Читать книгу The Language of Stones - Robert Goldthwaite Carter, Robert Carter - Страница 10

And so it was that Will was lodged in the tower of John, Lord Strange for the season of the year that ran from Beltane to Lammastide. It was not long before he got used to the long days he had to spend at the tower, and began to forget some of the horror he had felt on first seeing the Hogshead.

The lord’s wife had agreed to set about Will’s schooling, but it soon grew into a torture for him. First they made him wear a suit of lordly stuff, all stiff and not to be soiled, and a rule was laid on him never to go beyond clarion call of the tower.

At first he obeyed. During the warmth of May and the heat of June he explored the nearer parts of the forest as far as the river, always looking out for unicorns, always mindful of Gwydion’s pledge to return for him, and his own not to stray. But no clarion was ever blown to summon him back to the tower, and little by little the lord’s strict rule was relaxed.

In the mornings he suffered terrible, spirit-crushing labours, while not a word was mentioned about magic as he had hoped. Instead he was put to reading and writing and speaking out from his slate, and near half of every day was spent chalking marks over and over, and when the slate was full, rubbing them all out again. But at least there were always the afternoons when he could roam as he wished.

Nor was he as lonely as he had feared he would be. On most nights a beautiful white cat came to visit him, and on some days a bent-backed old woman was accustomed to arrive at the tower to deliver firewood. Will felt sorry for her, for she would bring heavy loads on her back – fuel to cook the lord’s mountainous dinners. She said that when her summer’s toil was done there would be a further stock of wood laid in to keep Lord Strange and his wife warm throughout the winter, and she would have coin enough to pay her keep. So Will began helping her, and that was when he began to get back more than he gave, for without his knowing it the old woman had already begun to teach him the rudiments of magic.

She was known about the Wychwoode as the Wise Woman of Wenn, for she knew much about herbs and field remedies, and even something of the higher arts. She told Will many things as they walked the dusty path beside the river. First she told him about the ‘Great Rede’, then she spoke of the ‘Three-fold Way’, and then, as they came close to the hamlet of Assart Finstocke she taught him about the language of birds.

‘Fools think that birds and animals are of lesser rank and wisdom than men, but it is not so. Do you know that all crows are left-handed?’

He grinned. ‘Crows don’t have hands, Wise Woman.’

‘Left-handedness has nothing to do with these.’ She held up her own hands, then pointed at her head. ‘Like most other things it has to do with what’s in here. Do you know that all birds dream?’

‘Truly? What do they dream about?’

‘Songs. Birds are most wise in their way.’ She crooked a finger at a green froglet hiding among the reeds. ‘And see this little fellow here? A frog is wise in his own special way, for he is much better at being a frog than any man could ever be. What man could live without a stitch of clothing in a frozen pond all winter through? But he can. Likewise, a mole, a squirrel and a seagull can go where no man can go. Each creature of the wild has its own special knowledge of the world. If we scorn the wisdom of beasts we make fools of ourselves.’

The Wise Woman was a marvel. She said that folk who had patience could learn extraordinary tidings from birds and mice and not only from watching their habits or having knowledge of their ways, but from listening directly to their little hearts’ concerns and heeding their warnings about the future.

‘Don’t you know that all animals have foreknowledge?’ she asked. ‘Bees will swarm when they smell fire, ants know when thunderstorms are coming and hornets can tell which tree lightning will strike. And when it comes to greatness of character, you will never find loyalty in any lord’s man greater than that given by his hounds. Nor will you find elegance in any lady greater than that to be found in the cat who comes to sleep on your bed at night.’

‘You know him?’ said Will, startled.

‘Surely I do. His name is Pangur Ban. All the Sisters of the Wise have “familiars”, favoured animals who attend us. I am told by my toad, Treacle, that Pangur Ban is the true lord of Wychwoode and a great friend of Gwydion. Has the cat not told you this himself yet?’

Will grinned. ‘But surely, Wise Woman, no creature can speak?’

‘They all speak. Though no man or woman, no matter how wise, can hear what words are spoken. A hedgehog or a vole or a wasp will not spy for a wizard on the counsels of the great as some say they do, but woodpeckers may always be relied upon to tell if outlaws are concealed in a wood, and starlings can tell you if a village tithe has been paid or not – and, if it has, how much grain still lies in the barns.’ She produced a piece of dry bread. ‘Here! Take this and feed the ducks. Then perhaps you will learn how it is with ducks, and you will see how they thank you.’

No sooner had Will taken the bread than he turned to see a dozen mallards gliding over the water towards him. They had appeared out of nowhere and with such swiftness that he thought the Wise Woman must have summoned them by magic. Earlier he had seen her receive the bread from a tower guard whose injured hand she had healed the day before. He broke off small pieces and threw them out to the mallards, eager that each of the colourful drakes and each of the brown-speckled ducks should have its proper share. The birds dabbled their beaks and paddled back and forth and sported like children at play until all the bread was gone, then, seeing there was no more, they swam away again, almost as fast as they had appeared – but never a one turned to thank Will for lunch as he now half-expected.

‘Do you understand yet?’ the Wise Woman asked as Will followed her away from the water’s edge.

‘But…I didn’t hear any thanks from them. Should I have? It seems to me that when I had bread they were my friends, but when I had none they were my friends no longer.’

The Wise Woman laughed. ‘Oh, not at all! You are not thinking in the way of magic yet.’ She patted his belly three times. ‘You feel thanks in there – a warm glow just below your heart. Concentrate. Do you feel it now? The spirit of life? It’s a power that has come from those ducks – that’s their gratitude that burns inside you. A gift as sure and real as any gift of bread that you made to them. Feel it, Will, and learn how to feel it again! Mark it well, for it is a power that can put a smile on a man’s face and a spring in his step!’

And Will did smile, and he thought that perhaps he had grasped a little of what the Wise Woman had said after all. There must be in the world chains of good deeds, for had not the Wise Woman healed the hand of the guard who gave the bread that came to Will to give to the ducks who had made him smile? Now, he thought, if only there was someone I could pass this smile on to, then the chain would carry on…

‘Most folk believe they know nothing of magic, but it is natural for folk to understand it more than they think. No doubt you have heard fragments of great wisdom in old sayings? Many come from magical redes, or laws. One good turn deserveth another – you must have heard that?’

‘Why, yes! Many times.’

‘That is a rede of magic. So is “All things come full circle”. And “A man must be mad to ride a dragon”. And “Riches are like horse muck”.’

‘Riches are like horse muck? That doesn’t sound so wise to me.’

‘But riches are like horse muck, for they stink when in a heap, but spread about they make everything fruitful.’

Will learned how the Great Rede and the Three-fold Way were the taproots of magical law. He discovered how obedience to the Great Rede was the thing that set wizards apart from sorcerers, for it said simply:

Use magic as thou wilt, but harm no other.

He saw how that fitted with what Master Gwydion had said about having to use magic sparingly and never without due forethought as to the balance between gain and loss. A great deal of a wizard’s skill, he saw, must come in taking gain in such a way that the loss to others that arrived with it did as little harm as possible. A sorcerer, on the other hand, could ignore the Great Rede, for he abused magic, employing it just as he pleased. A sorcerer took to himself the gains but never cared about the losses. That, in its way, said the Wise Woman, was ever the truest meaning of the word ‘evil’, and why evil was, in the end, always the cause of its own downfall.

No wonder Gwydion was displeased when I called him a sorcerer, Will thought. Compared to wizardry, sorcery must be a blundering and clumsy thing, full of force and brute magic instead of elegance and skill.

He thought again of the Law of the Three-fold Way, which said:

Whatsoever is accomplished by magic, returneth upon the world three-fold.

‘But doesn’t a greedy and uncaring sorcerer soon find himself buried under a heap of evils of his own creating?’

‘Magic returns consequences upon the world, not always upon the head of the magic-worker himself. That is why sorcerers can flourish. You will know them by the trail of destruction they leave behind for others to clear up.’

Will was indignant. ‘Do they not see what they’re doing to others? Don’t they feel ashamed to behave that way?’

‘Ashamed? Never! A sorcerer has no shame. For, you see, no sorcerer truly believes himself to be a sorcerer.’

Will’s head ached at that idea. ‘I…I don’t think I understand.’

‘Willand, there is no “good” and there is no “evil”. These are false ideas that greedy men have sought to misguide fools with. A sorcerer always believes himself to be special. He falls in love with himself. To him, means can always be justified by ends, and he has excuses for everything. This is because he always breaks the Third Law of Magic, which says:

He whom magic encompasseth must be true unto his own heart.

‘Sorcerers use dirty magic, Willand. They lie to themselves. They always claim the crimes they commit should be discounted for they are done in the service of a greater good. But that is never so, for real advantage is never brought forth from malice. You must be strong to work untainted magic. And strength is, in the end, much the same as selflessness. Now do you begin to see?’

Will’s head was spinning. ‘I don’t know if I do.’

She sighed and pointed to where a pretty flower grew. Its stem was delicate and its head like that of a purple dragon. ‘Greater butterwort. The biggest and handsomest one I’ve seen this summer. Pick it for me.’

He looked at her, surprised. ‘But you said it was the work of knaves and fools to go around plucking up wild flowers for themselves when they can be so much better enjoyed alive.’

‘Do it. It will teach you a hard lesson. Or do you lack the strength to break such a slender neck without good reason?’

He picked the flower, half expecting some power to prevent him, but the stem snapped easily and he felt a small pang of protest in his heart.

‘There,’ the Wise Woman said. ‘By that action you’ve lost a day out of your life. Did you feel it go?’

‘Why…yes.’

‘Now crush that flower to pieces! Rub it angrily between your hands until it is all broken!’

A sudden fear bit at him. ‘I don’t want to.’

‘You might as well now.’ She took the flower from him and threw it away into the long grass. Then she said with great firmness, ‘“Real strength never impairs harmony.” That’s a very clever old rede, Willand. So clever I’ll say it for you again in its full form: “Real strength never impairs beauty or harmony, it bestows it.” Real strength has much to do with magic. Do you see now?’

He looked at the flowerless plant. It looked bereft. ‘No. But I can begin to see why the folk of Wychwoode call you the “Wise Woman”.’

She took his hand, ‘Cheer up, Willand. It’s only one day you’ve dropped, and that’ll be lost from the far end of your life where it’ll do you far less good than a day like today.’

He thought about that for a while and decided she was right – he had better cheer himself up. ‘Wise Woman, perhaps you can tell me the answer to a question that’s been troubling me.’

‘I will try.’

‘What’s a Child of Destiny?’

‘That’s a curious phrase. Where did you hear it?’

‘Master Gwydion used it once about me. He said something about a Black Book too. What does it mean?’

The Wise Woman smiled. Her leathery face wrinkled, but her bright eyes remained fast on his. ‘That, Willand, I cannot tell you.’

The answer disappointed him for it was no answer at all, and the Wise Woman’s secret smile seemed to raise still more troublesome questions. At last he said, ‘Was it a sorcerer who made Lord Strange hog-headed?’

But the Wise Woman only cackled, as if she thought that was a very good joke.

High summer came with the solstice, the day when the sun climbed to its loftiest place in the sky. It was the longest day of the year, but Will wished all of it away. Despite having spent so short a time in the wizard’s company, and most of that reluctantly, he ached for Lammastide.

Lammas was no more than what was called in the Vale ‘Loaf Day’, a day of ritual breadmaking. And Gwydion had told him it was so with the other festivals – solstices were just Midsummer, the longest day, and Ewletide, the shortest. Equinoxes were likewise marked in the Vale as important days in spring and autumn when days and nights were the same length. Lammas was the first day of Harvest-tide, the day that signified the first ripened corn, or the first day of the month of August. But June was not yet past, and the corn was still as green as grass.

Lord Strange and his people counted time only in Slaver months. Nor was any ceremony kept by them at Midsummer. When he asked the lord’s wife she told him in her stiff way, ‘The churls, the simple folk, have many foolish beliefs. They will go out on Midsummer’s Eve to stand beneath an elder tree, or sit within a ring of mushrooms. Perhaps they are hoping to dance with the fae.’

‘May I go too?’ he asked, delighted at the idea.

But she only drew herself up and said, ‘You were sent to us to learn proper ways. We do not observe low customs here.’

Then Lord Strange came in and sat down at his great oak table, which was as usual spread with pies and pastries. He was looking more pig-like than ever, and as he ate he began to count the cost of Will’s lodging at the tower, and to complain again that the wizard had laid an unlooked for burden upon him. And in that moment Will pitied the greedy, miserly lord and his desolate lady, for she had a heart of ice, and dared not walk in the sun for fear that it would melt.

‘It’s time you had your hair cut,’ Lord Strange growled as he lifted up the nearest pie.

‘What’s wrong with my hair?’

‘Those pigtails you wear befit a girlchild! We shall cut them off!’ He banged the table with his fist.

‘They’re braids, not pigtails, and they’re the sign of a man!’

‘A man? A man, he says! Not here. Here the sign of a man is a shaven head. Churls wear lousy locks, warriors have short hair. Like mine. See?’

Will looked at the ridge of grey bristles of which Lord Strange seemed so proud. He set himself defiantly. ‘Your soldiers may do your bidding, but I’ll not!’

‘Whaaat?’

‘Try and cut my hair if you dare. If you do that, Master Gwydion will never take the pig spell off you! Remember what he said – all things come full circle!’

Sudden rage burst from the Hogshead and he threw down his pie. ‘Is that what he told you? That it’s his spell! I knew as much!’

‘I didn’t say that! You only think that because you’re stupid! Stupid as a pig!’

‘Come here!’

Will leapt out of the lord’s reach.

‘Come back, you young louse! You shall be made a scullion for your insolence! A scullion, do you hear me? You shall wash pans and pie dishes until you’ve paid for your keep! Come here, I say!’

But Will escaped the bellowing voice. He dashed from the tower and dived into the forest. And there he ran and ran, and after he had run all the breath and all the bile out of him he lay down in a glade and stared up at the sky. ‘Whatever came over me?’ he asked himself, unable to remember when he had endured such violent feelings of disobedience before. To calm himself he began to listen to the birdsong. He wondered what songs blackbirds dreamed about, and what was the true name of a wren he saw hiding in a holly bush. Perhaps the birds used true names when they sang to one another. He listened hard, trying to fathom their language, but he could not.

At last he adjusted his ear to the other sound, the one he had once thought of as the malign heartbeat of the forest. It had become so familiar that he usually blanked it out, but now he became aware of it again. This time it sounded deeper and more sinister, and there seemed to be something insistent to it. He followed it, feeling out the direction as best he could, and came to a place where the forest began to thin. This was its margin, where dusty fields stretched out in hot, shimmering brightness to envelop the land beyond Wychwoode. The insistent rhythm was strong here. He felt it in his feet, a low thump-thump-thump that was not a wholesome sound at all, but morbid and relentless. There was something else too, for the air here was no longer green and clean, but tainted by the smell of smoke.

Then, quite suddenly, the sound stopped.

The slope ahead of him fell steeply down to a sluggish stream. He followed it and saw it widen and slow into a broad, scum-covered reach. And there his eye halted. For a moment he thought he had glimpsed a figure, that of a woman floating just under the water. From the corner of his eye it seemed that white veils were rippling in a slow current, but when he looked again he saw that it had been no more than a trick of the light.

At the other end of the reach a great dam of earth and timber blocked the stream’s flow. The water was held back in a long, stagnant pool that had crept up the sides of the valley and drowned many fine trees on the lower slopes. But the level had once been much higher, as if the feeder stream had not been strong enough to keep the pool up through the dry summer months. Then he discovered the reason the dam had been built – there was a mill.

It had a big undershot wheel, twice the height of a man, that sat in a race to the side of the dam, and there were men standing by the sluices. More were in the clearing beyond, tending smouldering mounds of earth or walking to and fro.

He watched them for a while, fingering his fish talisman and lying low. He wondered who the men were, but decided not to make himself known to them just in case word got back to Lord Strange. Then three men started to walk towards him – one wore a blue robe cinched with a broad belt, a shorter man was dressed in grey, and a tall, silent man in a belted shirt brought up the rear. Caution made Will hide himself behind a tree as they came along the path that ran below him. He crouched down as they stopped.

‘A thousand,’ the first man said. ‘That’s the order. We’re to begin cutting tomorrow. And this time I’ll choose them myself.’

The smaller man simpered. ‘How many oaks in all, master?’

‘All the big trunks. Them’s to be saved. Ones so wide two men can’t hold hands around. I want them all, and the rest you can cut up as you like.’

The smaller man seemed satisfied with that, but the tall man looked sadly around at the greenery. ‘There’s to be a lot of changes round here, then?’

‘It’s the times that are changing! Warships! That’s what the Realm needs now. Warships, not deer haunts and forgotten bramble patches. I want this lot cleared.’

‘What about the king’s hunting?’ the tall man said.

The other turned to him. ‘Hunting? If we’re to be rich it’s trade we wants, not bloody deer-chasing. And to have trade we must have ships, see?’

‘You said warships.’

‘Aye!’ The man in blue gave him an impatient glance and turned away. ‘Trade, war – what does it matter? We’ll grow rich on either one, or both together if you like!’

The man in blue continued to gesture broadly, showing off his plans for the Wychwoode, while the others trotted after him. Will looked up at the threadbare leaf canopy. The forest already looked sad and shabby where it had been drowned and cut back. Still, it seemed an enormous crime to chop down the biggest oaks, he thought, trees that had taken many human lifetimes to grow and made any place what it was. The Wise Woman had said that more creeping things took food and shelter from oaks than from any other kind of tree. ‘Beetles and butterflies make the oak their trysting place. Squirrels, jays and pigeons take his acorns, even badgers dig their sets among his roots. And after the rutting season, when stags eat little, the oak’s autumn bounty of acorns arrives at just the right time for deer to fatten themselves against the coming cold.’ If there are to be no oaks here, he thought desolately, what will the deer have to eat? And what about the unicorns?

‘Here! What’s your game?’ said a voice behind him.

Will jumped up and almost knocked himself cold on an overhanging bough.

‘Listening in on other people’s business, I suppose?’

When he looked round he saw a girl was watching him. She was lithe and trim in a boyish garb of dark green but she had a pretty, heart-shaped face framed by wisps of yellow hair. She seemed to be about his own age.

‘Oh, poor thing! Did I startle you?’

‘Just a bit,’ Will said, frowning and rubbing his head.

‘Good. I’m glad. It’s your fault for being here in the first place. What’s your name?’

‘Will. It’s short for Willand. What’s yours?’

‘Never you mind.’

Will scowled. ‘Neveryoumind? That’s a stupid sort of a name.’

‘And you’re a stupid sort of a boy. What’re you doing here?’

‘Looking for unicorns.’

‘Unicorns?’ She laughed. ‘You won’t see any unicorns around here.’

‘I suppose not. They don’t often come this far south.’ He tried to sound knowledgeable. ‘They wouldn’t like it here much either. Not with that mill down there making such a thumping din half the time.’

She gave him a hard look. ‘Where do you belong?’

‘I…I live at the tower.’ He wanted to point out his braids and tell her that he was not a boy any more but a man, but her face had taken on a look of deep disgust.

‘The tower? I didn’t know the Hogshead had a son.’

‘You mean Lord Strange.’

‘That’s what you call him. You’re his kin, more’s the pity for you. A proper warden would look after the forest, but this one brings men here to cut it down. You can tell your kinsman that he’s a pig, his purveyor’s a pig, and all the rest of them are pigs too!’

She jumped down and ran from him, but he ran after her. ‘Hey!’ he called. ‘I’m no lordling! I’m a churl like you! Don’t be a fool! Wait for me!’

But the girl would not wait. She was as fleet as a fawn and knew the ground well, dodging along the deer runs where she thought he could not follow. But he did, until she came to a slender fallen tree that bridged a ditch of muddy water and, stepping lightly across, reached the far side. Will attempted it, but as soon as he stepped onto it she pulled over a side branch and turned the trunk under him so that he fell off. He landed flat in the mud below, while she stood six feet above him laughing like a drain. ‘Who’s the fool now?’ she cried.

‘I’ll spank you for that!’ he shouted back.

‘No, you won’t. You’ll never catch me! Not here!’

He stood up, slopping the mud from him. He was soaked all down one side in black, foul-smelling slime. ‘You know what? I think you’re right. Give me a hand up out of here instead.’

She looked down at his outstretched hand, and shook her head. ‘Think I’m a fool? I’m not, you know. Anyway, look at your hand. It’s filthy.’

‘Listen, I’m not Lord Strange’s kin. I’m not a lordling. I’m nothing to do with the folk at the tower.’

‘You said you lived there. Were you lying then – or now?’

‘Neither. What I meant was I’m only lodging there. And I agree with you, the lord is a swine, and he’s wrong to have his best trees cut down. It’s just wickedness and greed, but he can’t help being a pig because there’s a spell of magic on his head.’

She looked at him afresh. ‘You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here.’

‘The same as you, at a guess. Just walking about, listening to what the birds tell each other.’ He clasped his hand round a tree root and began to haul himself up. When he put his hand out to her again she stepped back and made ready to run.

‘Oh, come on. You can trust me.’

‘I’ll decide who I’m going to trust. And you look like trouble. I don’t expect you understand anything worth knowing. My father says your sort never do.’

‘I told you – I’m not any sort. I’m just me.’

She sniffed. ‘Why’s your hair all done up like a girl’s?’

‘It’s…it’s a sign of manhood where I come from.’

‘Manhood?’ She laughed. ‘That’s girl hair. You look like a girl.’

Just as he began to think she was not going to help him she made a grab for his wrist. She would not let him clasp her hand. She braced her foot and, with one final effort, pulled him out of the hole.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You see? I’m not going to throw you down – even though I could.’

‘Says who?’

‘Says me.’

‘Try it, then. If you think you can.’

‘Oh, this is baby talk,’ he said turning away. ‘And on the Midsummer of all days.’

She seemed taken aback. ‘Do you respect the solstice, then?’

‘Doesn’t everyone?’

‘The Hogshead doesn’t. Lords don’t. You should know that.’

‘Lady Strange thinks it’d ruin her dignity to have any fun. She says only churlish folk go out on Midsummer’s Eve. I can’t see her standing under elder trees or dancing at fae rings.’

‘We do all kinds of things. We sing songs mainly.’

‘What do you sing?’

‘Mostly the old songs. My favourite’s the one about the prince who plants three apple trees that bear him gifts of silver, gold and diamonds. You must know it.’

‘Maybe. Sing it for me.’

She hesitated, embarrassed, but then she relented. ‘All right. Just one verse.’

But she sang all four, and when she had finished, he clapped his hands. ‘That was pretty. You have a sweet voice, you know.’ Then he backed away a pace.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Nowhere. But I’ll have to go back soon. I’m in trouble with the Hogshead for backchatting him.’ He glanced in the direction of the tower. ‘But first, I’d like to know your name.’

She laughed. ‘I bet you would.’

‘No, really. I would.’

‘We live down by the river, so folk call me…Willow.’ She looked down at her feet. ‘I know it’s a stupid name.’

‘Don’t be embarrassed. It’s a lovely name. It’s beautiful, just like the tree. And it suits you.’

They walked slowly back to the place where they had met, and sat down. She told him she lived in the village of Leigh. Her father, Stenn, was one of the verderers, men whose job it was to tend the forest. He was one of the men who were going to be made to fell the trees.

‘But that kind of work isn’t at all to his liking,’ she said. They crouched down together behind a fallen trunk and looked at the mill and the smouldering heaps nearby. ‘A man can’t look after a forest all his life as my father has and then be expected to lead a tree massacre. He says the law may say the forest belongs to the king, but there’s more to forests than just owning them.’

‘And more to trees than just the using of them for timber.’

She looked at him and smiled. ‘You do understand, after all. Those big oaks are my father’s friends. He grew up with them and delights in each and every one of them. He says there’s been an oak grove here since long before the Slavers came. He doesn’t like what’s happening of late. He says it all stinks!’

‘There’s certainly something nasty in the air around here.’ He looked down at the wreaths of smoke that laced the air around the mill and gave it an acrid tang.

‘That’s the charcoal burners, stinking the place up with their heaps. They need charcoal to heat the iron and melt it. They cut down all of Grendon copse where that mill pond is now. My dad says there are three blacksmith’s hearths down there. Going all the time, they are, with big bellows and everything. And that thumping you can hear all over the forest – that’s what you call trip-hammers.’

He looked at her. ‘What are they doing?’

‘I don’t know. Making things. We aren’t supposed to go near Grendon Mill, but I know it’s where they work iron into shapes. Waggons come up from the Old Road most days and take stuff away.’

‘What kind of stuff?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Whenever I go down there they chase me off. I don’t care. I don’t want to be down there anyway. It’s a dirty, stinky, smoky place now. Not at all the sort of place I like.’

‘That’s not what I meant about there being something in the air. It’s what that man said – the times are changing.’

She nodded. ‘And far too quickly, I’d say.’

‘It all seems to fit in with what Master Gwydion told me.’

She sat up and looked at him with sudden interest. ‘Who’s Master Gwydion?’

Straight away Will regretted mentioning the wizard’s name. So much was important and secretive about Gwydion that it seemed almost like a betrayal. And yet when he looked at Willow he felt he could have done nothing very wrong. ‘He’s the one who brought me into Wychwoode. Can you keep a secret?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know, I’ve never tried.’

He looked at her and remembered the look on her face as she hauled him out of the ditch, then decided he could trust her. ‘If you swear to keep it to yourself, I’ll tell you about Master Gwydion.’

‘I swear.’

‘Hand on heart?’

‘Hand on heart.’

He took a deep breath. ‘Master Gwydion is a wizard.’

Her mouth opened wide and then her nose wrinkled. ‘No!’

‘It’s true. And I’m his apprentice.’

‘And do they all tell such whopping lies where you come from?’

‘I’m not telling lies! It’s true. I’ll swear to it if you like.’

‘Hand on heart?’

‘Hand on heart.’

She looked at him sidelong, and Will could not be sure but he thought she had decided to believe him.

‘It must be very exciting being a wizard’s apprentice.’

‘It’s a little scary sometimes. You’d be amazed at the things I’ve seen.’

She smiled a doubting smile. ‘Like what?’

‘Oh, all kinds of things. He makes owls fly so slowly that you can count their wingbeats. He makes falling rain stop, right in mid-air. He can whistle up a storm just like that—’ He clicked his fingers and leaned towards her confidentially. ‘And he even summons giants out of the earth. Giants as big as barns. They’re terrifying.’

‘Go on, then,’ she said, her eyes sparkling now. ‘Do a bit of magic for me.’

That stopped him dead, and he wondered what his boasting had led him to, but then he put on his most serious expression. ‘I’d like to, but…’

‘But what?’

He shook his head and sucked in a breath. ‘You must know that magic is dangerous?’

‘Surely not if you know what you’re doing.’

He drew himself up. ‘Oh, no. It’s always dangerous. All magic is dangerous because, you see, it affects the harmony, the balance, the…the way things touch one another, and so on.’

‘Is that right?’

She watched him, waiting for more, while he desperately tried to remember all the things the Wise Woman had told him.

‘It’s quite hard to give magical knowledge to someone who hasn’t had the proper grounding.’

‘So I see. But I don’t want you to give me any magical knowledge. I just want you to do some for me.’

‘I’ll…I’ll think on that.’ He nodded his head gravely. ‘Yes, I’ll think on it. And maybe I’ll show you some tomorrow.’

Her glance slid away from him. ‘Oh, I see. And what makes you think you’ll be seeing me tomorrow?’

‘Well…I mean I’d like to. I really would.’ He felt his composure deserting him so that he couldn’t meet her eye now. ‘That is, if you’re able to…if you want to come back here. They say all things come full circle – that’s a rede, you know.’

Just then, Will heard two piercing whistles and he looked down the slope. There stood a bearded man with his head tilted back and a couple of fingers stuck in his mouth.

‘That’s my father! He’s going back with the others to make ready for the celebrations. Can’t stay. I’m late.’

She jumped up and without another word scampered down the slope.

He was about to call after her, but her father was there and he thought better of it.

‘Willow…’ he said to himself. ‘But what about tomorrow?’