A Different Kingdom(53)

Michael's attention was drawn to the hands holding him upright. They were massive, fourfingered and hairy, with thick, sharp nails that were almost claws. He twisted his neck to look and found himself staring up—and up—at a broad, ugly face with a huge nose, two beaming eyes, pointed ears and a lower lip that hung pendulous and wet because of the two great fangs that were poking it open.

'Jesus, Mary and Joseph,' he said.

'1 am Mirkady,' the small figure said, grinning so that Michael could see the even, yellow teeth that seemed to stretch from ear to pointed ear. 'My friend there is Dwarmo, a good-hearted soul, if none too bright. Sister Catherine here has persuaded us that you should be shown more deference.'

He nodded to the hulking figure behind Michael and the thin cord fell loose, dropping to the ground.

'She has also persuaded us that you may need something in the way of help in the Wildwood, so I'm thinking we can maybe sup a little and sip a little and think the matter over, and maybe wager a little when the needs of the body are satisfied. What say you, tall man?'

Beside Mirkady Cat was looking intense and concerned, as if she wished to say something, but the guttering branch so confused the shadow and light amid the trees that it was hard to tell. Michael fingered the footprints in his back.

'All right, then.'

The grin widened until Mirkady's face seemed all leering teeth and glowing eyeslits. 'Then we will invite you home'—there was a babble of voices in the darkness, instantly stilled—'and offer you the hospitality of the Folk of the Wood.' And here he bowed deeply, one skinny leg thrust forward until his long nose was touching his kneecap. Without warning Cat's burning brand went out, and there was only the glow of the campfire, strangely distant. In the faint light Mirkady's features were as hideous as a gargoyle's. He came forward a step and beckoned Michael's head down with a long curl of forefinger.

'Your consort worries over you, you know. Best to keep her sweet. She's a fine lass, but a touch impulsive.' He laid the forefmger against the side of his nose and gave Michael a conspiratorial wink.

'What?'

But Mirkady had already skipped away.

'To home, to home—to Gallow's Howe!' he cried, and the shout was taken up by a crowd of voices. Behind Michael, Dwarmo's deep bass joined in, chuckling like a good-humoured bear. Cat took Michael's hand.

'Cat, what is going on here? Who are these people? They know you.' Sister Catherine.

She squeezed his fingers until the bones grated.

'They are friends, Michael. Stay close to me and you will come to no harm.'

'To home, to home, to Gallow's Howe!'

'Do we have to, Cat?' His superstitions, deeprooted as a religion, were crowding his throat.

She stopped and took his face in her hands, kissing his mouth quiet. 'We have no choice.'

'To home, to home, to Gallow's Howe!'





ELEVEN

FAIRIES. THAT WAS what these things were supposed to be, except they were like no fairies out of any book Michael had ever read. There were no gossamer wings, no diaphanous robes and slim, pale limbs. No butterfly-like maidens offering cups of honeydew. These things were as angular and odd-shaped as the denizens of a Bosch canvas. They capered and pranced and danced through the black wood so that Cat and Michael travelled as it were in the midst of a feverish Rackham illustration, made all the more fantastic by the light of a thousand fireflies that circled and spun in squadrons like tiny Chinese lanterns come to life.



Goblins, Michael decided. They were goblins. And trolls, he added to himself, looking up at the hulking shape of Dwarmo and his long-fanged grin.

Mirkady had called Cat 'Catherine'.

They walked for hours hand in hand, Michael leading the mare by the bridle. She seemed unperturbed by her fantastic company, and even when the more boisterous of the Forest-Folk swung through the branches close to her head she did not shy. It was as if they did not exist. Cat, however, gripped Michael's hand until it pained him. He would have sworn she was afraid, if he had ever known her to show any fear—and yet she had said these were her friends.

'Leave the horse,' Mirkady commanded.

'What?' They had stopped. He felt thick-headed with wonder, dull as an oft-used knife.

'Leave the horse. It cannot enter the Howe, it being a creature of the sun and suchlike. Come now, sir, are you so ignorant?'

'Thick as young oak,' something said.

'Indeed. A clodpoll,' said another.

'I'm not leaving her out here in the middle of nowhere,' Michael said, becoming heated. Already he was tiring of being a butt.

Cat took his arm. 'She'll be all right, Michael. Nothing will harm her in the bounds of the Howe.'

Except cross-magic, and Latin, and holy water,' a voice squeaked.

'Silence!' Mirkady shouted, his mouth opening wide enough to show the deep red within. The eerie glow of the fireflies was all around, and the air was full of the rich smell of freshly turned earth, like that of a new-dug grave. There was a sweet stink underlying it however, a hint of putrefaction which made Michael wrinkle his nose.