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Chapter Fifteen
WICCOT
Here, where the cottage was, the high steep bank was cloven by a shallower gulley that angled in to pour the waters of the stream down the lower half of the slope. Between the bank and the Road stood a grove of ash-trees, with a couple of shaggy stumpy oaks; the stream issued from behind these, from the back of the cottage, before flowing across the strip of green lawn and into the ditch. A basket of washing sat on the flat oak-stump, and a few clothes hung from a washing-line. It seemed that the Witch had been putting them up just as the Punchkins arrived.
‘Berma!’ said Waltrot.
‘Come on in, Walt Hardedge,’ said she. ‘Make yourself at home.’ She gave him a hand, then bent down to him. They gave each other a friendly hug round the neck and he bestowed a smacking kiss on her cheek.
‘It’s been a long time,’ he said.
‘Not too long, I hope,’ she replied. ‘I was just washing these when I saw you, wasn’t I? And then the fire went out, but I thought I’d do a bit of baking for you, and then I couldn’t find me peg-bag. But I did hope I’d be a bit more ready for you when you came back. You looked like you didn’t know quite where you was going.’
‘But, but,’ said Fortinbras, startled and almost outraged, ‘that was days ago! Weeks! And it was just outside Tregg!’
‘Oh, was it really?’ she said, putting on a little show of surprise, for politeness’s sake. ‘Do get out of the stream, lad, you’ll catch your death.’
Fortinbras sighed, and slumped his shoulders, and remained where he was. He could now see the bright, distant end of the cutting. The cruel Road, grey in the shadow, ran out into a V of bright white and sunlit green. A warmer breeze was blowing towards him, or perhaps the air was warmer just where the cottage was. It occurred to him that he ought to be feeling relieved and grateful. He and his friends were surely safe now. Certainly they had escaped from the City and the Horsemen. Yet a mood of discouragement pressed down upon him like a great weight.
‘Well,’ said Berma, ‘there’s a pan of sausages on the stove, ’cause I know how much you Punchkins mind about your vittles! Oh yes, who’s this?’ Tim came up to her and performed a deep reverent bow while Waltrot introduced him. ‘Pleased to meet you! If your friend wants to stay in the stream, of course he can, but if you two fancy some breakfast – just wait while I get the rest of these things up –’ She pegged up a few large garments, shirts, skirts, stockings and drawers. ‘And I’ll do your muddy things before you go. Just leave ’em in a pile by the stump –’ Seeing Fortinbras rise, and noticing how painfully he limped, she gave a cluck of concern. ‘Oh, your poor dear feet! It’s that horrible road – they poison it a-purpose, did you know? Come in, all come on in. I’ll find some lotion.’ Leaving the last few clothes still in the basket, she ushered her three visitors into the cottage.
The front door was featureless apart from where the black paint was peeling off it: no street-number, naturally, but no name-plate, letter-box, keyhole, bell or knocker or door-knob either. A climbing rose grew round it, not yet in bloom but putting forth new leaves, green and glossy; alongside it a squat bay window bulged out, with many leaded panes. The Punchkins at once found themselves in her living-room. Their first impression was twofold: of the thickish haze of smoke and loud crackling sizzle from the stove, and of the immense clutter and confusion of objects, far too many to list, that filled most of the space from floor to rafters.
Directed by their hostess, they went through to the scullery, washed themselves and changed their clothes. Instead of a tap, the scullery offered a continuous stream of water, led down a slate trough into a deep stone basin. The Punchkins cupped their hands and drank: the water was earthy-tasting, sweet and good. They limped back to find Berma pouring water out of her kettle into her washing-tub. ‘You can sit round this instead of the table,’ said she, ‘and take your plates on your laps.’ She rummaged through a packed cupboard and produced a tall bottle with a glass stopper. It contained a thick pink liquid. She splashed a generous amount of this into the tub, and it foamed with a flowery scent. The Punchkins sat down on stools around the tub and put their feet in. At once the burning pain was eased. It was followed by a pleasure that seemed to pervade their bodies, quickly becoming intense, quite hard to bear, almost heart-breaking. Tim burst into tears. Waltrot leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees, closed his eyes, drew in a long shuddering breath and then relaxed. And Fortinbras held himself stiffly upright: he felt the heavy discouraged mood shrink and compact itself to a pain like a hot stone or ball of weariness and grief and fear: it came up from his chest, and rose into his throat, and there it stuck.
Berma put knives and forks into their hands and handed them each a plate of sausages, piping hot, meaty and spicy, more delicious than any food they had tasted before, ever, on any occasion. The bread was thick fragrant slices slabbed with rich butter, cut from crusty brown loaves half-cooled from the oven. She poured out cups of tea, and that too was perfect. But it was the jam, the dark blackberry jelly she offered for their bread when the sausages were all gone, that truly crowned the feast. Through the sweetness of those clear dark crimson spoonfuls the whole of Autumn, of every lovely autumn they had ever known, seemed to crowd into the mouth.
‘Sun’s down to the lawn now,’ said Berma. ‘Let’s sit outside.’
She picked up her heavy armchair with one hand and carried it out. The Punchkins came after her with their stools. The morning was mild and warm: March seemed to be going out like a lamb. And the lawn seemed to have extended itself: the Wainroad and the other side of the cutting loomed in shadow, now forty yards away.
‘May we smoke, Mistress?’ asked Waltrot.
‘Course you can!’
They got out their pipes and began the filling-and-lighting ritual, but only Walt’s fingers acted with any conviction. Tim fumbled with the flint and tinder, then dropped his pipe on the grass.
‘Lady Berma,’ said Fortinbras deliberately, trying to imagine how Mr. Proudfoot would express himself on such an occasion. She paid him no attention. She was looking at Tim, who was sitting next to her, and whose shoulders were shaking. A tear fell from the end of his nose.
‘Say something, lad,’ she said.
Between hiccups and renewed bouts of sobbing Tim forced out the words: ‘You’re so kind – and the breakfast was so nice – and we’ve had – such a horrible time – and my master’s dead – and Mr. Bavour – and Walt’s too – and it’s all been for nothing – such a failure – and oh, oh, oh, I don’t know what to do – I don’t know – I don’t know nothing at all!’ With which words he broke down completely, his sobs expressing the truest despair.
Berma put her arm round his shoulders and drew him towards her, but that would not do: his low position and the arm of her chair made any side-by-side embracing impossible. With wonder Fortinbras and Waltrot saw her lift their friend right off his feet. ‘Sit on my knee,’ she said, and he did, and laid his head on the pillow of her bosom, and cried and cried while she rocked him in her arms. Given that she was unusually tall for a Woman, over six feet, and that Tim was under the average height of his own kind, he fitted very well into the part of a little boy receiving comfort from Mother. For a few minutes nothing was said. Fortinbras studied her face. It was tanned and brown, as has been said before; her lips were firm and narrow, her teeth good. Her hair was now combed back and tied into a wooden brooch. There were many laughter-lines around her eyes, but as she became aware of Fortinbras’s scrutiny and returned it he noticed their lack of sparkle – and the impression of doughiness, of greasy heaviness, that her countenance gave. She gave him stare for stare, and he did see kindness – yes, much of it, a love that was strong and warm – but other things also, unknown quantities, darknesses that he did not know how to begin to trust.
‘Lady Berma,’ he tried again.
‘Yes, dear.’
‘I’m being a boor, an ingrate, I know. I haven’t thanked you for saving us, nor for the meal.’
‘Well, I can see you’re still in pain. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to sit up here?’ And she slapped her unoccupied thigh. ‘I’ve still a boob free!’
At this invitation his heart leapt, and the ball in his throat pulsated with sudden agony; but he shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘thanking you kindly all the same.’
‘What about you, Walt?’
Waltrot was relighting his pipe. He chuckled between puffs. ‘Not necessary, thanks, Mistress.’
‘Lady Berma,’ said Fortinbras in some agitation, ‘I thank you for the extraordinary favour you’ve offered, and I thank you again, truly from the bottom of my heart, for the timely rescue and the splendid breakfast, and I don’t know how to make amends for my ill manners and rudeness, for these ugly-sounding words that are coming out of my mouth even as I express regret for them, but – I refuse your consolation! I desire it, yes I do! You could make me as happy as you are now making Tim, but it would not be to the point – the issue! Whatever the real purpose of this meeting is, that would not be it!’
‘I expect you’re right,’ she replied calmly. In her lap Tim snuggled himself closer and put his thumb in his mouth.
‘Who are you, anyway?’
After a pause, she answered: ‘A little bird told me about a young lad of the King’s Demesne. He used to dream of Elves and search for ’em, but he never found any. He listened to stories of Wizards, tales of the last Age, and he longed for the old days to come back. And when he grew up, Punchkinland was threatened: so off he went to beg for the Royal favour. And he was brave; but all the way along he hoped to meet a Wizard. He so hoped that one would just step out of the hedge and give him some wisdom and magical help. And now – lo and behold – he’s met a witch. And she’s given magical help, and it might even so be that she has a little wisdom to offer. Ain’t it funny, how he’s being rude to her in spite of himself, being peevish and demanding extra assurances.’
‘Yes,’ said Fortinbras. ‘Yes, yes I am.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m so confused!’
‘Then be confused,’ she said with sudden intensity and a dark flicker of her eyes. For a moment he felt her looking right into him, piercing him to the quick, stripping him naked. ‘Stay where you are. Be patient. Have hope. I’m pleased to hear you’re thinking about the real purpose of this talk of ours.’
‘It’s damned uncomfortable.’
‘I’m sure. And p’raps it’ll make it a little easier for you to bear, if I tell you that I’m just as much confused as you are. Things have gone wrong for me just like for you – and my trouble, an unkind person might say, is much more like me own fault.’
Fortinbras frowned. ‘Whatever do you mean, Mistress?’ asked Waltrot curiously.
‘I mean that ruddy fiasco. Yesterday! I had an errand too, you know? I had a very special purpose. And putting that wretched girl into another shape –’ She heaved a deep sigh, her chest lifting up Tim’s head for a few seconds – ‘the moment seemed to call for it, and I guess it was suitable – but it’s made him go off where I can’t reach him. Into great danger.’
‘Who?’ asked Fortinbras, knowing the answer.
‘Your red-haired chum, of course. Tell me all about him. There’s something I don’t understand.’
Tim and Waltrot, prompting one another, laid before her all that Swin had told them of himself, except for the matter of his lineage. They explained the special bond between him and Melohtar, and she nodded her head.
‘I see,’ she said. ‘Explains a lot, that does. I’d no idea. I’d been looking out for him, as you might say, for ages, but I only saw him two weeks ago for the first time. That was when he was with you. And no-one ever told me about this blood-brothering. How are you doing there, lovey?’
‘Fine,’ said Tim happily.
‘He’s of royal blood of course, Kedral’s line. It’s obvious if you remember the old King and Queen, how they looked. She had the red hair. Anyway, thanks to me losing my temper, he’s gone off where I can’t get him back.’
‘What do you want him for?’ asked Fortinbras.
‘You will not be ready to hear the answer to that question, Master Dyer, till you’ve been down a much longer road, and learned a lot more, and grown a bit bigger-hearted. But I don’t want to reproach you. Seems to me you’ve done very well. Don’t be cast down. Your mission wasn’t a failure.’
‘Clemo said something like that,’ said Fortinbras pensively. ‘He said our errand had become greater. He talked about getting out of darkness and shadow and deception. Yes… But what are we to do?’
‘But what’s the matter?’
‘It’s the threat that’s hanging over us!’ said Fortinbras, and as he spoke he felt the ball of pain dislodge at last, surge upwards and release blinding tears from his eyes. ‘Over the land! The Demesne! It’s the peril we’re all in!’ He wept in his turn, wept at length; the others waited for him to speak, and then listened compassionately. ‘I gradually became aware of it whilst we were there… And you know when I felt it worst? When we said goodbye at the inn… That innkeeper, Gough, he despises us because we’re Punchkins: just because we’re small. The King despises us too. The flogging was bad, it hurt, but…the insult was worse. The contempt. We’ve been protected by the laws of their land, but we now know that their respect for those laws has been scoured away till it’s thinner than paper. They’ll invade us again. I know they will.’
‘That looks like quite a burden you’re carrying, Fortinbras,’ said Berma.
‘Do you not believe me?’ he cried angrily.
‘I believe every word you just said. And I said I’m seeing a lad with a very big burden. Maybe he has a habit of burdening himself a bit too much. But it looks to me like a burden of leadership.’
Fortinbras fell off his stool. He lay on the grass, looking up at the blue sky. ‘Yes,’ he said after a while, ‘it’s I. Who else is there? The older ones have gone. And Aldred’s too reticent, if we haven’t lost him for good. I’ll be surprised if we ever see him again… So I’ve been singled out, just like my ancestor.’
‘But we’ll help you,’ said Tim, sitting up. ‘Waltrot and me. Won’t we, Walt?’
‘Oh, sure,’ said Waltrot. ‘Three gold pieces a day, my fees is.’
The other three all laughed at this stroke of satire. Tim turned back to the Witch, thanked her with a big smile, flung his arms round her neck, kissed her and jumped off her knee. She pulled a handkerchief from her skirt pocket and dabbled at the large damp patch over her breast.
‘But what are we to do?’ Fortinbras repeated his question, staring blankly upward, while the others heard a distant sound of hooves, wheels and shouting. Presently three great waggons, each drawn by four heavy horses, came into view and rumbled past. Some of the waggoners waved to Berma. The Punchkins could not tell whether they themselves had been seen or not.
‘Just a short train,’ Tim commented. ‘Winter roots and greens from the South Hundred, I guess.’
‘Yes, there it goes,’ agreed Fortinbras. ‘No, Lady Berma,’ he said for the fourth time, getting up and turning to face her, ‘I understand that you are a cunning Woman, accustomed to help those in sickness and in all kinds of trouble. I beg for your advice.’ He went down on both knees to say this, and spread his hands. ‘I pray you to help us, and I will give you all such reward as is in my power.’
She smiled at him. ‘Fairly spoken, at last,’ she said. ‘I can’t do very much more for you than what I have done, but I will show you a trick. Walt, my love, just pop inside, rummage around a bit and find me a sieve, would you? And Tim, sweetie, I need a pair of shears. Ordinary garden shears… Now,’ she said to Fortinbras, ‘come close. Look at me. Give me your hands… You asked who I am. I am known as the Good Witch of the North, even though I don’t go far northward because my power gets weak over there. The Tregg-folk call me Berma, the Elves call me Calendis or the Gulwen. None of these is my real name, which I dropped long ago. But there is another who is also known as the Gulwen. You may have heard of her, and if you have, nothing good: the Wicked Witch of the South, or some such name. Her right name is Fuindis. She is much more powerful than I am. I advise you: seek for her.’
‘We have heard of her in the Demesne,’ said Fortinbras levelly, ‘but we don’t like the tales. Is it true that she drinks human blood?’
‘You asked for counsel!’
‘Yes I did, and I thank you very much,’ said he. ‘But then how shall I find her?’
‘That’s the real question, I think. Ask it. And then no more.’
Walt and Tim came out of the cottage, each carrying one of the implements that had been requested.
‘Splendid,’ said Berma. ‘Now, Tim, if you’d kindly bring us the ash-tray from the bottom of the stove, full. Don’t empty it.’
He came back, carefully carrying the trayful of ashes and hot cinders.
Then, taking the sieve in one hand and the shears in the other, and saying a word of command, adu en henaith ergulen! she rammed the shears, by their points, into the wooden rind of the sieve. ‘Take it,’ she commanded Fortinbras. ‘Hold it by the handles. And you two, keep watching.’
Fortinbras took the combined sieve-and-shears, which had become rigid, a single object. He held it out by the handles. It was heavy, and the weight began immediately to drag down on his arms. His wrists trembled. He turned them a little upwards and kept the sieve horizontal.
Berma took the ash-tray and poured its contents into the sieve. A cloud of ashy dust arose. The strain on Fortinbras’s hands, wrists and arms became more severe. The trembling continued, the sieve shook and the ashes began to sift and riddle downwards. Small embers glowed or sparkled briefly. Berma opened her bag, took out a pinch of the flour and dropped it on the hot cinders. A billow of hot and sweet-scented smoke puffed out, obscuring her, and Walt, and Tim, and Fortinbras, all from each other.
‘Ask the question!’
The pressure on Fortinbras’s arms was tremendous. He unclenched his teeth and cried: ‘How shall we find the Witch of the South?’
No answer came, but the fog of smoke lifted and each face saw the three others. The companions stood in the midst of a clearing, confined by a wall of dark smoke. The sky could not be seen, but a pale glow shone up from the sieve and illuminated the faces of Tim and Waltrot. ‘Tell your friend what you see,’ said Berma.
They bent over the sieve. ‘Lots of red sparks,’ said Tim. ‘Moving round each other. Shining like jewels.’
‘Oh, and there’s a green one. No, it’s gone,’ said Waltrot.
‘Two green ones and a greeny-blue one,’ said Tim.
Fortinbras’s knees were bent, his head thrown back and his lips pulled far from his set teeth. The sieve was shaking more and more violently.
‘The ash is all going through,’ said Tim.
‘The sparks are all joining up,’ said Waltrot. ‘Necklaces. Coiling over and under.’
‘Is it making a picture?’ asked Tim.
Fortinbras gave an inarticulate cry.
Blue-green flames seemed to lick up from the sieve.
‘It’s coming!’ cried Tim.
Fortinbras’s arms sank down, and the sieve touched the earth, and a sound came from it, a noise like thunder mixed with the tinkling of small brasses or cymbals. The sun came back through the rolling smoke, warm and bright. The sieve and shears lay separately on the dust-scattered lawn.
Fortinbras sat down on his stool.
‘Well,’ he said, flexing his arms, ‘what did you see?’
‘A fox,’ said Tim.
‘A picture of a green fox,’ said Waltrot.
‘No, a real moving red fox with green eyes,’ said Tim. ‘In some kind of wood. There were trees.’
‘Yes,’ confirmed Waltrot.
It did not seem like all that much of a revelation. Fortinbras’s arms were full of fiery agony; and he felt disappointed and resentful. If he had dared to give vent to these feelings, he would have said something like So what exactly is that supposed to mean? He looked up and saw the Witch standing before him, so tall now, the sun blazing on her white hair, her face in shadow, her mouth set in a line. He felt his spirit quiver and sway as on the brink of some terrible cliff, or on the balance of the scales of sanity and madness. And he understood that to chide or question her any further would be a final and intolerable offence, like the disrespect for which the Princess had been punished.
‘Thank you.’ His voice was a squeaky little gasp. ‘Thank you, Lady Berma.’
‘We’ll keep the vision in mind,’ said Waltrot gravely; ‘we must ponder its meaning.’
‘Really?’ said Tim. ‘I bet I can already –’
‘Hush!’ said Waltrot.
‘How much do we owe you for that?’ asked Fortinbras.
‘Not a penny,’ she answered. ‘Let’s put the kettle on again, eh?’
So the Punchkins struggled no more with meanings and burdens of responsibility. For the rest of that day they sat and relaxed. They chatted with Berma, telling her all about their experiences, and she was no less interested (in the intervals of carrying out her household chores) in the doings of Tregg and the Demesne. The only other notable event, which took place in the afternoon, was the return of the troop of lancers. Their tired horses plodded slowly homeward, and the bent backs and nodding heads of the riders expressed bafflement and exhaustion. They paid no attention to the Witch nor to the Punchkins.
That night the three slept in the back bedroom of Wiccot. There were three beds, just right for them, and a cupboard, and a mirror, and a wash-stand. Not much light came into the room, for the casement opened onto the steep bank of the Road: the strong spiked curves of bramble-stems, the many green leaves of ivy and the wheels of the sprouting ferns were very close, and the sound of the stream came through this opened window which, for some reason, could not be shut. Every so often the breeze would carry a few drops from the waterfall into the room. After a simple but entirely satisfying supper Berma conducted her guests to the bedroom, kissed them goodnight and left them. They fell asleep to the sound of running water.
She had intimated – not in so many words, but clearly enough, they hardly daring to question her any more – that they must leave early next morning. They woke up together at about six o’clock. The voice of the stream was loud, but slightly muffled, and a chilly mist was blowing into the room. Downstairs, grey spring fog pressed against the leaded panes. Berma stood by the door of her cottage. It was to be an abrupt leave-taking. She wore a dirty grey robe over her night-dress, and her feet were bare, and her white hair hung down uncurled, straggling about her shoulders. Darkly she looked down on the three Punchkins as they presented themselves before her. ‘Come,’ she said.
Outside the fog was very thick. She led them down to the stream, her feet silently stepping and her skirts swishing over the dewy grass. The Punchkins had a vague sense of trees dripping around them but they could see no sign of the Road. They came up to the ditch; she said farewell and they offered her thanks in the best words they could find. She placed her hands on their shoulders and kissed their foreheads. Fortinbras looked up into her face for the last time, still fascinated, still searching for clues. How tall she was! How old! And – the insight came to him with sudden conviction – how sad! They splashed across the ditch, climbed up the farther side, went on a few paces and then turned back for a last wave. The tall mist-veiled figure waved back to them, and turned away, and vanished.
The three companions walked along the road. Although they could not see more than twenty yards ahead, there was no doubt about the way they should be going. Their hearts were hopeful and untroubled, the stones of the road smooth and easy to their feet. They walked on without speaking, each taking comfort from the presence of his two friends. Tim took his recorder out, for the first time since their arrival at the City, and began to play a tune. They picked up the beat and walked on more briskly.
After an interval of time that was not easy to estimate, there came a broader lightness, as if the banks of the cutting were coming to an end on both sides. The fog was still thick. A line of trees became visible, and a wall, no, a hedge, which Fortinbras recognised. He paused in astonishment, and then ran forward. The piping music sounded faint, distant, as he reached a familiar gate.
‘Now, where in Midyard have we got to?’ said Waltrot. He followed the hedge. To him also it seemed very familiar. He became aware that he was alone in a lane, a muddy drove with high hedges on both sides. He strode onward. The music broke off, and then Tim’s voice was shouting. He sounded glad. Waltrot arrived at the gate.
He unlatched it and passed through.
And dogs began barking, and from round the corner of a large shed two children appeared.
‘Uncle Walt!’ they cried, running to him, ‘Uncle Walt’s back!’
Waltrot Hardedge caught the little boy in his hands and swung him up for a hug.
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