Midnight Over Sanctaphrax: Third Book of Twig

by Paul Stewart

  ‘Very well,’ said the professor. ‘I can see your mind is made up. Go in search of your missing crew, Twig, and with my blessing.’ He pulled a leather pouch full of gold pieces from the folds of his robes and placed it into Twig's hand. ‘For your journey,’ he said. ‘Use it wisely. Now follow me to my study and I shall show you the chart I made the night you fell to earth. It shows the approximate position of the other shooting stars - if my calculations are to be trusted. A few fell not far, somewhere in Undertown. A couple fell farther off in the Deepwoods, Sky help them. And one - the final one -fell so far away that I couldn't track it with any certainty’

  ‘Show me, Professor!’ said Twig excitedly. He turned to his apprentice. ‘We're going to find my crew, Cowlquape. To be reunited…’ He paused. ‘Perhaps they will even be able to tell me about my father …’

  ‘Twig,’ said the professor sternly. ‘Go charging off on this shooting star hunt if you must. And indeed, I see that you must. But for Sky's sake leave the lad here, safe in Sanctaphrax where he belongs.’

  Cowlquape stepped forwards, grasped Twig's arm and faced the professor. ‘I'm sorry, Professor,’ he said. ‘But I too have made a promise!’

  • CHAPTER EIGHT •

  THE LULLABEE INN

  ‘Cowlquape,’ said Twig gently. ‘The basket will soon V^be here.’ Cowlquape looked up from the old barkscroll he was examining. ‘Trust you,’ Twig smiled. ‘We're just about to set off on an arduous, not to say possibly futile, quest and you've got your nose stuck in a scroll.’

  ‘Sorry, Twig,’ said Cowlquape. ‘But this particular scroll really is fascinating.’

  Twig smiled. ‘You're dying to tell me about it, so go on then.’

  ‘It's The Myth of Riverrise, Prof… I mean, Twig,’ said Cowlquape excitedly.

  ‘What, that old tale?’ said Twig. ‘Spelda, my mother -or rather the woodtroll who raised me as her own - used to tell it to me when I was a young'un.’ A smile played on his lips as his eyes glazed over. ‘Once upon a velvet blackness came a spark …’ Twig murmured. ‘Oh, how my heart thrilled when she spoke those words. Of all the many tales she told, The Myth of Riverrise was always my favourite.’

  ‘The spark turned. And the wind breathed. And the rain cried …’ Cowlquape read.

  Twig nodded. ‘And the sun smiled. And the first minute of all minutes came to pass,’ they said together.

  ‘You know it off by heart!’ said Cowlquape, delighted.

  ‘The Myth of Riverrise is told in every corner of the Edge,’ said Twig. ‘I heard it in the caverns of the termagant trogs, I heard it on board the Stormchaser - different versions, but essentially the same. What you've got there is the classic’

  ‘It makes sense of things,’ said Cowlquape.

  Twig tugged at the ends of the scarf around his neck. ‘Sometimes there is truth buried in the old tales,’ he said seriously.

  ‘Do you think, then,’ said Cowlquape, ‘that somewhere out there is the place where it all began?’

  ‘That the Mother Storm did strike the highest point of that barren, jutting rockland and seed it with life?’ said Twig. ‘Why not? I've seen many strange things out there in the Deepwoods, in the Twilight Woods …’ He fell silent.

  ‘What is it, Twig?’ asked Cowlquape, concerned.

  Twig was staring into the empty sky beyond the Edge. ‘There is something,’ he whispered. ‘I'm sure of it. Something I can't remember.’ His voice grew more urgent. ‘Something I must remember …’

  ‘Twig,’ said Cowlquape, and nodded behind him. ‘The basket-puller's arrived.’

  Without another word, Twig and Cowlquape climbed into the basket. Cowlquape trembled giddily. The basket-puller, a gnokgoblin, unhitched the rope and began winching them slowly down from the floating city. ‘A lot of weather we've been having recently,’ he said, and looked at them askance. ‘But then I'm sure I don't have to tell you two that.’

  They were being pumped for information. Like all Undertown-ers, the gnokgoblin was desperate for any explanation of the treacherous weather that, of late, kept blowing in from beyond the Edge. Twig said nothing, and Cowlquape followed his example.

  As the basket was lowered, Twig and Cowlquape removed their gowns and rolled them up, so that they could travel incognito. The smells of Undertown grew stronger, the lower they got. Pungent smells. Familiar smells. Roasting pinecoffee beans, burnt tilder oil, and, the sickly sweet scent that so many used to mask the stench of untreated sewage. And noises. The clatter of iron wood wheels on cobblestones, the banter and badinage, the endless bustle of feverish activity.

  The gnokgoblin brought the basket down in the artisans’ quarter - a sprawling hotchpotch of ironmongers, leather workers and glassblowers.

  Stepping out of the basket, Twig pointed down a winding alleyway to his left.

  This way, Cowlquape,’ he said. ‘We need to be methodical, so let's start by visiting all the taverns in the east of Undertown.’

  ‘But I'm not thirsty,’ said Cowlquape nervously.

  ‘Nor am I, Cowlquape. But there's plenty that are -traders, slavers, merchants and skysailors. And when they drink, Cowlquape, they talk. And when they talk, we'll listen. And maybe, just maybe we'll hear something. Stay close,’ Twig told him, ‘and keep your eyes and ears open.’

  ‘I'm a good listener,’ Cowlquape smiled as he followed him into the crowd.

  Cowlquape soon lost count of the inns, taverns and drinking dens they visited - the Running Tilder, the Rusty Anchor, the Hook and Eye - the names merged into one another. By the end of that first day, however, they had heard nothing! Weary and footsore, Cowlquape followed Twig out of the Redoak. Night had fallen long ago and the oil street lamps had all been lit. Cowlquape looked round, bleary-eyed. ‘Which one should we …’ He stifled a yawn. ‘… we try next?’

  Twig smiled. ‘No more for this evening,’ he said. ‘We'll take lodgings for the night and resume our search tomorrow.’

  Cowlquape looked round uncertainly. ‘You want to spend the night here in Undertown?’ he said.

  ‘We're on a quest to find my missing crew, Cowlquape,’ Twig reminded him. ‘We can't go scurrying back to Sanctaphrax every time we get cold or wet or tired, can we?’

  Cowlquape shook his head. ‘No,’ he said a little sorrowfully. ‘I suppose we can't.’

  They secured lodgings that night in a small, dark room above the Redoak. It was simple, yet adequate. There were two straw mattresses against the walls, and a large pitcher of fresh water in the corner enabled them to swill out their mouths and wash away the smell of stale smoke.

  ‘Goodnight, Cowlquape,’ said Twig.

  ‘Look for your roots, captain,’ whispered a voice.

  ‘What did you say? Cowlquape?’ said Twig. But there was no reply. Cowlquape had fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  They woke late the following morning and, after a hearty breakfast, set off once more. And so it continued. For three days - from noon to midnight - they trudged round the eastern quarter of Undertown, resting up for the night in the tavern they had ended up in when the clock struck twelve. On the fourth day, they found themselves outside a tavern - the Lullabee Inn - in a particularly rough part of Undertown down by the boom-docks.

  ‘The lullabee tree shares your roots,’ said a soft, sibilant voice by Twig's ear.

  Twig turned to Cowlquape. ‘What do you know of lullabee trees?’

  ‘Me?’ said Cowlquape, puzzled. ‘Nothing, Twig.’

  Twig frowned. ‘Well, we might as well try here,’ he said.

  Cowlquape looked up at the tavern sign of a Deepwoods tree with a broad knobbly trunk and fan-like upper branches. The artist had even painted a suspended caterbird cocoon hanging from its branches.

  ‘Come on, look lively,’ ‘ said Twig, stepping for- 1 wards. ‘We …’

  CRASH!

  A heavy log bench came bursting through the window to the right of the door. Twig and Cowlquape ducked down. Just in time, for the next moment,
a heavy barrel came hurtling through the glass in the door itself. It missed their heads by a fraction, struck the ground with a resounding crack and spilled its contents.

  ‘Like I say, Motley, accidents can happen,’ an angry voice shouted from inside.

  ‘Yeah,’ said a second voice menacingly. ‘Troughs can get damaged. Barrels can get broke.’ The statements were accompanied by the sounds of splintering wood.

  ‘And faces can be rearranged,’ hissed a third. ‘If you get my drift.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ came a fourth voice - a small and anxious voice.

  Twig and Cowlquape pulled themselves up and peered cautiously through the broken door. Three hefty hammerhead goblins were standing round the hapless landlord, a slight character with tufted hair and mottled skin. His body was trembling from head to toe. ‘Times are hard,’ he stammered. ‘Takings are down. I just d … don't have the money’

  Twig looked at Cowlquape, his eyes burning with indignation. ‘How I hate to see the strong picking on the weak,’ he said.

  Cowlquape placed a hand on his arm. ‘There are too many of them,’ he whispered. ‘You'll get hurt…’

  But Twig brushed Cowlquape's hand aside. ‘Perhaps I should also have left you to be beaten up by that apprentice cloud watcher,’ he said.

  Cowlquape reddened with shame.

  ‘It's OK, Cowlquape. You stay here if you want to,’ said Twig. ‘But I'm going in.’ He climbed to his feet and pushed the broken door open.

  The hinges creaked. The hammerheads spun round.

  ‘Evening,’ said Twig calmly. ‘Evening, Motley. A goblet of your finest sapwine if you'd be so good.’ He glanced round and a smile flickered over his lips; Cowlquape had followed him in after all. ‘And one for my friend here, as well.’

  ‘I … we're just about to close,’ said Motley.

  Twig glanced up at the cluster of customers skulking in the shadows at the back of the tavern, too cowardly or too inebriated to come to Motley's aid. None of them looked as if they were about to leave.

  ‘No wonder business is bad,’ the hammerhead said gruffly. ‘Turning away your customers like that!’ He looked Twig and Cowlquape up and down, and smirked. The dark-grey ironwood of his false teeth gleamed in the turquoise glow of the lullabee flames. ‘Take a seat,’ he said, pointing with a knife towards one of the benches that was still upright.

  Cowlquape moved to obey the goblin. Twig laid a reassuring hand on the youth's shoulder.

  ‘Sit down!’ roared the hammerhead.

  ‘Just do as they say,’ said Motley weakly. Til be with you directly’

  Twig and Cowlquape remained where they were.

  ‘Did I not make myself clear?’ the hammerhead growled between clenched teeth. The other two turned and made towards them, fists clenched and eyes blazing.

  ‘Riverrise clear!’ Twig replied steadily, and drew his sword with its great curved blade: the sword his father had thrust into his hands just before being swept away in the Great Storm. It flashed in the turquoise light.

  For a moment, the surly goblins were stunned to silence. Then they turned, looked at one another and laughed with disbelief.

  ‘You little pipsqueal!’ the nearest one bellowed at the young captain and drew his own weapon; an evil-looking sickle. ‘Come on then,’ he growled, sneering, beckoning, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

  ‘Go on, Tabor,’ the hammerhead with the knife grunted encouragingly. Motley seized the opportunity to slip away. ‘That's it!’ Stepping back smartly from the shadows, Motley swung his club, ‘UNNKH!’

  The blow struck the hammerhead on the side of his head, felling him like a tree and sending his knife skittering across the floorboards. It came to rest at Cowlquape's feet. Cowlquape hesitated, then bent to pick it up.

  The heavy knife felt strange in his grasp. Despite his father's best attempts to teach him, Cowlquape had never mastered the art of self-defence. He turned on the second hammerhead nervously. ‘You'd better just watch it,’ he said, as threateningly as he could. ‘Don't make me have to use it.’ His voice was thin and unconvincing.

  Behind him, the sickle of the third hammerhead sliced through the air. Twig leapt to his young apprentice's side, sword raised. The sickle struck it with a ferocious blow that jarred the length of his arm. He held his ground.

  ‘The uglier they are, the prettier the victory,’ Twig muttered. He lunged forwards ferociously, once, twice, at the two hammerhead goblins.

  The sickle hissed through the air again, low and from the side this time. Twig jumped back. The cruel tip to the blade missed his stomach, but snagged on the fastener of his hammelhornskin waistcoat. Cowlquape spun round and stabbed furiously at Twig's attacker.

  ‘Aaiiil’ the cloddertrog squealed, as the sharp blade cut into the thumb of his fighting hand.

  ‘Attaboy,’ Twig shouted out encouragingly. He raised his arm and thrust the sword forwards. It found its mark and the hammerhead's sickle clattered to the ground.

  Cowlquape kicked it over to the side wall. Twig pressed his sword against the hammerhead's neck.

  ‘Leave now,’ he said coldly, ‘or so help me, I shall finish the job off.’

  The two hammerheads exchanged glances. ‘Let's get out of here!’ one of them bellowed, and they both spun round and beat a hasty retreat. Neither of them once looked back at their fallen comrade.

  ‘Sky above,’ Cowlquape muttered. He held out the hammerhead's knife to Twig.

  Twig smiled. ‘Keep it,’ he said. ‘You earned it. That was excellent, Cowlquape,’ he said. ‘I didn't know you had it in you.’

  Cowlquape lowered his head bashfully, and slid the knife down behind his belt. Neither did he.

  ‘Not exactly known for their loyalty to one another, hammerhead goblins,’ Motley chuckled, as he hung the club back on the wall. He turned to Twig and Cowlquape. ‘Yet dangerous for all that,’ he said. ‘Thank you for coming to my aid, gentlemen.’ He righted one of the upturned benches. ‘Take a seat. You shall drink of my finest barrel - and on the house, of course.’

  Twig and Cowlquape sat down. Cowlquape was drenched in sweat, his hands shaking. He looked around the tavern for the first time.

  The other drinkers, sipping and slurping in the shadowy corners, seemed unaware of the recent disturbance. Some sat beneath the rows of hexagonal barrels set into the far wall like woodbee honeycomb; some hunkered on low logs by the drinking troughs. In the corner, the covered brazier glowed turquoise and echoed with the melancholy singing of the burning logs.

  ‘It sounds like lullabee wood,’ Cowlquape remarked unsteadily. He still felt shaken.

  ‘We are in the Lullabee Inn,’ said Twig, and smiled. ‘Takes me back to the Deepwoods when I was a boy. Spelda - the woodtroll mother I told you about - would put a lullabee log on the fire at bedtime. The mournful songs used to lull me to sleep.’

  ‘They sound eerie to me,’ Cowlquape shuddered.

  Motley returned with three goblets brimming with golden liquid. He sat down between them.

  ‘To your very good health,’ he said, and they all raised the sparkling sapwine to their lips. ‘AaaahV Motley sighed appreciatively. ‘Pure nectar.’

  ‘It's very good,’ said Twig. ‘Eh, Cowlquape?’

  Cowlquape winced as the pungent liquor burnt his throat and sent stinging vapours up his nose. He placed the goblet down and wiped his eyes. ‘Very nice,’ he rasped. He frowned and turned to Motley. ‘But aren't you afraid the racketeers will be back?’ he said.

  Motley chuckled. ‘Hammerheads are cowards at heart,’ he said. ‘Once bitten and all that. Once word gets round that the Lullabee Inn's no pushover they'll leave me alone - for the time being at least. And it's all thanks to you two!’

  ‘Oi, Motley!’ came a gruff voice from the far corner. ‘More woodgrog, now!’

  ‘Coming up!’ Motley shouted back. He climbed to his feet and wiped his hands on his apron. ‘No peace for the wicked,’ he said. ‘Give me a shout when you need a refill.
’

  Motley scuttled away. Twig turned to Cowlquape who was trying a second sip of the sapwine. ‘Take your time,’ he said. ‘I may as well have a look round while we're here. Chat to some of the locals. See if anyone knows anything.’

  Cowlquape placed the glass down for the last time, nodded eagerly and jumped to his feet. ‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘I'll come with you.’ He didn't fancy being left on his own in this rough, shadow-filled place with its strange mournful music.

  There were a dozen or so individuals in the tavern all told. Trogs, trolls and goblins: heavy drinkers with lined, leathery faces and blank staring eyes.

  ‘Greetings, friend. Can I get you a drink?’ said Twig, tapping the shoulder of a small figure hunched over the drinking trough. ‘Interesting weather we've been having.’

  The creature turned, revealing itself * as a lugtroll. He focused in on Twig's face. ‘What d'ya want?’ he snarled.

  Twig raised his hands. ‘Just a drink,’ he said. ‘And a little con-!’ versation. Motley! Fill my friend's trough here. He looks thirsty.’

  Several pairs of eyes looked round and stared at him blankly.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said the lugtroll. Twig had got his attention.

  ‘Like I said, interesting weather - strange rains, hailstones as big as a goblin's fist, all sorts of things falling out of the sky. Why, I even heard tell of shooting stars falling to earth right here in Undertown.’

  The lugtroll shrugged. ‘I ain't seen nothing,’ he said. ‘Just got off a sky ship from the Great Shryke Market. Carrying slaves we were.’ He grunted. ‘Never again! The noise was horrible - screaming and moaning they was, all the way. Can't get it out of my head. I came straight here to forget.’ He buried his face in the brimming trough and Twig moved on.