Winter Wood Read online

  It was a double sheet, ruled – perhaps from an old exercise book. There were words on the left-hand page, very tiny, written in pencil, and a drawing on the right. The drawing was of a girl, or a woman, wearing a long dress and some sort of funny headgear. There was a big cross about her neck. A nun?

  The words on the left-hand page were carefully printed, with serifs and curly ‘g’s, as though somebody had copied the shapes of the letters from a book. ‘At my going . . .’ Midge began to look down the page. The words blurred, and then came back into focus. It was like a will, or a testament.

  ‘Read it aloud to us,’ said Tadgemole, ‘so that Pegs may hear again what is written there.’

  ‘All right, then,’ said Midge. She went back to the beginning.

  ‘“At my going, I, Micas, now task Loren to write my words for me, my eyes grown too weak to see. The leadership of our tribes I pass on to Bron, here present this day, and would also pass on the care of the Orbis, if it were still with me. But the Orbis has gone, longseasons since. To Celandine I gave it, when our tribes were in peril, and I have seen it no more, nor she who keeps it safe for us. Yet still I know that the Orbis will be brought to this place again, by her hand, when sun and moon and stars fall aright. The day will come. This I have been told by one who knows more, and such is now my belief. And this belief shall be passed on from leader to leader, and from heart to heart, so that all our tribe shall carry it with them. The good maid was sent to us as a sign from Elysse, to prepare us for our return. And to Elysse we shall return, when we are deemed ready. Celandine will know the day. Until then we must follow the teachings of the almanacs she gifted to us, for therein lies all the knowledge that we shall need. Come for me, when you make your journey, my friends. I shall be waiting for you along the way.”’

  Then there was a very scrawly signature – ‘Micas’ – at the bottom of the page. Midge stopped reading. What was this all about? It talked about her great-great-aunt as though she were like a saint or a prophet, or something.

  ‘I don’t understand it,’ she said. ‘What does it all mean?’

  Tadgemole bowed his head briefly, before raising it to speak. ‘These are the words of Micas, who was leader of the Tinklers and Troggles when Celandine first came among us longseasons ago. Celandine taught us our letters, and how to sing. All our knowledge she brought to us, that which sets us apart from other tribes. Then the Ickri came and would have stolen the Orbis from us, aye, and murdered us all. The Orbis was given to Celandine for safekeeping, and she fled the forest in danger of her own life. She was seen but one more time, and that from a distance, by my brother Loren. ’Twas he who wrote the words and made the drawing you see before you.’ Tadgemole’s voice became firmer, almost as though he were issuing an order. ‘Find her, child, and bring her back. Bring her back, and the Orbis with her, so that all may be made right.’

  ‘Find her? But . . . but Celandine must have died years ago. She’d have been about a hundred by now, if she was alive. Maybe more.’

  ‘A hundred? A hundred fourseasons?’ Tadgemole’s heavy eyebrows rose in a look of faint surprise. ‘Is that such a long life, then, for a Gorji?’

  ‘Er . . . well, yes, actually. It is. Not many of us reach a hundred.’

  Yet some do. Have faith, Midge. Celandine may be in this life still.

  Pegs took a step forward, and Midge began to feel that she was being hemmed in.

  ‘I really don’t think she is. You see, I’ve . . . well, sometimes I think I’ve seen her . . . or at least felt’ – she didn’t like to say the word, but could think of no alternative – ‘felt her ghost.’

  Her ghost?

  ‘Yes. Her . . . spirit. I can’t explain it. It’s like she’s here sometimes. With me. Or I’m with her. Oh, I don’t know. But I’m sure it means that she must be dead.’

  We all of us have many lives, child. The spirit of a traveller may move from one life to another, and from one part of a life to another. Perhaps Celandine is such a one – a traveller, who comes to you from elsewhere. Find her. Speak with her when you see her, and she may answer.

  Midge didn’t like the thought of that at all. It was too creepy. Much too weird. And sitting here in the draughty gloom of this old barn, talking such impossible talk – this was too weird also. She wanted to escape, now, to get away.

  ‘Well, I could try and find out what happened to her, I suppose,’ she said. ‘Maybe.’ She could hear the lack of conviction in her words, even as she spoke, but what did they expect – that she could work miracles? She gave a shrug of her shoulders.

  Nothing more was said for a few moments, and Midge was conscious of the disappointment hanging in the air. Tadgemole reached up and gently took the piece of paper from her hands. He began to fold the sheet along its original creases, handling it with such care that Midge felt her heart suddenly go out to him. His strength and pride had disappeared, and he no longer looked like the leader of a tribe. He looked like an old man, tired and worried and worn down by care, a man who had lost his way. All of them had lost their way. Midge watched the top of the aged head, bent in concentration, and knew that she could not ignore the pain that she saw there, or just walk away from it. There was no escape after all, and there never had been. She made a decision.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand any of this, but I’ll try. Honestly I will. I’ll do everything I can.’

  She meant it, and she saw a new expression in Tadgemole’s grey eyes as he lifted his head to look at her – a glimmer of hope, perhaps, and gratitude. And renewed curiosity.

  Pegs came up to her and briefly nuzzled her hand, the warmth of his breath passing softly across her fingers. How miraculous he was. She remembered how she had cared for him, brought him back to life in this very barn when he lay crushed beneath the hay-raking machine. She shyly reached out to touch one of his wings, feeling once again the curious texture of the velvety membrane and the long quill-like bones beneath. So fine and delicate. And so beautiful that she felt suddenly awkward, as though she had no right to be so familiar with him. She withdrew her hand.

  Do you see, Tadgemole, why this maid has all my faith? If not for her I would have passed from this life long ago. Midge was sent to our aid, as Celandine, her kin, was sent before her. We hide from the Gorji, and go in fear of them. If we cannot escape them we know that we shall perish. And yet we are helped on our way by their own childer.

  Tadgemole nodded. ‘Aye. This is a strange world. And a stranger day than ever I thought to see.’ He hesitated for a moment and then said, ‘Take this, then, maid – Midge. Perhaps it will help you.’ He held the folded piece of paper out towards her.

  Midge briefly wiped her palms on the knees of her jeans, and stood up – rather shakily. She had the sense that she was being trusted with the care of something precious, and as she gently slid the piece of paper into the inside pocket of her fleece she said, ‘Thank you. I’ll look after it, I promise.’

  ‘Aye. It is all that our tribe have of Celandine, and all that remains to me of my brother’s hand. If it can serve a purpose, then I am glad that you should take it – but I should like to see it safe again.’

  ‘Did your brother . . . I mean, is he . . .?’

  ‘Loren died young. The winters were ever a hard time for us.’

  It was plain that Tadgemole had no wish to say any more. Midge pulled up the collar of her fleece and turned hesitantly towards the doorway of the barn.

  ‘But what shall I do,’ she said to Pegs, ‘if I find out anything? About Celandine, I mean. Do you want me to come and tell you?’

  You must keep away from the forest, Midge. Much has changed since you were there, and little for the good. The old Queen has gone, and now Maglin rules in her stead. All tribes are divided, and there is much foolish talk . . .

  ‘Pah! Treacherous talk!’ Tadgemole’s pale face had begun to redden. ‘Heathen talk!’

  Midge looked at Tadgemole, surprised at his sudden anger. What was all t
his about?

  . . . which things do not concern you, maid. Do your part, if you can, and all will be made right. If you would speak with me, then come here. Come to this place, and at this light of the day if you can, and I shall do the same if I can, each day and at this light until we meet again.

  Midge wanted to learn more, but decided that it might be better not to ask. And besides, she had quite enough to think about as it was. ‘All right, then.’ She sidled through the barn doorway, narrowing her eyes against the sudden bite of the wind. ‘Brr! I’ll um . . . well, I’ll see you . . .’

  Briefly parted, maid. And soon united.

  ‘Yes. At least . . . I hope so.’

  But as Midge stepped away from the barn, it seemed hardly likely that this parting was to be a brief one. She thrust her hands deep into the pockets of her fleece and started to negotiate the steep descent of Howard’s Hill, dodging among the coarse tufts of wet grass. How did you go about tracing long-lost ancestors? Where on earth would you even begin? No, she didn’t think that she would be seeing Pegs again for a while. She looked over her shoulder for a moment or two as she clumped down the slope, in order to take one last glance at the pig-barn. The Summer Palace. There wasn’t much that was summery about it today. Or palace-like. But what amazing secrets it held. Just so amazing . . .

  A few paces more and the little building had bobbed out of view. Tap-tap-tap. Midge heard a last faint rattling of the tin roof, an eerie sound floating away on the January wind. Maybe there was something unsettling in that sound, or maybe it was just the need to get warm, but at any rate she turned and gave in to gravity, allowing her legs to be carried forward in ever larger strides, one . . . two . . . three . . . four, until finally she was running – and very quickly running out of control. Arms flailing, she leaped and bounded down the hillside, kept upright only by a series of miracles, saw the sheep-gate rushing towards her and just managed to grab at one of the rails as she crashed up against it. She hung there for a minute, horribly winded, her heart thumping painfully in her bruised ribcage.

  Midge stared down at the buildings of Mill Farm until her vision stopped pulsating and she was at last able to catch her breath. Stupid. Stupid, stupid. She’d been lucky not to break her neck.

  Chapter Five

  MIDGE SAT ON the corner of her bed, studying the pencil drawing that Tadgemole had given her. It wasn’t a very good drawing, and that was part of the trouble – the work of an eight-year-old perhaps, or maybe someone even younger. The lines were sketchy and hesitant, and if she hadn’t been told that this was a picture of Celandine then she would never have guessed it. Where was the long wavy hair, for a start? Hidden under that weird piece of headgear, presumably.

  The figure did look like a nun, though, with that big cross about her throat. And so maybe this was what had become of Celandine. She’d joined a convent.

  It didn’t seem much to go on. Midge had looked at the drawing many times now, and had read the words on the opposite page over and over, but she could find nothing there to help her. And yet sometimes, just sometimes, she felt as though that rough little sketch had . . .

  Had what? Had some detail in it that she’d seen before? Or something that she was missing? The harder she looked, the more certain she felt that the image held no meaning for her. But then if she laid it aside for a while and looked at it again later, a brief flicker of recognition would sometimes flare up inside her. And instantly die away.

  Midge shook her head. She got up from the bed and went and stood before the photograph of Celandine that hung upon her wall. She knew every detail of that photograph now, every shadow and highlight on that pale little face, every button that pulled and pinched, every strand of unruly hair.

  ‘But where are you?’ she whispered. ‘And how shall I ever find you? Can you hear me?’ Then she felt foolish, because of course there was nobody to hear her at all.

  The eyes always seemed to be looking past her, concentrating on something just over her shoulder. What was it that they had seen that day, when the photo had been taken? Midge glanced behind her, as though the answer might be here in this room. Nothing but her own modern possessions: the little blue lamp at her bedside, the new office chair, the blank grey screen of her laptop. She sighed, and wandered over to plonk herself on the edge of the bed again. The bounciness of the new mattress threw her off balance, and Midge’s hand jiggled the corner of the desk as she reached out to steady herself. This was enough to bring the laptop to life from stand-by, and after a few gentle whirrs and clicks, the screen brightened.

  Midge looked at the wildlife scene that she had chosen for her desktop image: the magpie, perched among the winter brambles. It was such a beautiful thing. She had always thought that a magpie’s plumage was plain black and white, but here were electric blues and emerald greens that were just as startling as the colours in a peacock’s tail.

  The picture drew her into a trance, and after a while she was gazing through it and thinking of something else entirely. How and where to begin. How and where . . .

  ‘Watch the birdie . . . quite, quite still . . .’

  Midge sat upright with a jolt. What was that? What had she heard? She frowned at the computer screen. Had the sound turned itself on?

  No. It took her a few moments to be absolutely sure, but the words had not come from the computer. They were more like a memory, a thing triggered inside her head. Watch the birdie. A half-familiar phrase. Something that somebody had once said, or used to say. But where could she have heard those words? A photographer . . .

  Midge dragged her attention away from the light of the screen, and turned towards the photograph of Celandine, hanging in the shadows beside the wardrobe. The eyes were looking past her, as always. She followed the direction of that distant gaze, and found herself led back to the laptop. How weird. Again she looked at Celandine, and again at the laptop. There was no doubt about it: the girl in the photograph was looking straight at the magpie onscreen. Celandine was watching the birdie.

  The room seemed cold, just for a moment, and the brightness of the computer screen reminded Midge of looking through a window – sitting in a chilly room and looking out of the window, at a bird. Was this something she had seen before?

  No, it was no good. She couldn’t get it, couldn’t quite bring it back somehow. But at least the experience had given her an idea. Or perhaps it was Celandine who had given her the idea, a place to begin. She sat herself on the blue swivel chair and clicked onto her home page. Then she moved the cursor across to the ‘Search’ box.

  ‘Midge, are you up there?’

  Her mum’s footsteps on the stairs, coming halfway up and then stopping. Listening for her reply. Midge turned her head towards the door.

  ‘Yeah. I’m in my room, Mum.’

  ‘I’m just finishing off the ironing. Is your school uniform all ready for Monday?’

  ‘Um . . . yeah. It’s in the wardrobe.’ Go away, Mum.

  ‘Are you sure? What are you doing – homework?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m on the computer.’

  ‘OK, then. Katie and George have just arrived, and tea’ll be ready in about ten minutes. We’ll eat at Brian’s tonight.’ The footsteps receding.

  Midge gave it another few moments more before clicking onto the Search box. She typed in ‘Celandine Howard’, moved the cursor over to ‘Go’ and hit the button. Then she rested her chin in her hands and waited.

  Nothing. All that came up was ‘no entries under this name’.

  Midge tried typing in ‘C. Howard’ instead. This, at least, produced a few results. A doctor in Wisconsin, a logistics company, a paper manufacturer . . . Midge worked her way through the meagre list. She could find nothing that suggested even the remotest connection to Celandine.

  This was useless. Midge didn’t even know what she was looking for, or hoping to find. What had she expected – a handy record of her ancestor’s life, together with a current address and phone number? A website dedicated to Celand
ine Howard? Not very likely.

  And yet she couldn’t escape the nagging thought that there was an answer waiting to be found in there somewhere, hidden deep in the ether, far beyond the window of her laptop screen.

  Midge rubbed her eyes and rolled back her chair. She leaned across to the bed and picked up the drawing once more. A nun. A-nun-a-nun-a-nun. Was it really worth even thinking about trawling the internet for convents . . . monasteries . . .?

  ‘Midge, come on! Tea’s ready.’ Her mother’s voice again.

  ‘OK, Mum. I’m coming.’ Midge shut down the computer. It was a relief to be able to give up.

  The five of them sat around the kitchen table: Uncle Brian, Katie, George, Midge and Midge’s mum – Christine. It had become a loose arrangement, whilst all the building work was going on, to eat together in whichever room was the most habitable. Now that both kitchens were more or less complete, the two families still occasionally shared meals – and especially if Katie and George were staying over.

  Uncle Brian ladled out five plates of stew and said, ‘Well, I learned something down at the Crown last night, Chris. Our family’s part-German. Or it could be part-Austrian. Can you believe it?’

  ‘What? Who told you that?’

  ‘Albert Hughes – one of the old boys who plays crib on a Sunday. His grandad was the farm foreman here during the First World War. I already knew about that. Hadn’t realized that Great-grandma was German, though. Apparently it caused some bad feeling locally. Not surprising, I suppose, considering that we were at war with Germany at the time.’