The God of the Hive - Laurie R. King [63]
Five minutes later, motion in the darkness materialised into the Green Man of the woods. “Come,” he said.
“One moment,” I responded.
He hunkered down beside me. The night was quiet again, and I was braced for the beginning crackle of flames. Instead, the torches appeared at the front of the house, and five shadows limped away, across the clearing to the path down which they had come.
I stood. “I need to see if they left my knife behind,” I told him.
“Why do they have your knife?”
“One of them was talking about torching your house. I wished to discourage him.”
He held my arm back with his hand. In a moment, I heard the same crackle of loosed branches I’d heard before, followed by shouts of pain and outrage.
Robert Goodman, hermit and Robin Goodfellow look-alike, chortled in pleasure. “Wait here,” he said. I heard him trot away. The window gave a dim light for perhaps two seconds, then went dark. Seconds later, I heard a faint squeak—the hen-house door. But why …?
Before he pressed the handle of my knife against my palm, I had worked out the meaning of that squeak: Goodman anticipated being gone long enough that his chickens would starve.
He grasped my hand, and pulled me away into the black expanse of his woods.
Chapter 34
Do you wish a motorcar?” Goodman’s enquiry was polite, as if offering me one lump or two in my tea.
“Do you have one?” I asked in astonishment. Puck with a motorcar?
“Theirs is on the road. We could reach it before they do.”
“Mr Goodman,” I said in admiration, “you have a definite aptitude for low trickery.”
He chuckled, then shifted course and sped up.
I was blind. Only the wordless eloquence of his hand in mine kept me from injury, if not coma: His fingers told me when to go left and when right; a slight lift of the hand warned me of uneven footing; a pull down presaged the brush of a bough against my head. In twenty minutes, I sensed the trees retreating and knew that we were on the cleared soil of a forest track.
Now he broke into a fast trot, pulling me along in childish companionship. It was terrifying at first, then strangely exhilarating, to run at darkness, trustingly hand in hand with a wood sprite. I could only pray that his attentive guidance would not waver. In eight or nine minutes, he slowed, and I became aware of the smell of burnt petrol: the crash site.
He stopped to listen to the night, then said, “We have three or four minutes. If I push the motor, there is a slope in half a mile that should be sufficient to start it.”
“Wait—can we risk a light?” I asked.
“Briefly.”
“I may be able to circumvent the ignition lock.” His footsteps went around to the passenger side while I felt my way in behind the wheel—groping first for the keys, but finding them gone—then contorted myself sideways until my head rested against Goodman’s knee, half under the instrument panel. He lit a match, shielding it as best he could with his body, and I saw that the motorcar was my old friend the Austin 7, which must have been a tight fit for five men and their local guide, but made my task easier. If only my mind hadn’t been taken up by the rapid approach of five angry men with guns … I pulled at the wires, followed their leads, and let him light another match when the first one burnt to his fingers. At the third one, I had it: A yank and three quick twists, and the car would be mine.
I touched the wires together: The starter spun into life. I jerked upright, slammed my door, turned on the head-lamps, and slapped it into gear. We jolted forward, and the woods exploded in a fury of gunfire.
Had it not been for the trees, the bullets might have hit us, but we were safely away long before the shooters reached the track. I eased my foot back on the pedal, and let out a nervous laugh. “A bit closer than I’d have wished.”
“Driving like that, we could have used you on the Front,” he said.
“I do hope Javitz and Estelle are in this direction? It might not be a good idea to turn around.