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6 Whispers in the Orchard

      AS EACH DAY PASSED quickly on to the next, Marcel soon found he had been with Mrs Timmins for a week and the routine of life in the orphanage had begun to settle around him. That was the strange thing about routines. After seven, or was it eight days – he wasn’t sure – he felt as though he had been there for a year.

      Nicola wouldn’t speak to him the morning after they had huddled together over the Book of Lies, and she seemed even more wary of Bea. Marcel could hardly blame her, and in fact he was quietly pleased. It seemed to have brought her down a peg or two. She might have gone back to her haughty ways, but he detected an uncertainty behind her sullen glares.

      “She’s confused,” he whispered to Bea. “I’ll bet she doesn’t know what to think.”

      He felt sorry for her too, because he knew what misery she was going through better than anyone. “It’s even harder for her than it is for me. I’ve got nothing to remember, but the life Lord Alwyn put into her head must seem pretty real to her.”

      “Yes, you’re right. If she’s going to believe us, then she has to forget the life of the pampered girl that she remembers. That must be a hard thing to do,” said Bea.

      Marcel noticed the sympathy in her eyes. It was when her face warmed like this that she was easiest to see.

      But if Nicola was avoiding him, Marcel couldn’t seem to avoid Fergus, no matter how much he wanted to. Mrs Timmins threw them together at every opportunity, whether it was chopping wood or hauling water from the well. Perhaps she thought they might come to like each other.

      When she sent the older boys into the orchard with Albert to collect apples one day, Marcel and Fergus competed to see who could retrieve the highest fruit. But apple trees aren’t much good for climbing. It was clear that one of the pair would come crashing to earth sooner or later. The younger children gathered to see who it would be.

      Marcel felt a branch straining under him. He didn’t know whether he had been afraid of heights in his earlier life, but as he swayed precariously in the apple tree, he certainly knew he was now.

      He was saved when Albert came looking to see where all his workers had gone. “Get down from there, you fools!” he bellowed angrily. “I don’t know what it is about you two. First you ride wild horses like a pair of madmen and now you’re determined to break every bone in your bodies. Seems I’ll have to keep you apart until you learn some sense.”

      He ordered Fergus off to the woodpile. “As for you, Marcel, there are plenty of apples down the end of this row.” He tossed two empty sacks at his face and waved him away, calling to the rest of the boys to follow him back towards the house.

      Marcel wandered miserably towards the stone fence. It was the limit of his world and a reminder of what Lord Alwyn’s powerful magic had done to him. On the far side of the wall lay a stretch of tall grass and blackberry bushes that separated the orphanage from the dense green and black of the forest. Even the colours recalled the wizard and his robe, and as Marcel stood staring into the trees, fighting a deep despair, once more he turned the golden ring on his little finger with the tip of his thumb.

      He sighed and began to pick apples. He soon had one of the sacks bulging with the fruit he could reach from the ground, then, putting this aside, he climbed into one of the trees. He was still only a short distance from the ground when an odd whooshing noise caught his ear, not loud and lasting less than a second. It stopped suddenly when an arrow thudded into the ground only inches from the sack he had just filled with apples.

      The shock made him lose his grip. He fell out of the tree, landing painfully on his bottom, which had only just lost the bruises after his fall from Gadfly. His first instinct was to lie still. His second was to flee. He was about to do the latter when he realised there was something wrapped around the shaft of the arrow. It looked like the page from a book, lashed tightly into place with coil after coil of black twine.

      With a desperate lunge, he darted out into the open and snatched the arrow from the ground before retreating like a lizard to the meagre protection of the apple trees. There, he used his teeth to snap the twine, and instantly, the paper spiralled open in his hand. It wasn’t a page from a book but a letter.

       Marcel,

       Yes, I know that is your name and that you do not belong in this orphanage. I have horses waiting in the forest. Join me now. Tell no one and be sure you are not seen.

       From a friend of your father’s.

      My father’s! Marcel gasped. It was true, then. Everything he had discussed with Bea, everything he had guessed at and hoped for was real. He had a father and most likely a mother too, both living. He rushed to the boundary wall and readied himself to leap over.

      Be sure you are not seen, the letter had warned. He turned back towards the house and to his relief found that none of the other children was in sight. But at the last moment, he caught a glimpse of the grey stones that formed the very top of the tower. Termagant. The enchanted ring. He fell back into the orchard, shoulders slouching helplessly as his eyes scoured the forest with a longing that almost burst his heart.

      What could he do? How could he signal whomever had sent that message? All he could manage was to spread his hands wide in futility and wave the letter pathetically.

      Minutes passed, and he was ready to turn away, aching with disappointment, when he saw a sudden movement. Someone dressed in black broke from behind a tree. Moments later a second figure emerged. They were in the open for only seconds before they disappeared again behind some sprawling blackberry canes.

      “Marcel,” came the call soon afterwards. It was a furtive whisper, pitched to reach his ears and no further. “Marcel, don’t be afraid. Come with us into the forest.”

      In the same carefully gauged whisper he replied, “I can’t. If I jump the wall, Lord Alwyn will know straightaway.”

      “The great wizard!” came the deep voice again, clearly alarmed now. “He is here…?”

      With a glance over his shoulder, Marcel confirmed it. “He lives in the tower above the house.”

      This news brought silence, a silence so long that Marcel feared the men had backed away into the forest, leaving him to his fate.

      “Please, tell me who I am!” he called, as loudly as he dared. “If you are a friend of my father, then you can at least tell me who he is! Where is he, and where do I come from? Please tell me something!”

      The men had not retreated – or at least one of them had not, for after a further pause that seemed to Marcel to stretch out for a lifetime, a tall figure all in black stepped out from his hiding place so that Marcel could see him. That is, he let his body be seen, neatly dressed in a stylish woollen cape and splendid leather boots that came almost to his knees. His face, however, was hidden beneath a fine wide-brimmed hat topped by a large and jaunty feather.

      The man kept low, but even so, the dozen strides he took to reach the stone wall were measured and confident. A sword slapped against his thigh but the object that caught Marcel’s eye was the dagger tucked into his belt, the rich red of rubies glinting on its handle. He halted and asked softly, “Are you saying that you don’t know who you are?”

      “Only my name. Lord Alwyn worked his magic on me, on the night I arrived. I can’t remember a thing from before then.”

      “No memory,” the stranger repeated to himself. Still he hesitated, weighing this startling news in his own mind, as though it were a heavy stone he did not want to pick up. Slowly, he tilted his head back until the face, unseen until now, was finally revealed.

      An attractive face it was too, with a handsome nose and chiselled cheeks diminished only by the first shadow of stubble on its pointed chin. Standing to his full height at last, he was taller than any man Marcel could remember seeing. And there was no mistaking the proud bearing. This was a man whose orders were obeyed.

      His

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