Part 18 (1/2)
”Up where?” asked Conn sharply.
The man shrugged. ”Anywheres. Near the trees. Doesn't matter: they can walk. Come out of the night . . .”
I s.h.i.+vered. ”What come?”
”k.n.o.bby peoples. Root peoples. Tree peoples . . . Folks say as they are trees.
Eating trees . . .”
”Eating trees?” I tried to keep the panic from my voice.
Conn put his hand on my arm, and his brown eyes were warm and kind.
”Folktales, Thingummy, folktales. Part of the night and the entertainment.
Worry not, little one: they shan't touch you. Trust Conn . . .”
Oh, how I loved him! How that careless touch tingled my whole body, far stronger in that moment than the cramps that bound my stomach. Through the eyes and touch of imagination for one breathless instant I allowed myself the indulgence of my mouth touching his under the soft moustache, and flesh met flesh in a stab of loving- ”Doesn't sound all faery-tale to me,” said Corby, considering.
”Don't want to go!” said Moglet, stirring uneasily on my lap.
”No smoke without fire,” said Puddy gloomily from my pocket.
”My great-great-grandfather once said that some trees ate a village,” offered Pisky, helpfully.
”Oh, shut up!” I said crossly, annoyed with myself for relaying both the conversation and my fears to them. ”That's the way we have to go, so that's that! No, Pisky, not another word, or I'll-I'll move your snails!” This was a dire threat indeed, as Pisky felt threatened if any but he rearranged his bowl, which he did whenever he was bored. I felt mean as soon as I had said it, because in spite of the brave words I knew I was the most cowardly of them all.
No one in the room had understood our exchange of course, except possibly Conn, but the villagers looked tolerantly enough on someone who shook and twitched, breathed heavily, blinked, grunted and sniffed all of a sudden for no apparent reason. I saw one of them lean over and poke Conn in the ribs.
”That lad of yourn . . . ?” and he tapped his forehead. ”Never mind: that sort's usually good with horses. Rubbed that old nag of yours down a treat earlier . .
Conn winked at me and rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth to hide the smile-twitch.
Two days later we had climbed even higher, into an area of twisting tracks, moorland turning purple and bracken browning; of startled flocks of plump brown birds who broke cover almost from beneath our feet; of keen winds that hissed through the dried gra.s.ses; of solitary trees leaning away from the blast; of hunting creatures that slipped sly and secret from our path; of the water tumbling icy from no source we could see; no people, no habitations, no woods . . .
Of that I think we were most glad, although no one was idiot enough to refer to the talk in the village. That would have been inviting Fate, or the G.o.ds, or whatever. No woods, that is, until the third day, when the land broke into deep combes where the north-flowing streams had bedded into the rock.
Then there were trees: spindly rowans clinging for their lives to cracked rocks with only a pocketful of earth to offer; pines twisted beyond recognition, oaks leaf-shredded, ivy twisted and gnarled, ash already almost keyless in the Moon of Plenty . . .
We breathed easier. Nothing had come to threaten us, nothing had answered the description the villagers had given us of k.n.o.bbly Tree-People, of devouring trees, and that night we camped in a convenient hollow, a riverlet to our left, heath and a few scattered pines on its banks, a small copse to our right. It had been wet all day, with that fine, penetrating rain that looks like mist and is as good as a bath you don't want. We lit no fire, for luckily the night was suddenly warm and we had oatcakes, cheese, a bottle of wine and honey. After our meal we drowsed in the hollow, unwilling to unpack and settle for the night and too lazy to move for the moment, while the few summer stars p.r.i.c.ked into the deepening sky, a curlew called on its homeward flight and directly above us a buzzard swung his dreaming circles.
He must have a wonderful view, I thought dozily. Miles and miles, from the village we had left to the edge of the uplands further north, and who knew what from side to side, and all the while he could even see a mouse bend the gra.s.ses, a hare's ear p.r.i.c.k the bracken, a beetle on a rock, a fish in the stream . . .
Suddenly he called: high, weird, lonely, a warning perhaps: ”Ki-ya, ki-ya, ki- ya . . .” and I saw Snowy fling up his dreaming head and warnings buzzed in my ears.
I sat up. Nothing had happened, nothing had changed. The others still lay where they were and Conn was chewing a blade of gra.s.s, his eyes closed. Dusk had crept down like an interloper to the bank of the stream, stretching towards the rocks, trying for entry. The trees to our right seemed to have moved in with the darkening to be nearer company, and the trees to our left had their feet in the water and were already starting to cross- I could not put my fears into words. Instead, as I glanced behind me at the oaks, the ash, the ivy, then before me at the pines, the birch, the rowan-the hair on my head stirred.
”C-C-Conn,” I whispered shakily. ”S-S-Snowy . . . The trees. Oh, look at the trees . . . !”
Instantly all were awake and Snowy neighed once, shrilly, and started to circle us as fast as he could. It was no use; now I could actually see the trees moving, hear the rustle and squeak of leaf and branch, feel the earth tear beneath the protesting roots. Snowy's circle grew smaller as I rose to my feet, Conn at my side, and gathered the others into my arms. Now we could see gnarled roots stretch forth their questing feet, branches reach and curl, leaves glint and flash like eyes.
I was turned to stone. I could not move, could not speak, only whimper, seeing with despair the futile stump of Conn's sword waving and jabbing at the threat.
”Help us, dear Lord, help us . . .” It was my voice, but the words came from nowhere.
Then came another voice.
”Fire, Thing, fire! That is what they fear!”
With an astonishment quite separate from my terror I recognized the voice of Puddy, no longer slow and ponderous but sharp and decisive. Fire? Of course.
Fire eats wood. With stiff fingers I fumbled for flint and tinder, but fear and a damp day would not produce even the tiniest spark. More urgently I chipped and struck: desperate, the tears ran down my cheeks and I prayed again and again: ”Please, help us!”
The strong voice came again. ”There is more than one kind of fire. Remember the words, remember what She used to say! Fire to set them back, to drive them away-the words, Thing, the words!”
I put my hands on Puddy and through my fingers I recalled the right spell as he put it on my tongue. The words, sharp and harsh, poured forth and instantly we were ringed by blue flame that licked and spat like a gra.s.s-fire.
Immediately, or so it seemed, the crowding trees drew back and I saw clearly the evil, knotted, earthy brown faces, the squat bodies, the bulbous eyes, the yellow teeth, the pale tongues like the underside of slugs- I seized a rotted branch and dipped it in the fire and ran with my torch at the nearest tree: there was a sigh, a hiss, a tearing sound and the ring melted, the trees dissolved into the night and we were alone once more- Without another word we picked up our belongings and fled.
The Binding: Cat
Under the Mountain
Once more we were in the lowlands, in pleasant undulating countryside and heading due north. By unspoken consent the ordeal of the walking trees was forgotten, but once, in a quiet moment, I spoke of it to Conn.
”Did we see-what we thought we saw? Did those trees walk? Did they have grinning mouths and fingers like twigs? Or . . .”
”Or,” said Conn. ”Most probably. If we hadn't all been frightened out of our wits we would have seen an old army trick, I reckon.”
”Trick?”
”Mmmm. I saw something like it once in Scotia, and again in the Low Lands- only then they used reeds.” I wriggled impatiently and he ruffled my hair.
”Patience, child! When I saw it in Scotia it was an ambush, sort of. There were these savage highlanders sitting round their campfires-oh, perhaps a hundred, two hundred-and the besieging force was less than half that, and their only advantage lay in surprise. So they cut down a rowan or two and some gorse bushes-have you ever tried to cut into a gorse bush in the daylight, let alone when it's pitch black? b.l.o.o.d.y p.r.i.c.kles everywhere . . . As I was saying, they had some dozen fellows move these, bit by bit, nearer to the enemy, and the others lined up behind in the shadows. They were into the camp before the defenders realized they were there.”
”And the reeds?”
”Same idea, only this time the reeds were protection as well. A thick wall of reeds, green ones, the sort that arrows bounce off . . . There were more of them that time, so the odds were even. We lost. And ran.”
”You were with the attackers the first time?” I said, remembering what he had said about gorse-p.r.i.c.kles.