Celandine (41 page)

‘’Tis time thee were gone,’ said Micas.

‘What?’ she said. Gone? Where?

‘Thee c’nst bide here no longer, maid, though I be sorry to say it. A true friend to us thee have been, and have kept all your vow. But this be no place for a Gorji maid, now – if ever ’twere – for the Ickren bain’t like we. They’ll bring ’ee down like a throstle as soon as they sithee, and we casn’t keep ’ee hid for ever. Thee must go back to where ’ee came from.’

‘But I
can’t
go back! You don’t understand. You don’t know what I’ve done . . . or . . . or what I’ve run away from. You don’t know what they’d
do
to me . . .’

‘Would your own put an arrow through thee? For tha’ist what’ll happen if thee stay.’

‘Well, no. But I’m sure that if I just
talked
to these others . . . like I did with you . . . if I showed them that I meant no harm. And perhaps they just shot at me because they were frightened . . .’

‘No, child – ’twon’t do. Not wi’ the Ickren. They’m come for the Orbis – and there’ll be blood. I s’ll not have yourn on my hands, and my own also.’

‘Well, but what
is
this thing that everybody wants? I don’t understand it at all. I know that the Touchstone and the Orbis go together somehow, but what does it mean? And why can’t you just . . . share . . .?’

Micas’s face was suddenly illuminated in a blinding explosion of light – like a photographer’s flash –
and
all the world around was momentarily as bright as day. A great crash shook the skies and Celandine ducked down with a shriek, thinking for a split second that the guns of war had indeed arrived and that Howard’s Hill was being bombarded. Then she saw a crackle of flame below her, on the fringes of the woodland, and realized that one of the trees down there had been struck by lightning.

As she rose to her feet, the heavens lit up once more. A jagged snake’s tongue of brilliant blue pierced the darkness, another tumbling roar of thunder, and this time she heard the nearby crack of splintered timber. Celandine turned to see more flames spitting upwards at the sky. The ancient beech – the one that stood alone in Little Clearing – had also been hit.

All her instinct was to draw back, to shrink beneath the cover of the hawthorns and hide herself from the lightning storm, but Micas stepped forward onto the verges of the Great Clearing, tensely looking toward the burning beech. A few more paces he took, then he turned to beckon her out into the clearing. In the light thrown by the distant flames, Celandine saw the look of panic in his eyes.

What did he think he was doing? It wasn’t safe out there. And yet, after a few moments’ hesitation, Celandine began to follow, keeping close behind Micas as he scurried between the vegetable plots and the wigwam rows of bean-sticks.

There was a gap in the line of low bushes that separated the two clearings, and here Micas paused,
peering
about him into the darkness. The flames from the stricken beech had dwindled now, but there was still enough light to see that the trunk had been split, where one of the massive limbs had been torn away. It was the limb itself that now lay burning upon the ground.

‘What are we
doing
?’ Celandine’s voice was all but drowned out by the angry rumbles of thunder, but Micas immediately put his finger to his lips in order to silence her. ‘Sh!’

For a long time they crouched upon the well-worn path between the bushes, and Micas continually looked about him, apparently waiting to see if any of the tribes would be roused by the storm. There was still no rain, but the thunder continued to grumble around the heavens and there were occasional lightning flashes, though these were now moving further away.

At last Micas whispered to her, ‘The Ickren be all about here – sheltered b’ the Naiad. We casn’t let them sithee.’

‘Then why are we here?’ Celandine didn’t understand. If it was so important not to be seen, then what on earth was Micas thinking of, to bring her so close to danger?

‘Come.’ Micas began to creep towards the beech tree, still looking from left to right, scanning the borders of the clearing for any sign of movement from the Naiad shelters.

Celandine put her trust in him, and followed. If any of the tribespeople had been awoken by the
thunder,
and had perhaps stirred themselves, then they had taken little further interest. Thunderstorms were common enough at this time of the year, and sleep was too precious to waste.

The resinous smell of scorched timber hung in the air and the fallen beech limb still smouldered upon the ground, though the flames had all but died out. It was dark once more, but Celandine could see where the trunk had been split – a huge gash of exposed wood, pale against the blackened bark.

Micas was moving around the bole of the tree, looking upwards.

‘Hst!’ He whispered for her to join him. Celandine crept towards him and followed the direction of his pointing finger. What? She could see nothing.

‘Can ’ee reach it?’

Celandine peered closer. There was some sort of knotty protrusion from the trunk of the tree – perhaps the relic of an old branch, now long gone. Was that what he meant? She stood up on tiptoe, and found that she could just about touch what felt to be the lip or the rim of a hollow. Her fingers curved over the edge of it. There must obviously be a cavity, or a split in the trunk.

‘Put thee hand in,’ whispered Micas. ‘See what be there.’

Put her hand in? Celandine wasn’t sure that she was able to reach that far, nor was she sure that she wanted to try. Anything might be in there – an owl for instance, or even a buzzard. No, she didn’t like that idea at all.

‘I can’t reach,’ she whispered back at him. ‘And anyway, what am I looking for?’

‘A box’n.’

‘A . . . box?’

‘Aye – made o’ tinsy.’

Micas dropped to his knees. He placed his hands flat upon one of the great tree roots and then braced his shoulder against the trunk.

‘Climb upon me, child. Hurry!’

Celandine hesitated. Things were moving too fast for her. She looked doubtfully at the crouching figure of Micas, then up at the shattered trunk of the beech. What if . . .?

‘Be
quick
, maid!’

She was panicked into action, and placed one foot on Micas’s back. Then she put her hands upon the bark and pushed herself up – wobbled as Micas seemed about to collapse, clung against the broad trunk, and steadied herself. Now she could reach – just.

The hole was just above eye-level. Another wobble as she brought one arm upwards, and then she was able to grasp the edge of the opening. Again she hesitated.

‘Are you all right?’ She really didn’t want to do this.

Micas grunted, and let out a sharp breath. ‘Aye. Hurry.’

Celandine bit her lip and gingerly put her hand inside the cavity, slowly reaching forward, terrified that some unknown creature might suddenly grab at her fingers.

Ugh! She had touched something – it was spiky! Her hand jumped backwards. What was it? A hedgehog? No, it couldn’t be. Again she reached into the hollow, and again her hand touched the spiky thing. It moved, but didn’t seem alive. Once more then . . .

Her fingers closed about the object, explored the shape of it, recognized it for what it was. Just an old pine-cone.

Micas shifted slightly beneath her. He wouldn’t be able to bear her weight much longer. Celandine delved deeper into the hole. Leaves . . . bits of twig . . . moss. Feathers? She dug down through the pile of rubbish, her fingers growing bolder now that there seemed little danger of them being bitten off. How many birds and animals had made their home here? Squirrels, woodpeckers perhaps . . . There! What was that? Her fingertips had brushed against metal – the hard square edge of something. She tried to manoeuvre herself into a better position, and again there was a sharp hiss of breath from Micas.

The thing was just a little too big to grip with one hand, but it was definitely a box of some sort, and she was able to get her fingers beneath it and drag it up towards the opening. It was heavy. She tilted it over the edge, and it tumbled towards her, just as Micas’s strength finally gave out. The box fell away somewhere, and Celandine slid awkwardly down the tree – scraping the side of her face on the bark and ripping her trouser knee on one of the protruding roots as she collapsed to the ground.

It took her a few seconds to recover herself, by
which
time Micas was already back on his feet and retrieving the metal box from where it had bounced onto the grass. He took no notice of her, but instead looked furtively about him before concentrating upon opening the box lid.

Celandine struggled to stand up, angry that her own efforts and injuries should merit so little attention. Her knee hurt, and she was sure that her face must be bleeding. She put her fingers tentatively to her cheek. It felt grazed and raw, but no more than that, perhaps.

Micas had his back to her now, as though he didn’t want her to see what he was doing. It was dark in any case. Why was he being so secretive?

‘Well? Is it all right?’ Celandine said, annoyed at being so obviously excluded. ‘No
damage
done, I hope?’

Micas turned towards her, and the box appeared to be closed once more.

‘Aye, all’s well. I were feared that ’twere harmed by the rowdy-dow. But ’tis safe. And now we must put ’n back.’

Put it
back
? After all the trouble she had been to?

‘Well,
you
must put it back then. Because I’m not going up there again.’ Celandine folded her arms, intending to show that she had a will of her own in such matters, but Micas immediately agreed with her – and this annoyed her even more.

‘Aye. If ’ee can bear me up, then I s’ll do it.’

What? Was she now to take the part of a stepladder in this ridiculous venture? She opened her mouth to protest, but then considered her situation once more. This was a dangerous place to be, and the sooner they were out of it the better.

She sighed.

‘All right then.’

Celandine crouched down onto the knee that didn’t hurt, and Micas climbed onto her shoulders.

He was heavier than he looked, and she had to steady herself against the trunk of the tree – head forward, hands splayed on the rough bark – as Micas hid the box once more. What was he doing up there? It seemed to be taking a great deal longer than necessary.

At last he whispered, ‘’Tis well. Bringen me down, maid.’ Celandine awkwardly moved her hands down the tree-trunk, one at a time, until he was able to slide from her shoulders.

They could still hear the distant rumbles of thunder – the ‘rowdy-dow’ as Micas called it – as they stole away into the humid warmth of the night.

* * *

Later, unable to sleep, Celandine lay upon her pallet-bed and stared up into the shadows. She was too hot, and the stone chamber felt airless and stuffy. Her thoughts raced round and round her head, everything jumbled up and confused. What was she supposed to do? Micas had said that she must leave, but that meant returning to the outside world again, and she didn’t even want to think about the outside world. So long as she refused to think about it, then that other life did not exist. So long as she was not surrounded by reminders of the past, she could pretend that it wasn’t there, that it had never happened. There was no other way of coping with it.

And it was the same with the future – she had simply avoided considering it. Today was all there was. Here. Now.

It was no good. She couldn’t sleep, and thinking only made things worse. Perhaps a little fresh air would clear her head.

Celandine got up and pulled on her shirt. It was as big as a nightgown on her, and the stone floor felt cool against her bare feet as she walked silently out into the main cavern. An oil lamp burned steadily in an alcove, giving off its familiar scent of lavender, no breath of air to disturb the even flame.

As she glanced towards the cave entrance she saw a figure standing there and her heart gave a little jump – but then she realized that it was only Micas. He had his back to her. Perhaps he too was unable to sleep.

She watched him for a few moments. What was
he
thinking about, she wondered? The Ickren, most likely, and all the problems that their arrival had brought. And now she was a problem too – one more to add to his list. As if echoing her thoughts, she heard a rustling sound, and realized that Micas was folding a piece of paper. It must be a sheet from one of her old exercise books. Perhaps he really had been making a list, she thought, and smiled at the idea of it – although Micas was one of those who could write now, after a fashion.

How miraculous it all still seemed, that first chance meeting with Fin so long ago, and everything that it had led to. If she hadn’t banged her head, then none of this would have come about.

Her eyes were drawn towards the yellow flame of the oil lamp, and she stared at it for a few moments, remembering. Where
had
this story begun? With Freddie, when they had played at rolling down the hillside? Or had it all been because of Miss Bell? Yes. If Miss Bell hadn’t nagged at her so much, then perhaps she and Freddie would never have left the Coronation party. Then they would never have rolled down the hill, and she would never have hurt her head, and been put in a bassinet beneath the trees. She would never have seen Fin, or known any of this . . .