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  ‘—how she managed it.’ Darius stopped pumping.

  ‘Yes! But Meggie would have to be here herself to tell him that.’ They looked at each other.

  ‘That’s how we’ll do it, Darius!’ Elinor whispered. ‘We’ll get Orpheus to bring Meggie back, and then she can read Mortimer and Resa back too, with the same words he used for her! That ought to work!’ She began pacing up and down again like the caged panther in the poem she liked so much … except that the look in her eyes was no longer hopeless. She must lay her plans well. That man Orpheus was clever. And so are you, Elinor, she told herself. Just try it!

  She couldn’t help it; she started thinking of the way Mortola had looked at Mortimer again. Suppose it was much too late by the time she …?

  Oh, stop it!

  Elinor thrust out her chin, pulled her shoulders back – and marched firmly towards the cellar door. She hammered on the white-painted metal with the flat of her hand. ‘Hey!’ she called. ‘Hey, you, wardrobe-man! Open this door! I have to speak to that man Orpheus! At once.’

  But nothing stirred on the other side of the door – and Elinor let her hand drop again. For a moment she entertained the dreadful thought that the two men had gone and left them alone down here, locked in … and without so much as a can opener, thought Elinor. What a ridiculous way to die. Starving among piles of canned food. She was just raising both hands to hammer on the door again when she heard footsteps outside. Footsteps going away, up the stairs leading from the cellar to the entrance hall.

  ‘Hey!’ she shouted, so loudly that Darius, standing behind her, jumped. ‘Hey, come back, you hulking great wardrobe! Open this door! I want to talk to Orpheus!’

  But all was quiet on the other side of the door. Elinor fell to her knees in front of it. She felt Darius come up beside her and put a hand hesitantly on her shoulder. ‘He’ll be back,’ he said quietly. ‘At least they’re still here, aren’t they?’ Then he returned to the air mattress.

  But Elinor sat there, her back against the cold cellar door, listening to the silence. You couldn’t even hear the birds down here, not the smallest chirp of a cricket. Meggie will fetch them back, she thought. Meggie will fetch them back! But suppose by now her mother and father are both …

  Not the way to think, Elinor. Not the way to think.

  She closed her eyes and heard Darius begin pumping again.

  I’d have sensed it, she thought. Yes, I would. I’d have sensed it if anything had happened to them. It says so in all the stories, and surely they can’t all be lying!

  25

  The Camp in the Forest

  I thought it said in every tick:

  I am so sick, so sick, so sick;

  O death, come quick, come quick, come quick.

  Frances Cornford,

  ‘The Watch’,

  Collected Poems

  Resa didn’t know how long she had been sitting there, just sitting in the dimly lit, dark cave where the strolling players slept, holding Mo’s hand. One of the women players brought her something to eat, and now and then one of the children crept in, leaned against the cave wall and listened to what she was telling Mo in a quiet voice – about Meggie and Elinor, Darius, the library and its books, the workshop where he cured books of sickness and wounds as bad as his own … How strange the strolling players must find her stories of another world that they had never seen. And how very strange they must think her, to talk to someone who lay so still, his eyes closed as if he would never open them again.

  Just as the fifth White Woman appeared on the steps, the old woman had returned to Capricorn’s fortress with three men. It had not been so very far for her to go. Resa had seen guards standing among the trees as they entered the camp. The people these men were guarding were the cripples and the old folk, women with small children, and obviously there were also some in the camp who were simply resting from the stress and strain of life on the open road.

  When Resa asked where food and clothing for all these people came from, one of the strolling players who had come to fetch Mo replied: ‘From the Prince.’ And when she asked what prince he meant, he had put a black stone into her hand by way of answer.

  She was known as Nettle, the old woman who had so suddenly appeared at the gate of Capricorn’s fortress. Everyone treated her with respect, but a little fear was mingled with it too. Resa had to help her when she cauterized Mo’s wound. She still felt sick when she thought of it. Then she had helped the old woman to bind up the wound again, and memorized all her directions. ‘If he’s still breathing in three days’ time he may live,’ she had said before leaving them alone again, in the cave that offered protection from wild beasts, the sun and the rain, but not from fear or from black, despairing thoughts.

  Three days. It grew dark and then light again outside, light and then dark again, and every time Nettle came back and bent over Mo, Resa sought her face desperately for some sign of hope. But the old woman’s features remained expressionless. The days went by, and Mo was still breathing, but he still wouldn’t open his eyes.

  The cave smelled of mushrooms, the brownies’ favourite food. Very likely a whole pack of them had once lived here. Now the mushroom aroma mingled with the scent of dead leaves. The strolling players had strewn the cold floor of the cave with them: dead leaves and fragrant herbs – thyme, meadowsweet, woodruff. Resa rubbed the dry leaves between her fingers as she sat there cooling Mo’s forehead, which was not cold any more but hot, terribly hot … the scent of thyme reminded her of a fairy tale he had read to her long, long ago, before he found out that his voice could bring someone like Capricorn out of the words on the page. Wild thyme should not be brought indoors, the story had said, bad luck comes with it. Resa threw the hard stems away and brushed the scent off her fingers on to her dress.

  One of the women brought her something to eat again, and sat beside her for a while in silence, as if hoping that her presence would bring a little comfort. Soon after that three of the men came in too, but they stayed standing at the entrance of the cave, looking at her and Mo from a distance. They whispered to each other as they glanced at the pair of them.

  ‘Are we welcome here?’ Resa asked Nettle on one of her silent visits. ‘I think they’re talking about us.’

  ‘Let them!’ was all the old woman said. ‘I told them you were attacked by footpads, but of course that doesn’t satisfy them. A beautiful woman, a man with a strange wound, where do they come from? What happened? They’re curious. And if you’re wise, you won’t let too many of them see that scar on his arm.’

  ‘Why not?’ Resa looked at her, baffled.

  The old woman scrutinized her as if she wanted to see into her heart. ‘Well, if you really don’t know, then that’s just as well,’ she said at last. ‘And let them talk. What else are they to do? Some come here to wait for death, others for life to begin at last, others again live only on the stories they are told. Tightrope-walkers, fire-eaters, peasants, princes – they’re all the same, flesh and blood and a heart that knows it will stop beating one day.’

  Fire-eaters. Resa’s heart leaped when Nettle mentioned them. Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

  ‘Please!’ she said, when the old woman reached the entrance of the cave again. ‘You must know many strolling players. Is there one who calls himself Dustfinger?’

  Nettle turned as slowly as if she were still deciding whether to answer this. ‘Dustfinger?’ she finally replied, in unforthcoming tones. ‘You’ll scarcely find one of the strolling players who doesn’t know of him, but no one’s seen him for years. Although there are rumours that he’s back …’

  Oh yes, he’s back, thought Resa, and he will help me just as I helped him in the other world.

  ‘I must send him a message!’ She heard the desperation in her own voice. ‘Please!’

  Nettle looked at her without any expression on her brown face. ‘Cloud-Dancer is here,’ she said at last. ‘His leg is aching again, but as soon as it’s better he’ll b
e on his way. See if he’ll ask around for you and deliver your message.’

  Then she had gone.

  Cloud-Dancer.

  Darkness was falling again outside, and with the fading light men, women and children came into the cave and lay down on the dead leaves to sleep – away from her, as if Mo’s stillness might be catching. One of the women brought her a torch. It cast quivering shadows on the rocky walls, shadows that made faces and passed black fingers over Mo’s pallid face. The fire did not keep the White Women away, although it was said that they both desired and feared it. They appeared in the cave again and again, like pale reflections with faces made of mist. They came closer and disappeared again, presumably driven away by the sharp and bitter smell of the leaves that Nettle had scattered around the place where Mo was lying. ‘It will keep them off,’ the old woman had said, ‘but you must watch carefully all the same.’

  One of the children was crying in his sleep. His mother stroked his hair to comfort him, and Resa couldn’t help thinking of Meggie. Was she alone, or was the boy still with her? Was she happy, sad, sick, in good health …? How often she had asked herself these questions, as if she hoped for an answer some time, from somewhere …

  A woman brought her fresh water. She smiled gratefully, and asked the woman about Cloud-Dancer. ‘He prefers to sleep in the open,’ she said, pointing. It was some time since Resa had seen any more White Women, but all the same she woke one of the women who had offered to relieve her during the night. Then she climbed over the sleeping figures and went out.

  The moon was shining through the dense canopy of leaves, brighter than any torch. A few men were sitting around a fire. Unsure of herself, Resa went towards them, in the dress that wasn’t right for this place at all. It ended too far above her ankles even for one of the strolling players, and it was torn too.

  The men stared at her, both suspicious and curious.

  ‘Is one of you Cloud-Dancer?’

  A thin little man, toothless and probably not nearly as old as he looked, nudged the man sitting next to him in the ribs.

  ‘Why do you ask?’ This man’s face was friendly, but his eyes were wary.

  ‘Nettle says he might carry a message for me.’

  ‘A message? Who to?’ He stretched his left leg, rubbing the knee as if it hurt him.

  ‘To a fire-eater. Dustfinger is his name. His face …’

  Cloud-Dancer drew one finger over his cheek. ‘Three scars. I know. What do you want with him?’

  ‘I want you to take him this.’ Resa knelt down by the fire and put her hand into the pocket of her dress. She always had paper and a pencil with her; they had done duty as her tongue for years. Now her voice was back, but a wooden tongue was more useful for sending Dustfinger a message. Fingers trembling, she began to write, taking no notice of the suspicious eyes following her hand as if she were doing something forbidden.

  ‘She can write,’ remarked the toothless man. There was no mistaking the disapproval in his tone. It was a long, long time ago that Resa had sat in the market places of towns on the far side of the forest, dressed in men’s clothes and with her hair cut short, because writing was the only way she knew to earn her living – and writing was a craft forbidden to women in this world. Slavery was the punishment for it, and it had made her Mortola’s slave. For it was Mortola who had discovered Resa’s disguise, and as a reward she was allowed to take her away to Capricorn’s fortress.

  ‘Dustfinger won’t be able to read that,’ pointed out Cloud-Dancer equably.

  ‘Yes, he will. I taught him how.’

  They looked at her incredulously. Letters. Mysterious things, rich men’s tools, not meant for strolling players and certainly not for women …

  Only Cloud-Dancer smiled. ‘Well, fancy that. Dustfinger can read,’ he said softly. ‘Fine, but I can’t. You’d better tell me what you’ve written, so that I can tell him the words even if your note gets lost. Which can easily happen with written words, much more easily than with words in your head.’

  Resa looked Cloud-Dancer straight in the face. You trust people far too easily … how often Dustfinger had told her that, but what choice did she have now? In a low voice, she repeated what she had written. ‘Dear Dustfinger, I am in the strolling players’ camp with Mo, deep in the Wayless Wood. Mortola and Basta brought us here, and Mortola—’ her voice failed as she said it – ‘Mortola shot Mo. Meggie is here too, I don’t know exactly where, but please look for her and bring her to me! Protect her as you tried to protect me. But beware of Basta. Resa.’

  ‘Mortola? Wasn’t that what they called the old woman who lived with the fire-raisers?’ The man who asked this question had no right hand. A thief – you lost your left hand for stealing a loaf, your right hand for a piece of meat.

  ‘Yes, they say she’s poisoned more men than the Adderhead has hairs on his head!’ Cloud-Dancer pushed a log of wood back into the fire. ‘And it was Basta who slashed Dustfinger’s face all that time ago. He won’t like to hear those two names.’

  ‘But Basta’s dead!’ remarked the toothless minstrel. ‘And they’ve been saying the same about the old woman too!’

  ‘That’s what they tell the children,’ said a man with his back to Resa, ‘so they’ll sleep better. The likes of Mortola don’t die. They only bring death to others.’

  They’re not going to help me, thought Resa. Not now they’ve heard those two names. The only one looking at her in anything like a friendly way was a man wearing the black and red of a fire-eater. But Cloud-Dancer was still inspecting her as if he wasn’t sure what to make of her – her and her mysterious message.

  Finally, however, and without a word, he took the note from her fingers and put it in the bag he wore at his belt. ‘Very well, I’ll take Dustfinger your message,’ he said. ‘I know where he is.’

  He was going to help her after all. Resa could hardly believe it.

  ‘Oh, thank you.’ Swaying with exhaustion, she straightened up again. ‘When do you think he’ll get the message?’

  Cloud-Dancer patted his knee. ‘My leg must get better first.’

  ‘Of course.’ Resa bit back the words she wanted to shout, begging him to hurry. She mustn’t press him too hard, or he might change his mind, and then who would find Dustfinger for her? A piece of wood broke apart in the flames, spitting out glowing sparks at her feet. ‘I have no money to pay you,’ she said, ‘but perhaps you’ll accept this.’ And she took her wedding ring off her finger and offered it to Cloud-Dancer. The toothless man looked at the gold ring as avidly as if he would like to put his own hand out for it, but Cloud-Dancer shook his head.

  ‘No, forget it,’ he said. ‘Your husband is sick. It’s bad luck to give away your wedding ring, I’ve heard.’

  Bad luck. Resa was quick to put the ring back on her finger. ‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘Yes, you’re right. Thank you. Thank you with all my heart!’

  She turned to go.

  ‘Hey, you!’ The minstrel whose back had been turned to her was looking at her. He had only two fingers on his right hand. ‘Your husband – he has dark hair. Dark as the fur of a mole. And he’s tall. Very tall.’

  Bewildered, Resa looked at him. ‘So?’

  ‘And then there’s the scar. Just where the songs say. I’ve seen it. Everyone knows how he got it: the Adderhead’s dogs bit him there when he was poaching near the Castle of Night, and he took a stag, one of the White Stags that only the Adderhead himself may kill.’

  What on earth was he talking about? Resa remembered what Nettle had said: And if you’re wise, you won’t let too many of them see that scar on his arm.

  The toothless man laughed. ‘Listen to Twofingers, will you! He thinks it’s the Bluejay lying there in the cave. Since when did you believe in old wives’ tales? Was he wearing his feathered mask?’

  ‘How should I know?’ snapped Twofingers. ‘Did I bring him here? But I tell you, that’s him!’

  Resa sensed that the fire-eater was examining her thoughtfully.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said. ‘I don’t know any Bluejay.’

  ‘You don’t?’ Twofingers picked up the lute lying on the grass beside him. Resa had never before heard the song that he now sang in a soft voice:

  Bright hope arises from the dark

  And makes the mighty tremble.

  Princes can’t fail to see his mark,

  Nor can they now dissemble.

  With hair like moleskin smooth and black,

  And mask of bluejay feathers,

  He vows wrongdoers to attack,

  Strikes princes in all weathers.

  He hunts their game

  He robs their gold –

  And him they would have slain.

  But he’s away, he will not stay,

  They seek the Jay in vain.

  How they were all looking at her! Resa took a step backwards.

  ‘I must go to my husband,’ she said. ‘That song … it has nothing to do with him. Believe me, it doesn’t.’

  She felt their eyes on her back as she returned to the cave. Forget them, she told herself. Dustfinger will get your message, that’s all that matters, and he’ll find Meggie and bring her here.

  The woman who had taken her place rose without a word and lay down with the others again. Resa was so exhausted that she swayed as she knelt on the dead leaves covering the floor. And the tears came once more. She wiped them away with her sleeve, hid her face in the fabric of her dress that smelled so familiar … of Elinor’s house, of the old sofa where she used to sit with Meggie – telling her about this world. She began to sob, so loudly that she was afraid she might have woken one of the sleeping company. Alarmed, she pressed her hand to her mouth.

  ‘Resa?’ It was hardly more than a whisper.

  She raised her head. Mo was looking at her. Looking at her.

  ‘I heard your voice,’ he whispered.