Part 13 (1/2)

”Never is a long time . . . Ah me, I'm getting old: another c.l.i.tch.”

”What's a c.l.i.tch?” I asked, trying not to let the thought of losing Conn and Snowy at the end of it all, if ever we got to the beginning, upset me too much.

”A c.l.i.tch?” He sn.i.g.g.e.red. ”It's like 'It always rains before it pours' or 'Every cloud has a silver lining'-you know, the sort of hackneyed phrase everyone says over and over again until it becomes boring and predictable and-and a c.l.i.tch. Cliche,” he amended.

Although I had heard neither phrase before, I tried to look wise. ”Comme: 'Toujours la politesse,' ou 'chacun a son gout',” I suggested, then was shocked when I realized I didn't know where the words had come from, let alone what they meant.

”Exactly,” he said, glancing at me sharply from under thatchy brows.

”Exactement, p't.i.te . . . Couldn't have put it better myself . . .”

Conn looked as if he was going to say something, but didn't.

”Well,” said The Ancient. ”It's midday: supposing we meet again at supper, and you can tell me what you have all decided. Think about it carefully, mind, and don't forget what I told you.” But he sighed: it must have been clear to him even then that none of us believed his dire predictions.

We all spent the intervening hours characteristically, I suppose.

Snowy disappeared into the wood and every now and again I saw his shadow flickering among the trees. Conn went to a little knoll, got out his broken sword and, holding it up before him hilt uppermost, prayed with his eyes open, face to the sky. Pisky spent the time rearranging his bowl to his liking, pulling the weed this way and that, nudging the poor snails all over the place.

Corby went into a corner by himself, walking about in circles and muttering.

Puddy found another corner and sat quiet, looking as though his head were aching. Moglet chased a b.u.t.terfly or two, then washed herself from ears to toe and tail, then went and sharpened the claws on her good paw. And I? I, I regret to say, did none of these useful, constructive things. Instead, I crept closer till I could see Conn's profile, then lay back in the long gra.s.s and watched the clouds pa.s.s, then rolled over on my stomach to regard the busy ants scurrying to and fro. I listened to the ascending lark, smelt the cowslips, stroked Moglet and ate wild raspberries. And fell asleep and dreamt of nothing- Conn shook my shoulder. ”Suppertime, Thingumabob . . . Made up your mind?”

We all had, as I found out when we rejoined the others. We were determined to set out on this perilous venture, keep together and risk whatever came.

The Ancient heard us out, Conn the spokesman.

”Then all I can do, my friends, is to prepare you for your journey as best I can-and wish you luck. You'll need it . . .”

I was dreaming, a long, slow, wordless, placeless dream, and there were people I knew but could not know, and then someone was pulling me away and I was rus.h.i.+ng faster and faster until the wind howled in my ears with the speed of my pa.s.sing, and I was being pulled upwards to a hole in the ceiling, and then I b.u.mped my head and fell back with a thud and- ”Wake up, child!” said The Ancient. ”The others are almost ready, and you'll want a bite to eat before you set off.”

I stumbled out into a mist that curled round my feet like an attenuated cat.

Everything looked unreal, almost as though I were still dreaming, or had missed out on a day somewhere. I rubbed my eyes and Conn was busy loading up Snowy and the others were waiting, more or less patiently, for their turn.

A hand appeared at my elbow: a hunk of bread with a slice of cheese tucked inside. A mug of goat's milk followed and I munched and drank, then moved forward to help the others.

Besides the meagre provisions we had brought with us there were flour and salt, apples, cheese and a large jar of honey, and the water-bottle was fresh- filled from the spring. Poor Snowy looked very laden, so I took Moglet in my arms and Puddy in my pocket and, to my surprise, Conn put Corby on his shoulder and strung Pisky's bowl round his waist.

Catching my look, he grinned. ”We'll swap later! Besides, as we eat the provisions the old horse-sorry, unicorn-will find his burden that much lighter.”

The Ancient was in his best today: a purple robe sewn with silver stars and his beard in three shades of blue, although his conical hat with a crescent moon on its tip was crooked and threatened to slip over his ears, protruding though they were. In his hand was a roll of soft leather.

”Your map,” he announced. He unfolded it and we stared at squiggles, arrows, letters: it didn't look like a map at all.

I pointed to some humps and b.u.mps. ”What are those?”

”What do they look like?” snapped the magician. ”Hills, mountains, that's what!”

”And the squiggles?”

”Rivers, streams . . .”

”The dotty places?” At least the forests were shown by recognizable trees.

”Waste land: moors, heaths, bogs . . .”

”The straightish lines?”

”Roads. Such as they are. Roman mostly: the straight ones are, anyway.

Probably a bit out of date . . .”

Conn put his finger on the middle of the map, on a thing that looked like a cross between a star and a spider. ”What's this?”

”A compa.s.s: north, south, east, west-”

”I've seen something like that before,” said Conn. ”Only they didn't call it a compa.s.s: a magic needle, I think. I was. .h.i.tching a trip cross-channel on a Skandia galley-and d.a.m.ned uncomfortable it was too, full of great sweaty fellows splas.h.i.+ng everyone with their oars-and they had this little sliver of metal suspended in a stone bowl of oil. They reckoned they could find their way in dark, fog, storm because the thin end of the metal pointed always north, whichever way they turned. The captain said he had it from a trader from the east, in exchange for a bale of furs. Swore he had the best of the bargain, too.”

”There you are, then!”

”But we've no piece of metal,” I said. ”And if we are to go in any special direction . . . And what's that, round the edge?” I looked closer. ”That says 'ENE,' or something: I've never heard of that word . . .”

”It's initials,” said The Ancient impatiently. ”East-north-east: those letters are your direction-finders. And you have got a magic needle, of sorts: the White One knows one way from t'other, and come to that so does the raggedy bird.”

”Roughly,” said Corby, looking slightly offended at the adjective. ”As the crow flies, of course . . .”

”There are some tiny circles marked as well,” said Conn, peering closely.

”There is one on its own, and there's three together, and four-”

”Those are your markers,” and the old man looked at each of us in turn. ”And you have to go their way. One, then two, then three and so on up to seven.

They are all standing stones, some higgledy-piggledy, some straight, some in circles. You go by the directions I have marked in the margin: there is the letter one, and a direction. Follow that and you come to the first stone, then letter number two and its direction et cetera.”

”Sounds simple enough,” said Conn, but he was frowning.

”It is simple: just follow your noses. And the directions, of course,” he added hastily. ”Now: are you all ready?”

”Thank you,” I said, ”from all of us. For the hospitality and the help and the food and-and everything.”

He pinched my cheek, not hard, but I could feel it through my mask just the same. ”Think nothing of it, Flower: it has been vastly amusing, so far. I was out of practice . . .”

I didn't quite understand what he meant. ”Shall we see you again?”

”Very likely, if you follow the instructions and remember what I said about staying together. Don't look so gloomy: you will have your sunny days too, you know . . . Now, see that wood over there? Well that's a good enough marker for your first direction, east by south. That's your way. Goodbye, and good luck . . .”

The mist had thinned, and so had his voice: it sounded now like an echo.