Winter Wood (39 page)

‘Tied? You mean tied up? But how?' Midge hung on as one more question occurred to her. ‘Who? Little-Marten – tell me who's done this?'

Little-Marten yanked his arm free. ‘Scurl! 'Tis
Scurl
! He've got her . . . over in that gurt byre . . . and I be supposed to take 'ee to 'un . . . but I casn't. I casn't do it! Don't 'ee see?'

‘
Whaaat?
Scurl's not . . . he can't still be . . . Wait! Just wait a moment!'

But Little-Marten was backing away. He dodged past George, turned, and scuttled towards the planks that spanned the weir. Midge jumped up and ran after him, still clutching the pillow, with absolutely no thought as to what she was doing.

‘Hang on a minute, Midge!' George's startled voice called out to her, but Midge took no notice. By the time she set foot on the weir bridge, Little-Marten was already halfway across, arms and wings outstretched for balance. Midge took a couple of hurried steps forward, then saw that there were still some patches of ice on the wooden boards ahead of her, the last remnants of the snowfall. Sense prevailed and she slowed her pace, taking each step carefully and trying to ignore the pull of the rushing water beneath her.

She looked up as she reached the metal stanchions, and saw Little-Marten weaving his way into the bramble bushes that spilled across the other end of the plank bridge. Then she stopped. What was that? George was yelling at her – ‘Get down, Midge! Get down!' – and there was some sort of scuffle going on in the brambles up ahead. She couldn't see properly – the heavy locking gear was in the way. What? More voices . . . shouts and curses . . .

Midge hesitantly reached out for the nearest of the stanchions and drew herself closer to it, peering through the angled gap between the twin uprights, trying to watch the movement in the bushes that spread along the far bank. ‘Agh!' Little-Marten
reappeared away to the left, stumbling forward onto his knees, as though he'd been pushed. Midge ducked behind the machinery, then peeked out again.

And then, as she moved sideways in order to get a better view, she saw Scurl.

He emerged from the bushes and began picking his way along the opposite bank. He had a bow and arrow in his fist, and he was looking straight at her.

Midge clung to the cold metal for support. Her legs felt too weak to hold her up. Scurl! It couldn't be . . . it just couldn't . . .

PANIC JOLTED THROUGH
her, and her muscles came back to life. For a moment she was tensed and ready to run – but then the heart went out of her and she was helpless once more. Running would do no good. The locking gear was her only protection, and if she moved away from it she would be more exposed than ever. Yet if she simply stayed where she was, Scurl would eventually reach the end of the plank bridge and so have a clear view of her.

He was getting closer. The brambles snagged at his tattered clothing, caught at his legs and ankles as he edged along the weir-side bank, but he kept his eye fixed on hers and his bow and arrow drawn. Midge clutched her pillow to her and shrank behind the rusting stanchions, waiting for the inevitable.

No. She must think.
Think
. Maybe she could reason with him. But one look at Scurl's wild appearance told her that this creature was beyond all reasoning. His hair was long now, pushed back from his bony forehead in great straggly hanks, and his grey beard looked matted with filth. Not once did he blink or
allow his gaze to falter, but held her in his eye like a bird of prey . . . a snake . . . a look that was as hypnotic as the swirling waters of the weir-pool below . . .

Midge tore herself away and glanced behind her, searching for George. He was lying on his stomach, flat out in the rough wet grass near the end of the plank bridge.

‘Get down!' He signalled to her with his arm. ‘Down!'

But Midge was still frantically casting around for ideas, some way out of this. She looked down at the weir-pool. What if she jumped? No, that was stupid. Maybe she should just turn and run after all . . . risk the arrow that would come flying after her . . . hope that it might miss. She looked back at Scurl and knew that he knew what she was thinking. He was standing still now, arrow full drawn, just waiting for her to break cover.

And what other choice was there? Midge put her hand flat against the metal upright, ready to turn and push herself off to a running start . . . if only she dared do it. But then some slight movement off to the right caught her attention – a small figure, standing amongst the low briars, leaning forward to see what was happening. It was Henty.

The Tinkler girl looked towards her, pale face solemn and anxious. There was something odd about the way she stood, awkward and unnatural, her hands clasped together in front of her. She hopped sideways, a clumsy movement, and her face twisted with pain as she did so. Then Midge saw, and realized, what the
matter was. Henty was tied up – her wrists and ankles bound in orange twine.

Scurl's work, obviously. What did he
want
? Midge's fear began to turn to anger. Any thought she had of running away had gone. She
couldn't
leave now. Both Henty and Little-Marten were at the mercy of this mad creature, and if she were to somehow escape he would surely take his vengeance upon them.

So this had been a trap all along. Scurl had used Henty as bait, and had sent Little-Marten to lure her away from the farm . . . to find her, and bring her to this. If she had reached the end of the bridge without any warning, it would all have been over.

Now she understood. But she still didn't have a clue what she was going to do – and Scurl was on the move again.

Midge peered around the stanchions, watching as Scurl continued to thread his way through the low tangle of briars at his feet. There would come a point, just before he reached the plank bridge, where the locking gear would block his view almost entirely. That would be the moment to run, thought Midge. Except that now she couldn't run. Did Scurl know that? Was he guessing that she wouldn't leave Little-Marten and Henty to their fate? And where
was
Little-Marten anyway? Midge looked around until she spotted him, just visible behind one of the bramble bushes. Still on his knees, clearly too terrified to move.

Scurl was almost at the bridge. His eye was upon her, as it had been all along, but just for a second his glance flickered to one side. He was judging the
distance that he would have to cross with her out of his sight. For the first time, Midge felt that she had some slight advantage over him – not because she intended to run, but because she had seen his moment of uncertainty.

‘It's all right,' she shouted. ‘I'm not going anywhere, you little creep!' Her voice rang out above the roar of the waterfall, and she saw Scurl's brief reaction – a twitch of surprise on his ugly face.

Again he glanced sideways at the bridge, then back at her. And again. Then he jumped. In a flash he had leaped the couple of paces from the weir-bank and clambered up onto the bridge. He was to the right of the locking gear now, standing on the corner of one of the wooden planks. That was it. He had her in his sights.

Midge pushed herself as tightly as she could against the metal stanchions, seeking whatever protection she could find. She realized that Scurl was still hampered by the briars that tumbled across the planks. They were all around his feet and legs, and banked up high on his right. He couldn't move any further sideways, and so his line of vision was not yet perfect. But with just a few steps forward he would be onto the bare planking. And from then on he could shoot her at will.

She saw him glance at the pillow. The pillow . . .

Midge hadn't given it any thought. Could she use the pillow for protection? Would it stop an arrow?

‘Get back, dammee!' Scurl's sudden yell made her jump. He swung the bow sideways, no longer pointing
it at her but at something beyond her shoulder. Midge looked quickly behind her and then back at Scurl. In that instant she'd seen George drop to the ground.
Shot?
No . . . the arrow was still in the bow – and trained on her again. Midge raised the pillow in front of her, desperately trying to cover the half of her body that wasn't hidden behind the stanchion.

Her wrists and arms kept making little jerking movements. She fought to keep the tip of the arrow in focus . . . weaving her head from side to side . . . ready to duck . . . waiting for the moment . . .

But the moment didn't come. Why? Why didn't he just go ahead and do it? Even in her terror, Midge began to realize something: Scurl had only got one chance at this. If he were to shoot and miss, then he would have lost his control over her. She could rush forward . . . try and grab the bow before he could use it again. In fact she and George together could very probably overpower him. Scurl was all alone – no gang around him now – no other archers to back him up. All he had was that bow and arrow, and perhaps one shot at her. He had to be certain . . .

Brrrrrrrrrr . . . rrr . . . rrrrrr . . .

The sound was so startling, so unfamiliar, that for a moment Midge thought it was something to do with her attacker. She stared at Scurl in bewilderment, saw him crouch a little lower, teeth bared. Then she realized what was happening and delved frantically into the pocket of her fleece.
Brrrrrrr!
The sound grew even louder as Midge drew out the travel alarm. On and on it went, the high-pitched ringing sharp and
insistent above the dull roar of the weir. Midge fumbled with the brass winding keys. How did you turn the wretched thing off?
Brrrrrrrrrr . . .

She found the button at last, and the noise stopped dead. Midge didn't know what else to do, so she just held out the clock in her right hand for Scurl to see. She didn't want him to think that it was a weapon. The old-fashioned object dangled from her fingers, brass case hanging open so that the winding keys were exposed, sunlight glinting on the curve of the glass. Twenty-five past ten, the hands said. Hadn't it been set for half-eleven?

Scurl kept the bow trained upon her, but his eyes strayed to the metal clock. Midge was already trying to think of some way of explaining, searching for words that would assure Scurl that there was no threat here.

‘What be that thing?' Scurl's angry voice rose above the crash of the weir. ‘Some Gorji trickery?'

‘No, it's . . .' Midge was still hoping to show Scurl that the clock was not harmful in any way. But at the same time she could see that he was curious. His attention had been deflected, if only for a moment. Perhaps she could somehow extend that moment . . .

And then a flash of true inspiration shot through her. She grabbed at the idea, spoke without even thinking.

‘Don't you know what it is?' she shouted. ‘You've been searching for it long enough. It's the Orbis.'

‘What did 'ee say?'

‘I said this is the Orbis. I've found it.'

She waited . . . waited for his sneer of disdain, waited for him to tell her that he knew full well what the Orbis looked like and that it bore no resemblance to this piece of Gorji rubbish.

But Scurl didn't speak. He looked at the clock again. Then he lifted one of his feet, shook it clear of the brambles and took a deliberate step forward.

‘And if you come any closer,' said Midge, ‘I'm going to drop it in the water.' She extended her right arm so that the travel alarm was dangling beyond the edge of the plank.

Did Scurl believe any of this, or care? She couldn't tell. But he remained where he was at any rate. Midge half turned her body, shifted her stance so that she was ready to run either forwards or backwards depending on what happened next. Scurl regarded her, his eyes taking in the pillow, the position of her feet, the alarm clock dangling above the water. He was a hunter, and like a hunter he was prepared to wait for his best opportunity.

But then his thinking seemed to change. He nodded, and lowered the bow a little.

‘Well, if that be the Orbis, maid, we'd best parley. Why did 'ee bring it here – to give to I?'

‘Yes,' Midge improvised as best she could. ‘To give to you . . . if you want it.' She brought her arm back towards her.

‘Then give it,' said Scurl. ‘Or do I come and take it?' He lifted his foot as if to step further forward, and Midge immediately hung the travel alarm over the torrent once more.

‘No!' she shouted. ‘You've got to give me something in exchange.'

‘Ah.' Scurl moved back. ‘I didn't think as 'twould come for naught. What would 'ee trade for such a bauble then?'

‘You know what I want. You have to let us go free – all of us.'

‘Agreed, then.' Scurl didn't even hesitate. ‘Give me the Orbis and I'll not touch 'ee. Any of 'ee.'

Was he mocking her?

‘You mean . . . you'll just let us go?'