Winter Wood
Authors: Steve Augarde
CONTENTS
ABOUT THE BOOK
Our time has almost come, and we must leave this world and travel to Elysse. If we stay longer we shall perish . . .
Life is changing for Midge, and she has little time to think about the extraordinary events of last summer. Her discovery of the hidden tribes is like a dream to her now, their existence all but forgotten.
But the voice that calls out to her in the winter darkness one night is real enough and the hand that comes rapping against her bedroom window cannot be ignored. This is no dream. The Various have returned, and their desperation has made them all the more dangerous . . .
The only way that Midge can help the little people is by tracing the whereabouts of her great-great-aunt Celandine. But Celandine must be long dead, surely?
In this final part of Steve Augarde's enthralling trilogy, we see how the past and present are connected, the interwoven threads drawing the reader on towards an astonishing series of revelations. A story of danger and magic, friendships and betrayals, this is fantasy writing at its very best.
Steve Augarde
To Bella and David, with thanks.
And relief
.
THE TIP OF
the bright orange float bobbed just once, no more than a twitch, a tiny bird-peck of movement, but it was enough to send a ripple circling over the water â and a jolt of excitement through George's heart. He leaned forward, gripping the butt of the rod in his left hand, willing the float to go under properly and for good. Come on . . . come
on
 . . . I know you're down there, you old monster . . .
He turned the handle of the wooden reel, keeping it smooth and steady, winding in the line until most of the slack had been taken up.
Nothing more happened. The float drifted around the slowly eddying pool at the side of the weir, but remained stubbornly upon the surface.
Eventually George had to blink. He let out a little more line and allowed himself to fall back into his original dreamy trance, lost in the hypnotic roar of the weir beneath him and the strange chattering sounds that seemed hidden away in the background somewhere, like faraway voices.
The constant flow of water made him want to pee
again, but he couldn't be bothered to move. He just sat on the planks, swinging his legs to and fro. Each time the float approached the main current it seemed certain to be whisked away downstream, but then it was somehow repelled, forced back towards the bank to begin its cycle once more.
George was happy to watch and wait. He resisted the temptation to interfere. This was still the best place. Down there among those tall reeds . . . that's where Old Whitey would be, if he were anywhere, silent and massive in his winter lair, biding his time. Old Whitey . . .
So old, they said, that the pigment had faded from his leathery skin and turned him into an albino. So old that he was half blind. Yes, and that could be the trouble. Pike would take just about any bait, but they had to be able to see it in the first place, surely? Maybe a bit of gristle left over from the Sunday lunch just wasn't visible enough. Maybe it was time to try the spinner after all.
George shook himself out of his reverie, and began to rummage about in the ancient canvas bag that sat next to him on the plank. The leather straps were thin and frayed, and the brass buckles were all crusty with green stuff â too far gone to be cleaned up, George thought, even if he had the inclination to try. He liked the bag, though, and he liked the rod and reel too. In the flat days that followed Christmas it had been fun to help clear out the attic and so come across all this antique fishing gear.
âIt's actually a very good make,' his dad had said of
the rod. âA split-cane Hardy. Expensive, even back in its day. Put that on ebay and you'd get a bob or two for it. And the old reel â a Shakespeare, no less. Beautiful. Worth something now.' George didn't give a hoot what they were worth; he wanted to keep them.
He found what he was looking for, the spoon-shaped spinner with its three rusty hooks, and he held it in the palm of his hand to examine it. The metal was very tarnished, black almost, with age. Maybe he ought to try and give it a polish before using it . . .
âHiya.'
George turned round and squinted up into the wintry sunshine.
âOh. Hi, Midge. How're you feeling?'
âOK. Bit better.'
George watched as his cousin began to make her way across the twin planks that spanned the little weir.
âCareful,' he said. âThat one wobbles.'
âBlimey. It does too.' Midge put a steadying hand on one of the big iron stanchions, part of the rusted winding gear that controlled the flow of water over the weir. âOh, great,' she said. âTrust me to find the bit with grease on it.'
She sat down next to George, glanced at her blackened hand, and wiped it on the worn edge of the plank.
âHey! I've got to sit there!'
âSorry.' Midge rubbed her palms together, in order to spread the dirt around a little. âHad any luck?'
âNot really,' said George. âJust one bite. Well, I think
it was a bite. I don't mind, though. Glad to get away for an hour or two, actually.'
âYeah, I know what you mean.'
Now that Christmas was over the builders were back at Mill Farm, and the air was once again filled with the noise of major conversion work â the clink of scaffolding, the rumble of diggers, stone cutting, wood sawing, cement lorries continuously coming and going. Midge was sure that the headache she'd had all day was from the noise of the builders.
It wasn't so bad for her cousins, George and Katie, who were only visiting their dad for a couple of days, but for Midge the constant racket had become a nightmare. âIt's driving me nuts,' she said. âI was really excited about it to begin with, but now I just wish they could have left everything how it was. I liked it better that way, in any case.'
âMe too. But then they'd have had to sell the place, and so that'd be no good. Be worth it in the end, I s'pose. Is your room nearly done?'
âHuh. I've given up asking. They keep
saying
it is, but it didn't seem like it to me, last time I looked. And in the meantime I'm still sleeping in with Mum. You've got to be back before dark, by the way. Your dad said to tell you four o'clock at the latest.'
âOh yeah. Sent you to keep an eye on me, more like. Make sure I hadn't drowned myself, or something.'
Midge didn't reply to that, because it was exactly what her Uncle Brian
had
said: âGo and make sure George isn't floating face-down in the weir, Midge. He's daft enough for it.'
She looked across the patchily flooded wetlands towards Howard's Hill. The shape of it was quite different from this angle, much longer than it appeared from her window back at Mill Farm. The tangled trees that crested the ridge were winter-bare, a stark dense line silhouetted against the pale blue of the January sky. The Royal Forest, she called it. An absolute stillness hung over the place, as though the hill were poised, a tufty-backed creature crouching on the landscape, waiting. No birds circled above it, no breath of air stirred those high distant branches.