the tunnel.

When she returned the following day, she brought three embroidery needles, several coloured skeins of thread and most of a tea-cake. The packet of hooks had gone.

The day after that, she brought a book to read. If she was going to sit upon the rock for several hours at a time, then she might as well keep herself amused. There was another reason for the book. Her mother had told her that she must keep up her studies until a replacement for Miss Bell had been found, or until some other decision had been made with regard to her education. Celandine had agreed, but argued that it was much better to work in the fresh air than in a stuffy classroom – although she had been careful not to say whereabouts in the fresh air she intended to be. So now she sat, more or less with her mother’s approval, beyond the wall of brambles on Howard’s Hill, waiting for another glimpse of the little people. Once again there was no sign of them, but once again the gifts she had left for them the previous day had gone.

Celandine opened the copy of
Aesop’s Fables
she had brought with her and began to read a story about a fox and a crow. The crow had a piece of cheese which the fox wanted to try and steal. The fables were quite simple, but her lesson was not so much to read as to try and work out the moral of the story – which was always printed in italics at the end. She was supposed to go through the story, and then find the meaning of it for herself. Before she read any further, therefore, she made her eyes go out of focus and quickly placed her hand over the line of italics on the opposite page. She didn’t like the morals and she wished they weren’t there.

The crow was sitting in a tree with the piece of cheese in its beak, and the fox was beneath the tree, looking upwards. The fox told the crow how beautiful he thought she was – how gorgeous her plumage, how bright her eyes, how pretty her dainty little feet. He was sure that she must have the most wonderful voice to match. Would she not sing for him and make his happiness complete? The ugly old crow was very flattered. She opened her mouth to sing, and so of course she dropped the piece of cheese – which the fox very quickly gobbled up. Then the fox offered up a few rude remarks and ran away laughing.

It was quite a good story, but Celandine wasn’t sure what the moral of it might be. Don’t sing with your mouth full? Never believe anything a fox tells you? She began to move her hand very slowly, uncovering the words one at a time, to give herself a clue.

Moral; Pride and vanity
 . . .

‘Why do ’ee sit theer?’

Celandine jumped and the book slid off her lap. Her hands automatically scrabbled after it, just managing to save it from falling into the water as she turned to look over her shoulder.

He was different, this one – paler-skinned, a figure in grey on the bank of the stream. He wasn’t waving a stick at her and he seemed less outlandish, less wild, than the ones she had seen before. Nevertheless his sudden appearance was shocking enough and Celandine glanced towards the half-obscured opening of the wicker tunnel, judging the distance lest she should need to make a run for it.

‘What do ’ee want with us?’ He spoke again, and again the impression was of one who was calm, unflustered. His head was bald in the middle, like a friar’s, with white hair that grew thickly over his ears, and his shabby grey gown, tied about the waist with a cord, would have made him look even more monk-like if it weren’t for the short sleeves.

‘Come, maid, answer. Why do ’ee come to this place?’ It was not quite as easy for her to understand this one. His accent was strange.

‘I – I’m sorry.’ Her voice wasn’t working very well. She swallowed, and made another attempt, trying to remember to speak slowly and quietly. ‘I just wanted to . . . well, I just wanted to help. I thought I could help.’

‘Thee thowt to help? By bringing the Gorji upon us? Thee might help us the mooer by staying away, child. Thee’ve no business here.’ Yes, his accent was
unlike
that of the others she had heard, as though he came from another part of the country.

‘Nobody saw me come here. And I haven’t brought any . . . Gorji . . . with me.’

‘
Thee
be a Gorji, child. What do thee bring, if not theeself?’

Celandine took his question literally and said, ‘I’ve brought some lucifers.’ She pushed her hand into the pocket of her pinafore and fumbled for the box of matches that she had stolen from the drawing room at home. ‘See?’ She held up the little wooden box and shook it.

He frowned, but looked unimpressed. His bare forearms were folded and she saw that he wore a thick metal bracelet on each wrist. They were arms that looked as though they were used to hard work, and his face, though pale, was strong about the jaw, the neck muscles clear and visible. That first impression of him as being somehow monk-like began to fade.

‘For a wean?’

She didn’t know what he meant. A wean? A baby perhaps? Did he think that she had brought a baby’s rattle? She slid open the box, and took out a match – holding it up for him to see. Then she struck the match upon the side of the box.

He flinched at the sudden eruption of flame and thick white smoke, turning his head sideways, and half raising an arm as a shield. His grey eyes darted from the burning match to her, and then back to the match – back and forth again – finally remaining fixed upon the flame as it grew and dwindled and died.

Celandine threw the spent lucifer into the stream and closed the box.

‘I’ve siddit afore, Micas – ’tis all their nonsense. Take no heed o’ it.’

Celandine recognized the voice. It was Pato, who now emerged casually from the surrounding undergrowth and stepped down towards the bank. The figure in grey turned in surprise to look at him, and the two nodded to one another.

‘Pato.’

‘Micas.’

There was something cautious in their greeting, Celandine thought, as though they were not particularly well acquainted.

Pato was minus the trident this time. He stood with his hands on his hips and stared directly at her.

‘You’m back yere again, then maidy. I was hoping we’d seen the last of ’ee – and p’raps we would, too, if we’d only make sure thee’d seen the last of we.’ He looked meaningfully at Micas. ‘’Tis better not to show theeself, Micas. I’d ’a thought your kind might’ve knowed that.’

Micas nodded, but said, ‘I know it well enow – but
she
knows we’m here, Pato. She knows. And so hiding mayn’t be our best play. Wha’ist she want, I wonder? If ’n we knew that, we might barter it for her going.’

How unalike they were, Celandine thought – the one so pale, the other so dark. How could that be? And why would their speech be different? And why did they seem as though they were strangers to each other?

‘I don’t want anything,’ she said. ‘I only wanted . . . to be friendly. And to bring you things that might be useful to you.’

‘A box o’ fire. Hmph.’ Pato snorted and looked up at the sky.

‘Well, what about the fish hooks? Did you find the fish hooks? And the needles?’

Pato said nothing.

‘What be in the other box?’ said Micas.

Celandine was puzzled. What other box? Did he mean the book? She held it up.

‘In here, do you mean? Um . . . stories. Tales.’

‘A box o’ fire and a box o’ tales.’ Pato was not to be impressed. He turned to Micas. ‘I means to stay out o’ this. An’ thee should do the same, Micas. Leave this maid be. She’ll soon tire, if we pays her no mind. Come.’ He began to walk away, then stopped to look over his shoulder. Micas remained where he was. Pato shook his head, and disappeared among the ferns.

Micas stepped further down the bank, so that he was right at the edge of the stream – just a couple of feet from where she still sat upon the flat rock. He nodded cautiously at the closed book. ‘Show’st me,’ he said.

‘Read to you? Is that what you mean?’

‘Show’st me how’n a tale be put in a box.’

‘All right.’ She was close enough to him to be aware of his slow intake of breath as she gently opened the cover of the book, as though he were tensing himself against the possibility of more fireworks.

‘“
The Fox and the Crow
”’ she read. ‘“
There was once a clever fox
 . . . ”

The next morning Micas did not come alone. Others appeared from among the ferns, half a dozen or more shabby little figures in grey, all of them quite elderly, to stand in a silent huddle upon the bank of the stream.

Celandine looked at their bearded faces, so pale their skin and white their hair that they might almost have been albino were it not for the dark cautious eyes. She wondered once again whether this could possibly be happening.

Micas spoke on the group’s behalf. ‘These be Elders, maid. Some Tinklers, some Troggles. They’m come to judge ’ee for themselves. And to hear ’ee tell a tale.’

‘Oh,’ said Celandine. She opened her book, self-conscious now, and began to read. The bubbling waters around her were like a musical accompaniment to a voice that sounded as though it belonged to someone else.

Within another couple of days Celandine had attracted quite a respectable audience. The number of listeners was now perhaps thirty – a shy and solemn congregation – fathers, mothers, children. They stood beside the stream in silence, rarely smiling or speaking, but their huge dark eyes were wide with curiosity and wonder as she read the ancient fables of the boy who cried ‘wolf’, the dog in the manger, the fox that lost its tail. And she in turn was so overcome by the
strangeness
of it all that she sometimes had to stop mid-sentence and look up from her book, to convince herself that she wasn’t dreaming, before finding her place once more.

At the end of each story the dark heads moved a little closer together, to nod their approval at one another and perhaps exchange a whisper or two – but if she spoke to any directly, or asked them questions, they shrank away from her, protectively drawing their young ones closer, shielding the tiny heads that peered wide-eyed from the folds of coarse grey material.

‘How long have you been here?’ Celandine wanted to know. ‘And where do you live? In the trees?’

The group looked to Micas, and from him she learned a little more. They called themselves Tinklers and Troggles, and they lived in the caves. Celandine could just see the mouth of one of the caves from where she sat upon her rock. She wanted to look at the jewellery that they wore – the heavy anklets and bracelets, the medallions that dangled from the cords tied about their gowns.

‘Can I see?’ She spoke to one that Micas had called Mab, and the pretty Tinkler girl silently held out her wrists to show the metal bangles that she wore. The designs looked intricate, but the metal was dull, like blackened pewter.

‘Where do you get these things?’

‘We worken the tinsy.’

Celandine took this to mean that they must somehow make these things for themselves, and indeed
there
was nothing about this group that seemed borrowed from the outside world. There were no bits of binder twine, no scraps of tweed or twill, no pigskin waistcoats that had seen better days. And when it was time for her to go, and Celandine offered them whatever treasures she had brought – a hatpin, a ball of wool, the metal puzzle from her Christmas box – they shook their heads in refusal. Always she left these things upon the rock, and always they had disappeared when she next returned, but she was certain that it was not the cave-dwellers who had taken them.