The blind bowman, p.22
The Blind Bowman, page 22
Marian watched him with concern. ‘Nothing’s ending, Robin. Nothing except the Sheriff’s reign.’
Robin leaned forward. In front of him was a depression in the wood of the branch, which formed a natural bowl. Canopied by vegetation, shielded from the sun, the bowl was full of rainwater. Robin reached out and stirred this pool with a finger, causing tiny tree-frogs to jump and chirrup.
‘This type of frog,’ he said, ‘their song is mesmerizing. In all my travels through the forest, and in the lands beyond, I’ve never heard it anywhere but here. In this particular tree. On this one branch. In this single pool. As far as I can tell, this is their entire world. And when it’s gone, it will be gone.’
Marian gripped him. ‘You’ve endured so much, and you’re still recovering. By tomorrow you’ll be fighting fit, and thinking more clearly.’ Her grip tightened. ‘We are going to win this war, Robin. You believe that, don’t you? Now we’re a true army, nothing can stop us.’
Robin offered no response, and finally stood. ‘You were right – I need more rest,’ he said, in a voice that didn’t quite sound like his own. ‘There’s a hard fight ahead.’
‘I’ll join you soon,’ she called after him as he headed towards the Sky Palace. ‘A few things I need to take care of first.’
He was gone. So here she was, all alone with the whistling of the tree-frogs. She gazed around her at the endless, silvery forest. Did the Sheriff truly believe he could lay waste to all this? She focused on Major Oak. A deep scar showed where it had been lashed by lightning. How many thunderstorms and wildfires and winters had this tree survived? How could man even imagine sowing destruction where the full force of nature had failed?
Cursing herself for pointless rumination – cursing Robin for provoking it – she stood and headed for the forest floor. Soon the Sheriff would be powerless to do anything; she and Robin and their outlaw army were going to make sure of it.
They had never stood a better chance, nor been so close. Soon – so very soon – they would bring his reign of blood to an end.
‘Marian Delbosque – where is she?’ Kit called out as he stumbled through Fortress Sherwood. ‘I need to see Marian. Do you know where she is?’
‘Hoping for a dance with the wildwood queen, eh lad?’ An outlaw grinned at him through broken teeth. ‘Tonight’s the night to try your luck. Anything goes beneath a moon like this!’
‘Where do I find her?’
But the outlaw was already stumbling away, arm in arm with a female warrior, the pair of them swigging from wineskins and beginning to slur a song.
Staggering onwards, Kit took a slug from his own wineskin. He hated this sap-wine; the acrid taste brought tears to his eyes. Yet he couldn’t stop drinking it. The more he drank, the thirstier he became. He had never known such thirst. And this itching – that too was getting worse. He scratched at his arms and his chest and his neck until his fingernails drew blood.
‘What’s happening to me?’ he muttered beneath his breath.
You know, the answer came to him. You know what this is. It’s happened before.
‘No – no! Not that. Not now!’
Gritting his teeth against these fears, he tried to focus on his search. He would find Marian. Then he would demand to take his place on the warpath. He was a warrior of Sherwood! Nothing and no one could stand in his—
His thoughts and his steps came to a dead halt. For a moment he could only stand there swaying and staring. Then he dropped his wineskin and groped for his shortbow.
Because here in front of him, their backs turned, were two of the Sheriff’s men. They were just standing there at the fire, wearing their black skull-helms and blood-red cloaks.
Through blurred vision, while his clumsy fingers struggled to nock an arrow, Kit watched the rangers laugh and joke. They tipped back their heads and began to sing. Through the blood beating in his ears, Kit heard it was a lewd ballad about the Sheriff.
Finally, his wine-muddled mind registered that these two men were outlaws. They were merely wearing the cloaks and half-armour of dead soldiers. Hissing in disgust, Kit thrust his arrow back into his quiver as he staggered away.
Now he saw that this glade was full of costumed outlaws. One wore an antlered crown and a gown made of bark and leaves. Others went masked as demons and devils. And several more wore the uniform of the Sheriff’s Guard.
How dare they? The Sheriff’s Guard aren’t a joke. What they did to us wasn’t a joke.
Before he knew what he was doing, Kit lurched up to one of these outlaws. Hissing between his teeth, he took hold of the crimson cloak and tried to tear it from the man’s shoulders.
The outlaw was a big, grizzled veteran – he turned and fixed Kit with his single eye. His mouth twisted into a snarl. No – not a snarl – a misshapen grin.
‘You want the cloak?’ the man laughed. ‘All right, take it easy – you only had to ask! It’ll look better on you in any case. Here – go and scare the girls with this.’
The outlaw had unclipped the cloak and was thrusting it towards him. Kit was backing away. Suddenly he could barely see, and the ground was shifting beneath his feet.
‘Say, lad – you all right?’ said the big outlaw. ‘You look like you’re about to burst out of your skin.’
The man’s voice warbled. The night pressed in from all sides.
You know what this is. It’s happening again …
‘No!’ Kit slurred, as the ground heaved. ‘Not here – not now!’
Turning, staggering away, he lurched out of the camp and into another, the firelight spinning. He scratched and gauged at himself, his fingernails leaving claw marks, skin sloughing from his arms. He tried to run from the itching and from himself and he scratched at his back and he spun round and round ever more frenzied.
‘Look at this one!’ someone leered. ‘That’s midsummer madness if ever I saw it!’
‘Gods, he’s a lunatic all right,’ someone else laughed. ‘Looks like he’s trying to tear himself apart!’
‘Has he eaten one of Marian’s mushrooms?’
‘Whatever he’s had, I want some!’
The voices and the laughter came to Kit thickly, as if he was hearing them underwater. They merged with the beating of the drums and the thumping of the blood in his ears and the fear whispering in his mind – It’s happening again, you’ll never escape it – and the shrieking of the night-forest, and the shrilling of the panpipes – while outlaws slapped him on the back and clapped and whirled a dervish of their own – while demon masks and death-heads loomed out of the darkness – while the firelight and the trees and the moon spun and spun and kept spinning long after Kit lay spread-eagled upon the earth.
Marian’s spirits lifted the moment she returned to the heart of the revelry and set eyes on Lyssa and Doghed. Just as before, the newlyweds were dancing cheek to cheek, apparently oblivious to everyone else. The outlaw chief whispered something in Lyssa’s ear, causing her to toss back her head and laugh. Just look at them. How dreadful could the world be, when it contained happiness such as this?
‘So – you two are still here,’ Marian said as she joined them. ‘Dancing is nice, but you know there are other ways to celebrate your union.’
Lyssa smiled. ‘You sound just like my beloved husband. I don’t want tonight to end, that’s all.’ She dropped her eyes. ‘Especially with – you know – where we’re going tomorrow.’
‘I need to talk to you about that,’ Marian said. ‘I have something to ask of you both.’
At this, Lyssa stiffened. ‘So then, here it is.’ She looked sullenly at Marian. ‘I thought we’d played our part. What now?’
‘You’re aware that the new recruits are staying in Sherwood,’ Marian said. ‘Well – they’ll need leadership.’
Lyssa looked up, her smile slowly returning. ‘You mean … you think that we …’
‘It would be a major sacrifice on your part, I realize that,’ Marian said, looking from Lyssa to Doghed. ‘I know you’d rather be on the warpath, marching through the night and lying for hours in ambush. But I trust you’d be able to console one another – somehow.’
Lyssa held her breath as she looked up at Doghed. ‘We can, can’t we?’ she said. ‘You’re always saying Aed wants to lead Baphomet’s Horde – so let him!’
Doghed scratched at his furrowed brow. ‘Sending my brothers into battle without me? That wouldn’t sit easy.’
He turned his gaze on Lyssa, and his mouth broke into a big, crack-toothed grin. ‘Then again, doesn’t a man deserve to be happy, at least once in his life? What place is the warpath for a young bride in any case,’ he said, as Lyssa threw herself upon him gasping with delight. ‘Just make sure you bring back the Sheriff’s head, eh, Marian?’ he said to her. ‘Call it a wedding gift.’
While Lyssa hung off the forest lord, whispering something into the stump of his ear, Marian walked away. She smiled ruefully. For all her meticulous planning and striving for control, ultimately there was no telling what shape the future might take. If someone had tried telling her that one day Lyssa Brekehart and Doghed McGee would be married and profoundly in love, she would have considered them moon-touched. She would no more have believed it than she would have entertained the idea that Alice White might come to betray her. But there you have it. Both those events had come to pass.
Robin had told her once why trees drop their leaves in the autumn; it was partly in order to survive the winter winds. Only by lowering their defences, and allowing the storms to howl through them, might they remain standing to greet another spring.
Perhaps, after all, people are not so different, Marian found herself thinking, unusually reflective beneath this midsummer moon. If we stand too proud and rigid, we will break. Maybe the best we can do is surrender to the elements, and weather each storm as it comes …
She raised her pace, suddenly desperate to get back to Robin. Perhaps it was seeing Lyssa so joyful with her beloved, but now she could think of nothing except curling up in his arms.
She swept through a glade where a knot of people were gathered beneath an oak tree. They were evidently examining something – or someone – upon the ground. Initially, she didn’t give them a second glance. But then the group began to break up. And as people drifted away, she heard snatches of conversation.
‘… still breathing … done all we can … he’ll live …’
‘Seen some strange sights on a midsummer’s night …’
‘… trick of the moonlight, what else could it be?’
All this pricked Marian’s curiosity, and she walked towards the oak. A figure was slumped, his back against the trunk. A drunken outlaw – out of his mind on sap-wine and midsummer ecstasy – what was so remarkable?
And yet the curiosity wouldn’t let go; she moved closer to the slumped figure. His head was lolling forward, so for the moment she could only note the colour of his hair, which even in the moon-shadows was a lustrous, foxy red.
Where had she seen hair like that before? Of course, that new recruit – Kitwald Thorne. The one who happened to look uncannily like Robin. With all that had happened since, she had barely given this boy a second thought. And why should she think of him? Why was she standing here looking at him now? She should walk away and never think of him again …
But then the breeze strengthened, rustling the leaves and stirring the moonbeams, and the young man groaned – and slowly raised his head.
And their eyes met—
And for Marian it caused such a profound shock that she physically took a step back.
This … boy … he was the same person she had seen before, mere days ago. Except now he was changed. His features were harder, his skin courser. Bristles of hair coated his cheeks and chin. He might be ten years older.
Above and beyond the eeriness of this metamorphosis, Marian’s mind was reeling with an even more shocking idea. The same idea that had started to surface when she’d first laid eyes on Kitwald Thorne. At the time the notion was absurd – outrageous.
But now, somehow, this person had aged. Which meant the idea was no longer so impossible. No – not impossible at all. The longer she stood here, with this idea feeding on itself, the more it made a twisted sort of sense …
Finally, she broke free of her shock – fury and loathing rising up in its place. Turning away from Kit, she stormed back through the bacchanalia, blind now to its excesses and immune to its enticements.
She found Will Scarlett in his own encampment. His two deputies were propped up either side of a barrel of ale. But Will himself was clear eyed and sober, sat in silent thought.
‘One of the new recruits,’ Marian spat at him without preamble, ‘by the name of Kitwald Thorne. I need to keep an eye on him. So he’s coming with us on the warpath. He’s joining your band. I’m not asking, Will,’ she said, as he started to object, ‘I’m telling. That’s what’s happening. All you need to do is get used to it.’
With that, she stormed away. But she didn’t head back to Major Oak, and Robin. Instead, she went to seek out her girls, suddenly needing to be with them more than anything else in the world. And all the while her mind twisted, and her stomach churned, and behind her eyes she saw the abhorrent face of Kitwald Thorne.
IV. First Tooth
Kit awoke without the slightest notion of where he was or what might have happened to him. Groaning, he stretched his stiff limbs. His head throbbed. He noted he was sitting upright against the trunk of an oak. He blinked. The sun was rising, the first fingers of light piercing the mist. Birds were singing, but there was no human noise.
Feeling dizzy and sick, he pushed himself to his feet, and he staggered away from the tree. Not far away was a firepit, still smouldering. Sprawled around it were a dozen outlaws. Several were still costumed in vestments or robes. One wore nothing but a devil’s mask. Strewn across the grass were empty wineskins and flagons.
Staggering among them, Kit recognized that some were White Crows. Others were Aks Arqua’s men. So whose encampment was this? How had Kit come to be here?
He stumbled out of the glade and into another, where he was greeted with a similar scene: bodies and clothing and goblets strewn everywhere. Again, the outlaws were of various bands, making it hard to tell whose homefire this might be.
He staggered onwards, his skull thumping and his vision blurred. He had never felt more disorientated – as though he had woken to a world spun upside down. Or as if he was opening his eyes for the very first time …
This thought brought him to a dead halt. He looked down at his hands, which were trembling. He lifted his arms, which felt heavy and unfamiliar. Half-formed memories drifted through him, as if emerging from the mist …
He lurched onwards, hurrying now, across another encampment where a few revellers were still drinking in the dawn light.
He followed the course of a stream until he found a woodland pool. Slumping to his knees, he leaned over the pool’s mirrored surface, and he peered down …
And a stranger looked back at him.
Except no, not a complete stranger. The person in the pool was Kit, yet not him. His fox-red hair was thicker and wilder; his gold-brown eyes were deeper in colour and set harder in their sockets. His chin and his cheeks bristled with beard.
Slowly, he stood, arching his spine and stretching his limbs with the uncanny impression that these movements were not even his own – that he was an imposter inside his own skin.
And yet, to his surprise, he felt perfectly calm, and whole. All his life he had lived with this affliction – this sudden and erratic aging. In years past, back in the village, it had caused him great anguish. Afterwards, each time it happened, he remembered fleeing to Tyr’s Grove, where he would hide for days on end, feeling overgrown and freakish, while Malcott and his gang hunted for him with renewed malice.
‘But this time it’s different,’ Kit said aloud to himself, staring once more into the pool, without flinching from his reflection. ‘I’m done hiding. Let others hide from me.’
‘Yes – yes. And they will – oh, they will!’
Kit spun round, almost falling as the world lurched.
‘Who said that? Who’s there?’
‘My own sweet cub – see how he grows,’ the voice whispered. ‘Yes – the old rhythms – the old strength – they beat within him.’
Again Kit spun, and again, the mist swirling.
‘Your voice … I’ve heard it before. Did Marian send you? Are you one of her angels?’
At this, there came a laugh. ‘An angel?’ the voice said, so soft and sweet it might have been the breeze playing through the whistling sedge. ‘I’ve been called many things, but an angel? Never that.’ Again, that laugh. ‘No, never that.’
There was a skittering through the leaves – the quickest of footsteps. Kit swung round – but still nothing.
‘Do I know you? What do you want?’
Once more, laughter swirled with the mist. ‘Do you know me? Oh, my sweet cub – I am you. And I wish only to give you this – a homecoming gift.’
A rustle on the far side of the pool – from amid the bulrushes. Kit crept towards the sound. More rustling, and a splash – the water rippling.
Kit prowled forwards, quickening his pace – and he leaped upon her hiding place—
And saw no one.
A yearling squirrel scampered along a branch above his head, and a polecat sat watching him where it drank, but there was no sign of human life.
Already, as he stood here, that eerie voice began to seem unreal – like a figment of his wine-sick mind – or like the memory of a dream.
Except – as he turned to leave, his gaze fell upon an object, half-concealed among the rushes. It caught the light and glinted like a jewel.
Going to his knees, Kit reached in and took hold of the object. He drew it into the open. And he held it up before him and stared.
The object was a tooth.
A tooth the size of a dagger.
