Alan Garner Classic Collection. Alan Garner
are two hikers down by Mr Carter’s: can you see them?”
In the lane below, a man and a woman, both rucksacked, and wearing anoraks, ski-trousers, and heavy boots, were leaning over a field gate, apparently absorbed in a map.
“There are two more behind us on Clinton hill,” said Susan.
Sure enough, a quarter of a mile away, not much higher than where they were standing, two hikers gazed at the wide plain and its rim of hills.
“Happen it’s a rally,” said Gowther.
“Ha! It is indeed!” laughed Durathror shortly. “Those are witches and warlocks, or I am not my father’s son!”
“What?” said Colin. “Are they the morthbrood?”
“There is the danger,” said Fenodyree. “They mingle with others unnoticed, and can be detected only by certain marks, and that not always. For this reason must we shun all contact with men: the lonely places are dangerous, but to be surrounded by a crowd would be a greater risk.”
Gowther shook his head, and pointed his ash stick at the “hikers”.
“You mean to tell me it’s the likes of them as we’ve to run from? I was thinking more of broomsticks and tall hats!”
The whale-backed Pennines, in their southern reaches, crumble into separate hills which join up with the Staffordshire moors, and from the Cheshire plain two hills stand out above all the rest. One is Bosley Cloud, its north face sheer, and southwards a graceful sweep to the feet of the Old Man of Mow, but, for all that, a brooding, sinister mountain, for ever changing shape when seen from meandering Cheshire lanes.
The other is Shuttlingslow. It is a cone in outline, but with the top of the cone sliced off, leaving a flat, narrow, exposed ridge for a summit. And three days hence, on that ridge, eight miles from where they now were, Firefrost would be given into safe hands – if the morthbrood could be kept at bay for so long.
“Ay, and that’s another thing,” said Gowther. “What are we going to do between now and Friday? It’s nobbut half a day’s tramp to Shuttingslow from here.”
“Hush!” said Fenodyree. “There are keen ears listening. The where and the when are all they do not know of our plans. If we can shake off these bloodhounds and lie hidden until nearer the time, we may reach the hill. Trees and running water will shield us best; and for a start we must try to lose the morthbrood spies in the wood that fringes Radnor mere. We shall keep to this lane until we come opposite the middle of the wood: there we shall enter and, with luck, come out at the far side alone.”
“But we shall need more luck to remain alone,” said Durathror, “for I fear that little escapes those eyes.”
Above their heads wheeled a cloud of ragged-winged birds. Out over the plain other flocks were sweeping in what, from the height of the Riddings, could be seen to form a very definite pattern, an interwoven net of such efficiency that any one section of the ground of, say, a mile square, was rarely left uncovered by any one flock for more than a minute at a time. And they flew in silence, the only living things in all the sky. The hikers continued to pore over the map, and to admire the view.
Fenodyree led the way back to the crossroads, where the old Macclesfield road, Hocker Lane, ran left to Highmost Redmanhey, and right to Nether Alderley. To Alderley they turned, and walked beneath the round shoulder of Clinton hill. Below, across the fields, was Radnor Wood.
“I’ll tell you what,” said Gowther. “Tom Henshaw seems to be as mithered with these birds as much as we are: he’s getten enough scarecrows anyroad.”
“Ay,” said Durathror, “and can you tell me, farmer Mossock, what need he may have of them on pasture land?”
It was as Durathror said. Every field within sight held a tattered figure with outstretched arms – even those under grass, and with cows in them.
“Now I wonder what’s up with owd Tom! He did say as how he’d been having queer turns off and on since before Christmas, but this is …”
“No time to linger,” said Fenodyree. “You will embarrass our companions.”
They looked round, and saw that the two hikers who had been leaning over John Carter’s gate were now walking casually along some distance behind, to all appearances engaged in nothing more sinister than knocking off the tops of dead fool’s-parsley with their sticks. A flock of thirteen birds closed in and began to glide in circles overhead.
“Are they scarecrows?” asked Colin as they continued down the lane.
“Mostly,” said Fenodyree: “but eyes for the morthbrood, every one.”
The road gradually converged on Radnor Wood until the two were running together, with only a low stone wall between them, and at a bend in the road Fenodyree said:
“When the morthdoers round this corner, we must be hidden.
“Now! Over the wall!”
Brambles were waiting for them on the other side, but they tore themselves free, and ran as best they could through the scrub and undergrowth of the matted fringe of the wood after Fenodyree, who was dodging nimbly over the rough ground and heading for the thickest patch of timber in sight.
At once the birds began to raise a great rumpus, but Durathror, bringing up the rear as usual, saw nothing of the hikers before the trees closed around him.
As soon as they were in the shade of the beeches the prickly undergrowth thinned out, and they made good speed, zigzagging through the lessening gaps between the trees and the masses of rhododendron. For a short time the birds screamed overhead and then they dropped through the branches and circled in and out among the trees, calling assuredly, deliberately, as though relaying information.
Fenodyree relaxed the pace to a quick walk.
“There is no need to hurry,” he said resignedly. “I hoped to find cover while they pondered. This wood did not favour the morthbrood in the elder days, and I thought the memory of it would hold them long enough for …”
His words were drowned by an outbreak of screeching above their heads. Instinctively they drew together, back to back, and the dwarfs’ hands flew to their swords. All round them birds were crashing heavily to earth: for ten seconds it might have been raining crows. Then the woods were still.
Gowther bent to pick up a tumbled mass of black feathers that had landed at his feet, but Durathror stopped him.
“Do not touch it!” he said. “They are evil even in death.”
He turned the bird over with the point of his sword. Imbedded under the heart was a small, white-feathered arrow; and at the sight of it all colour fled from Durathror’s cheeks.
“The lios-alfar,” he whispered. “The lios-alfar!”
Trembling, he put away his sword, and looked to the sky.
“Endil! Atlendor! It is I, Durathror! This is well met!”
“Peace!” said Fenodyree. “They are not here.”
“Are they not?” cried Durathror. “Ho! I tell you, cousin Wineskin, that our journey will be happier from this hour. If the lios-alfar are come from exile there is little we need fear between now and Friday’s dawn, do you not see?
“Atlendor, welcome! Airmid! Grannos!”
But for all Durathror’s shouting, nothing happened. He ran hither and thither calling, calling, but echoes and the hollow voice of the north wind in the tree-tops were his only reply.
“Thrurin! Skandar!”
Fenodyree shook his head sadly.
“Come away. The lios-alfar have been gone from the Long Wood of Radnor these two hundred years. They do not return. Come! They are not here; none but the morthbrood will answer your call.”
Durathror