In The Grip Of Old Winter (5 page)

Grandma opened the back door
and Peter’s heart jumped. So much snow! It lay in broken banks that lined the
path where granddad had shovelled it aside, though a new thin layer already
covered the stones.

Grandma exclaimed. “Oh, my
goodness. Would you look at it?”

“A real white Christmas,”
said mum.

Opposite the kitchen door stood
the barn where granddad parked dad’s car.

Dad huddled into his coat.
“There’s a lot of snow on that old roof. It might give way. Have you got a
ladder and I’ll clear some?”

Grandma pointed. “Oh yes.
There’s a long one inside the barn. Do be careful though, Richard.”

“I’ll help with the fires,”
said mum. “Richard, can you carry the logs upstairs before you start on the
barn? Is there a shovel for Peter to give granddad a hand?”

“Yes, he left a couple here.”
Grandma picked up a wooden-handled shovel that stood propped beside the door
and shook the snow off. “That’s the lighter one, he said,” and she gave it to
Peter. “If you follow the path, you’ll soon see him. Don’t be cold now. There’s
some sausage rolls in the oven that are nearly done and I’ll make us all a hot
drink, too.”

Peter stepped onto the path
and the falling flakes stuck to his anorak and gloves and even the toes of his
wellington boots. A bush by the corner of the house bent under the weight of
snow that lay heaped upon its twigs. Ahead, granddad’s back stooped and
straightened as he heaved the snow off the path and to the side and Peter ran
to catch him up.

“There you are.” Granddad
wiped his forehead with his jacket sleeve. “Whew! Hot work shifting this lot,
must be at least a foot deep.”

Peter lifted his shovel.
“I’ve come to help.”

“Good lad.” He peered ahead
and squinted. “You see that gap in the trees?”

“Yes.”

“That’s where the track goes
down to the lane.” He took off his woollen hat and shook the snow away. “I’m
thinking you run down there and start clearing towards me.”

Peter glanced back at the
house. His bedroom window faced out to the left of the track and when he looked
back towards the trees, he guessed that the yellow flame he’d seen in the night
must have appeared over to the right.

Granddad muttered. “Not much
fallen under them trees. Not so hard to shift.”

“Last night, I saw...”

Granddad thrust his shovel
into the snow and lifted up a huge pile. “Off you go now. We’ll meet somewhere
in the middle.”

Peter swallowed. Did granddad
already know that somebody walked through the trees with a burning torch at
night? Did granddad
want
him to go and look?

***

Peter jumped onto the
unbroken snow and it crunched under his weight. He held the shovel in both
hands and took one big running stride after another. When he stopped to catch
his breath, he saw the huge holes he’d made.

I’m a giant and this is
the snow-land where I live. Everyone hides when I go stomping.

He took three more big jumps.
Nothing moved in the wood, no birds sang or squirrel scampered and when he
passed beneath the branches laden with snow, the immediate sensation of being
watched and of something waiting took him by surprise.

The fear that accompanied it
yesterday didn’t overwhelm him this time, for wherever he looked, nothing
unexpected appeared. The track dipped between the steep banks, its mud rutted
into frozen ridges, as it went down to meet the lane.

The snow, less thick here,
clumped in pockets inside hollows and between tree roots, blown there by the
wind.

He left the track and
underfoot, frozen leaves, brown and brittle, crackled. He didn’t know if he was
searching for something obvious, or to find evidence that the yellow light he’d
seen last night wasn’t his imagination. Boot marks perhaps, or broken twigs.

Leonor spoke about the light,
but she might have meant something different, something that only she might
see. If Leonor wasn’t real, then she might see anything. Granddad might know,
but because he didn’t tell, perhaps not. As Peter moved further into the
forest, the repetitious slice and thump of granddad’s shovel as he cleared the
snow, diminished.

He passed a fallen tree and
where the trunk had cracked, green moss gleamed. Just beyond it, a tree,
patch-worked with moss and twisted with age, grew apart from the others. Low
branches coiled above the forest floor. High up, the trunk split into two, so
its canopy of twigs grew downwards.

He glanced at the house. His
bedroom and this tree lined up, though the tree grew back from the edge of the
wood and that would make it difficult to see from his window.

The tree’s roots emerged from
the frozen woodland soil in contorted and writhing loops. Peter imagined that
they might crush and strangle any bush or plant they encountered, for nothing
grew around this tree for as far as its branches spread.

Propped between two roots, so
close to the trunk that it might be part of the bark, stood a charred branch, blackened
by fire. Soot smudged the snow that gathered at its base.
Is this where the
flame burned last night?

He glanced around, for the
sensation of being watched and as if something waited, flowed very strong.

In the distance, granddad
shovelled snow. Big white flakes drifted through the branches and whenever one
landed on the charred branch, it melted. It must still be warm. Peter dropped
the shovel. How warm? And he took off his glove and touched the branch with his
fingertips.

The light changed from day to
night then back to day. The tree contracted, like a film that runs backwards
and the branches shrank and shortened and the roots curled back into the trunk
and slithered under the earth. A bitter wind skimmed off a layer of snow and
blew it into his face.

All this happened as fast as
an eye blink and when he wiped his eyes clear, he stared, amazed, at the tree
that now grew no taller than the sideboard. He still touched the blackened
branch and he flicked his hand away, for the charred wood warmed his fingers,
but the heat increased and burned the longer he stayed in contact.

What just happened? Somehow,
more trees filled the wood and they crowded around him like a trap. A long
wooden barn occupied the ground where his grandparent’s house stood. A squat tower
built upon an earth bank rose higher than the barn roof. Beyond the barn and
the tower, a cluster of small huts might be a village, for chickens pecked in
front of open doors and a pig shovelled its snout through the soil.

No sight or sound of granddad
shovelling snow. Not much snow on the ground at all. It piled up on the
branches and as Peter stared, one shed its load in a cloud of sparkling
crystals.

Panic built in his chest and
he reached out to touch the branch, wishing and hoping to be back where he had
started when, through the trees, he heard a rhythmic
thud-thud, thud-thud
of
something hard hitting the earth.

A rider on a brown horse rode
along the track towards the barn, such a rider as he’d never seen in real life.
Like one of his fantasy games, where lords and princes fought evil men and
monsters for treasure and glory, this man wore a deep blue cloak, fixed at the
neck with a silver clasp. One fold of the cloak turned back, tucked behind the
hilt of a sword carried in a leather scabbard. Black hair grew to the man’s
shoulders and his face, set and stern, gazed straight ahead with intent.

Peter ducked behind a tree,
but the rider passed and, curious that such a man existed outside of a computer
game, he followed.

Easy to stay hidden with so
many trees to hide behind, but twigs that cracked underfoot and the rustle of
dead leaves that sounded so loud in the woodland silence made him cautious.

As he approached the barn,
the rider slowed the horse to a walk and, at the same moment, an archer
appeared on the tower, an arrow notched to his bowstring, ready to shoot.

Peter’s heart jumped.
A
real archer!

The archer’s voice rang out
loud and clear. “Halt, in my Eorl’s name. State your business or turn away.”

The rider reined in the horse
and halted. “My business is my own. I would see your Eorl and talk with him.”

The archer called down. “Your
name?”

The rider’s shoulders rose
and fell as he gave a loud sigh of exasperation. “You know my name, Tobias.
Hold this foolishness and tell Oswald that I am come.”

The archer reached out of the
tower and aimed. “I cannot allow you to pass. Turn back.”

The rider raised his hands to
prove that he held no weapons. “I do not come in strife, only to talk.”

The archer yelled back. “My word
is my warning.”

An opening appeared at the
end of the barn as somebody swept aside a large curtain and the rider’s
attention turned from the archer to the man who now stepped into the light.
This man dressed in an old-fashioned way too, with loose clothes that bagged
and flapped.

The rider pointed to the
archer. “Ah! Tell Oswald that I am here on private business between myself and
him and that I do not wish to present myself like some hunted animal stuck with
arrows.”

The man peered up at the
tower. “Hold, Tobias!”

“He must speak his name and
business before...”

“HOLD, TOBIAS!”

Tobias lowered his bow and Peter
heard him mutter as he stepped back from the tower’s edge.

The rider dismounted and
handed the reins across. “My thanks. It is unusual to experience so cold a
greeting at this manor.”

The man acknowledged the
rider’s thanks with a nod. “It is my Eorl’s wish that all who desire to pass
through his lands announce their purpose. These are strange times.” He gestured
towards the barn. “Eorl Oswald waits within.” He led the horse around the
corner of the barn and out of sight.

The rider glanced at the
tower and then with a rough shove, pushed past the curtain.

Peter’s heart thumped. A
different time, so very different from his own, yet the barn, that might be a
house - what did it look like inside? Who lived here with an archer to keep
people away?

He needed to divert Tobias’s
attention.

***

There might be another
entrance, like the kitchen door in granddad’s house. The trees thinned the
nearer he came to the barn, or as the rider called it, the manor.

Tobias, the archer, walked
with a slow tread around the tower. Whenever he faced his direction, Peter
crouched and waited for him to turn before he set off through the trees again.

A diversion might not be
necessary, for Tobias completed a circuit of the tower much slower than it took
Peter to dart from tree to tree. If he timed it right, Tobias’s patrol at the
front of the tower should coincide with his arrival at the back of the manor.

Peter ducked behind a tree as
Tobias appeared once more and as he waited, he leaned back against the trunk.
The excitement made him breathless, the difference of time and the changes to
the house made everything unreal. He didn’t want to go back, not yet, for
decisions here and now were for him to make and this new experience made him
confident enough to want to find out more.

He counted a slow ten. Tobias
must be out of sight and he edged around the trunk, then stopped and held his
breath. Away to his right, close to where the track must be, a man ran from
tree to tree, his stare fixed on the tower and Tobias.

A round shield hung across
his back and he carried a sword, the blade shorter than the rider’s, its sheen
dull, almost black, the same man that yesterday, Peter saw from the car.

He let out his breath in a
long slow sigh. Had the man touched the branch, like him? Why had neither of
them heard the other? What was he doing here?

The man crept closer to the
tower. He, like Peter, moved when Tobias’ patrol took him out of sight. At the
last tree, that stood about ten yards from the tower, the man sheathed his
sword and reached inside his shirt.

Tobias re-appeared and the
man stepped out from hiding, whirled his arm round and round above his head and
with a great cry, stretched out his hand and aimed it straight at Tobias.

A black stone or rock flew
towards the tower. Tobias yelled and ducked and a puff of wood-dust erupted
where the projectile slammed into a stout upright.

The man’s arm whirled again
and Peter saw the black sling he held, but Tobias notched his bow before the
man released his missile and an arrow sped down faster than Peter’s sight
followed.

The man dived sideways and
his hand shot up, so that he released the rock straight into a branch where a
large ball of snow dislodged in a flurry of white powder. The arrow hit the
tree with a loud
thunk
and quivered from the impact.

Tobias yelled. “To arms! To
arms!” His cry echoed through the wood.