by Paul Stewart
‘Wa-iiiiiii-kakakakaka …’
The mating call of a night-lemuel cut him short. Cowlquape ducked down for a second time.
‘Cowlquape,’ said Twig softly. ‘You're right to be cautious, for the Deepwoods is a dark and dangerous place. But I'm afraid you're just going to have to get used to the sounds it makes.’
Cowlquape nodded sheepishly. He didn't mean to keep reacting the way he did. ‘I think I need some more of that gabtroll's special tea,’ he said.
Twig smiled. ‘Perhaps that could be arranged. We've got the oak-apples.’ He turned to Goom. ‘Did you find any hairy charlock?’
The banderbear rummaged through the pile of fruit and roots with surprising delicacy for one so huge. He selected a stubby root with a topknot of feathery leaves. ‘Wuh,’ he announced, holding it up together with a bunch of sugar grass.
‘There,’ said Twig. ‘All the ingredients we need.’
By the time the moon rose, plump and bright, the four of them were sitting round the fire tucking into their tilder steaks and sweet rootmash, while the prowlgrins, apparently none the worse for their long ride, devoured the tilder carcass noisily. Cowlquape sipped at the tea Twig had put together.
‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘The gabtroll's was sweeter, but… not bad at all.’ All round him, the Deepwoods echoed with the rising crescendo of noise. Coughing, squealing, screeching … Cowlquape smiled. ‘And what's more,’ he said, ‘it seems to be doing the trick.’
Twig yawned. ‘Glad to hear it, Cowlquape, I…’ He yawned again.
‘Why don't you get some sleep,’ said Cowlquape generously. ‘I'll take first watch.’
‘I'll join you,’ said Spooler.
Twig nodded, too tired to argue. ‘We'll rest up till dawn,’ he said. ‘Make an early start.’ And with the old, familiar Deepwoods sounds ringing in his ears, he lay down by the fire, curled up and drifted off to sleep. Goom did the same. Spooler got up to check the prowlgrins.
Cowlquape crouched down by the fire and poked the glowing embers into life with a greenwood stick.
‘Who'd have thought that I would ever end up inside the Deepwoods, the ancient home of Kobold the Wise?’ he muttered. He laid the stick down and pulled the ancient barkscrolls from his pack. ‘Of all places!’
*
Far away in the floating city of Sanctaphrax, a cold, heavy mist swirled round its avenues and alleyways. Vox, the tall young apprentice from the College of Cloud, shuddered, wrapped his fur-lined gowns tightly about him and lengthened his stride. He was already late for his secret meeting with the newly-appointed Professor of Psycho- ffl Climatic Studies.
‘Out of my way, scum!’ he cursed, as an unfortunate sub-acolyte blundered into him in the mist.
‘S … sorry, Vox,’ the youth stammered, and Vox was gratified to hear the respectful nervousness in his voice. He cuffed him about the head, twice.
‘Just watch it in future,’ he snarled as, gown flapping in the icy wind, he strode away.
CRASH!
The ground behind him shook. Vox started with alarm, then spun round angrily, sure that the impudent youth had thrown something at him. But he was wrong. He stared down shakily at the huge chunk of shattered masonry which had been dislodged by the treacherous winds high above his head. It had missed him by a hair's breadth.
‘The whole place is falling to bits,’ he muttered bitterly. ‘Time was when an apprenticeship in Sanctaphrax meant a secure future.’ Several more pieces of rock and mortar peppered down onto the walkway, sending Vox scuttling away.
These days, nothing was secure in Sanctaphrax; the ferocity of the weather saw to that. Storm after storm had been blowing in from beyond the Edge of late, each one worse than the one before - thunderstorms, wind-storms, fire and ice-storms; great storms and mind storms. No-one had ever known anything like it. Repairs to the damaged buildings couldn't be made quickly enough, while all academic studies had ground to a halt. Something was brewing out there in open sky, that much was clear - yet there wasn't a single academic, not even the Most High Academe himself, who knew what.
‘And how can an ambitious young apprentice know who to make alliances with when the conditions are so unpredictable?’ Vox asked himself. Was the Professor of Psycho-Climatic Studies likely to prove any more influential than the Professor of Cloud in the end?
He paused on a bridge and, gripping the balustrade, looked at the clouds tumbling in from beyond the Edge.
‘That little runt, Cowlquape, had the right idea, disappearing from Sanctaphrax when he did,’ he muttered. Refectory gossip had it that the youth had set off with Twig, the wild-eyed madman that the Professor of Darkness had taken under his wing. Even stranger, the professor now had three more peculiar guests … Vox gritted his teeth. Despite his words, he had no intention of leaving Sanctaphrax.
‘Come what may, I shall turn the current situation to my advantage,’ he murmured. He traced his fingers over the scar on his cheek left by the bowl of steaming tilder stew. ‘And woe betide Cowlquape if our paths should ever cross again.’
*
A soft drizzle fell in the Deepwoods as the four travellers packed up the following morning. It dampened everybody's mood. Twig, Cowlquape and Spooler mounted their prowlgrins and set off. Goom, to save the strength of his prowlgrin, alternately rode or loped after them, the tether of the fourth prowlgrin wrapped round one massive fore-paw.
They continued through the dense, green forest in silence. It was no coincidence that, as clouds overhead grew darker and the rain fell heavier, niggling doubts began to gnaw at each and every one of them. They'd been lucky so far - very lucky - but now their luck had run out. They all knew that finding any further crew-members in the vast Deepwoods was an impossible task. The best they could hope for now was to find a village settlement, somewhere leaguesmen or sky pirates might visit to trade - then buy their passage back to Undertown. But out here in the perilous forest, even that was a formidable task.
Yet when the sky brightened and the warm sun burst through the canopy, their moods improved. Cowlquape breathed in the rich smells of the surrounding woodland: the dark, loamy soil, the juicy foliage, the fragrant fruit. It was all so different to the stale, smoky odour which tainted everything in Undertown.
‘How's it going?’ Twig asked him.
‘It's all so beautiful,’ Cowlquape said, with a sweep of his arm. ‘Especially now the sun's shining.’
‘Beautiful but deadly,’ said Twig in a low voice.
They travelled far that first day, eating the fruit and berries that Goom sniffed out as edible as they went. (The prowlgrins would have to wait until they put up for the night before their meal.) And as they rode further, Twig pointed out some of the more exotic Deepwoods creatures that he recognized.
To Cowlquape, each one sounded grimmer than the last and the hairs at the back of his neck were soon tingling uncomfortably. There were halitoads, with their foul, choking breath; feline mewmels, with spiky tails and poisonous spit; mannilids - sticky, brain-shaped creatures which hung disguised in bulbul trees and lived off the oakhens who came in search of bulbul berries. A rotsucker flapped slowly across the sky far above their heads, while a skullpelt - with its yellow claws and hooked teeth - dined on a quarm it had charmed from the trees.
Despite everything they encountered, however, by the time evening came around again, they had not seen a single trog or troll or goblin - no-one who might be able to help them. Twig seemed increasingly worried.
‘I know the Deep woods,’ he said. ‘I was brought up amongst wood trolls. They taught me never to trust the forest, always to be on the alert for danger.’
Cowlquape looked up from the oak-mallows he was toasting in the dancing flames of their fire. His mug of tea stood on the ground beside him. ‘We are going to be all right, Twig,’ he said nervously, ‘aren't we?’
‘Sky willing, Cowlquape,’ Twig replied softly. He turned to the youth and smiled. ‘Course we are,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Now drink y
our tea.’
On their tenth morning in the Deepwoods though, having still not met any creature who could help, no amount of the hairy charlock and oak-apple tea was enough to raise Cowlquape's spirits. The prowlgrins had gone.
‘I just can't believe it,’ he groaned. ‘I'm sure I checked them before I went to bed. They did seem jumpy - but I thought they'd be all right.’
Twig was alarmed. ‘Something must have scared them in the night and they pulled free of their tethers.’ He looked at Cowlquape. ‘Didn't I tell you to double-knot the tether-ropes?’
Cowlquape stared at the ground. ‘Sorry,’ he said, in a whisper. He looked up sheepishly. ‘So - what do we do now, without the prowlgrins?’
‘We go on,’ said Twig angrily. ‘On foot.’ With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Cowlquape saw fear in his eyes.
Twig set off at a furious pace and Cowlquape was soon puffing and panting.
‘Why can't we rest?’ he wheezed. ‘Or at least slow down a bit?’
Twig laid his hand on the young apprentice's shoulder. ‘You've still got a lot to learn about the Deepwoods, Cowlquape,’ he said. The fear remained in his eyes. ‘They might look peaceful and idyllic, but behind every tree there lurks danger - and we still don't know what may have upset the prowlgrins. We must find a settlement as soon as we can, or we will surely perish.’
‘But Twig, a few minutes’ rest can't hurt, can it?’ pleaded Cowlquape.
All at once, a series of piercing screams cut through the air. ‘Aaargh! Aaaargh! AAAAARGH!’
Up ahead, the banderbear was leaping about in the middle of a glade of long swaying grass, like a creature possessed. The oakelf was nowhere to be seen.
‘Wuh!’ Goom bellowed, as he scythed furiously at the waving green fronds.
‘What's the matter with him?’ Cowlquape gasped. ‘And where's Spooler?’
‘This is the Deepwoods, Cowlquape!’ said Twig. He drew his sword and raced towards the banderbear. ‘I told you - there is danger everywhere!’
Dagger in hand, Cowlquape followed close behind as they entered the dappled glade. All round them, greatgrass grew thick and long. Goom, up ahead, waved his arms and shouted at them. Even to Cowlquape - who couldn't understand a single word the creature said - the meaning was clear. They should go back. The banderbear was telling them to escape while they still had the chance.
Suddenly Twig began slashing all around him. ‘I should have guessed!’ he shouted back. ‘We're in a bed of reed-eels, Cowlquape. They must nest all round here. No wonder the prowlgrins fled. Protect yourself …’
For a moment, Cowlquape couldn't move. Where the tall grass ought to have been, there was instead a great mass of green worm-like creatures protruding straight up from holes in the ground. They had small deep-set orange eyes and, for a mouth, petal-shaped suckers which swayed towards him as he passed by, trying to attach themselves to his skin.
‘Get off!’ he screamed as, twisting and turning, he stabbed all round with the dagger.
As the blade came close, the lithe reed-eels retracted, sliding from view down inside their holes - only to pop up a moment later. Cowlquape swung his knife backwards and forwards. He couldn't afford to let up for an instant. When he caught up with the others, Goom had the oakelf over his shoulders and was beating a hasty retreat. Twig grabbed Cowlquape by the arm.
‘Hurry,’ he said, sweeping his sword round in a long low arc. ‘We must get out of here. The reed-eels are in a feeding frenzy’
Cowlquape didn't wait to be told a second time. With his dagger slicing wildly at anything that moved, he dashed ahead. The reed-eels were cunning. They plaited themselves together to bar his way. They slithered across the ground at his ankles.
‘Cowlquape, be careful!’ Twig shouted, and slashed at a loop of twisted eels.
‘Deepwoods,’ Cowlquape muttered. ‘Danger …’ He stumbled on. Beneath his feet, there was greatgrass once again. He double over and gasped for breath. ‘That … was … close,’ he panted. ‘I …’
‘Too close,’ he heard Twig saying. He looked up. Twig was kneeling next to Spooler's body, Goom by his side.
‘Is he …?’ Cowlquape said.
Twig nodded. ‘Dead,’ he said. ‘The fangs of the reed-eels have spread their venom through him.’
Cowlquape stared down in horror at the petal-shaped marks all over the oakelf s exposed skin; at his discoloured face, his swollen body. ‘Blast you!’ he howled, and threw back his head. ‘Blast you, Deepwoods!’
Twig pulled his young apprentice to his feet. He spoke softly and urgently. ‘Take care, Cowlquape. The Deepwoods have ears. Believe me, I know.’
Cowlquape looked into Twig's eyes and fell silent. He had, indeed, so much to learn about the Deepwoods.
Having buried Spooler deep within the roots of a lulla-bee tree as oakelf tradition demanded, Twig, Cowlquape and Goom set off once again. Their spirits were lower than ever. Twig cursed himself for not insisting that the oakelf return with the Skyraider. All round them, the forest seemed deeper and darker than before.
On and on they tramped. Up steep, grassy banks, through marshy flats, over hillocks and hummocks and rocky outcrops. Cowlquape was overwhelmed with an aching tiredness that made every step an effort. Brambles scratched his legs, branches slapped his face. His legs ached. His stomach churned.
Overhead, the sun set on yet another day. The sky darkened and the moon rose. Suddenly Twig stopped. He stood stock-still, a look of wonder on his face.
‘Shall I get some firewood?’ said Cowlquape.
Twig shook his head. ‘I don't believe it,’ he murmured.
‘Wh … what?’ said Cowlquape, his eyes darting round nervously.
Twig pointed to the ground at their feet. ‘Look! There!’ he said.
‘I can't see anything,’ said Cowlquape. Twig, are you all right?7
It's a path, Cowlquape,’ said Twig. ‘A woodtroll path.’
Cowlquape frowned. ‘A woodtroll path?’
‘Yes,’ said Twig. ‘I'd know it anywhere. The path has been flattened by generations of passing woodtrolls. See there, baked into the mud: it's a footprint. Look at the broad heel, the low arch, the stubby toes. Unmistakable. This is definitely a woodtroll path!’ He looked up at Cowlquape, tears in his eyes. ‘Once, long ago, I strayed from a path just like this. It was a mistake yet, as I came to learn, my destiny lay beyond the Deepwoods.’ He sighed. ‘Now I seem to have come full circle.’
‘You think this is the path you strayed from?’ said Cowlquape incredulously.
‘All woodtroll paths join up,’ said Twig. ‘They form a network through the Deepwoods - to the lufwood groves, to the market clearings. They connect village to woodtroll village. If we stick to this path - the path - we will come to a woodtroll settlement. And woodtrolls trade with sky pirates! We're saved, Cowlquape! We're saved!’
‘Well, what are we waiting for?’ said Cowlquape, turning away. ‘Let's follow the path!’
‘I just can't believe it,’ Twig whispered. ‘After so many years, I've found the path again!’ He looked up. ‘Hey, wait for me, you two!’ He stepped onto the path and hurried after Cowlquape and Goom.
The path wound and twisted, but never disappeared. With the moon shining down, it glistened brightly like the slimy trail of a barkslug. Often they came to forks in the path, sometimes to junctions where several paths met. At each one, Twig always chose which way to go without the least hesitation.
‘All paths lead to other paths that lead to woodtroll villages,’ he assured them. ‘We can't go wrong.’
Cowlquape nodded. Yet the further they went, the more it seemed to him that the young captain was taking them in a specific direction.
Suddenly Twig stopped. ‘Smell the air,’ he said. ‘That aromatic smoke is from scentwood. It's what woodtrolls burn in their stoves when they want to dream, and when…’ He paused and cocked his head to one side. ‘And can you hear that?’ he whispered.
Cowlquape listened,
and yes - there, behind the sounds of the night-creatures, was something else. ‘Music,’ he said, surprised.
‘We must be very near a village,’ said Twig.
They walked on a little further. The sound of sad singing voices filtered through the trees. Then the wind changed, and the lament faded away - only to return, louder than ever, a moment later. Deep voices, high voices, singing their own tunes yet all bound together by the sad underlying melody.
‘Wuh-wuh!’ said Goom.
‘I know this music,’ said Twig, a strange, haunted look on his face. ‘Someone has died.’ He turned to Cowlquape. ‘They are performing their Ceremony for the Dead.’
Drawn on by the mournful song, the three of them continued along the path. Left, they went. Then left again. Then right. Abruptly, through the dense undergrowth, the flickering yellow of torchlight appeared. Twig stopped in his tracks and trembled.
Cowlquape had never seen him like this before. Young. Uncertain. The years seemed to have fallen away, leaving the inexperienced woodtroll-lad within, exposed. His eyes glistened with tears and there was a sad smile on his face.
‘Twig,’ said Cowlquape, concerned. ‘Is there something the matter? Do you want to turn back?’
Twig shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. Til be all right. It's just that I'd forgotten so much. I grew up in a village like this one, Cowlquape.’ He peered ahead at the familiar woodtroll cabins secured high up in the trees. ‘I lived in a lufwood cabin just like those … Still, enough!’ Twig seemed to pull himself together. ‘Keep close to me. And if anyone stops us, I'll do the talking. Woodtrolls can be very suspicious about uninvited arrivals - especially on so solemn an occasion.’
They were on the edge of a clearing dominated by a huge lullabee tree from which hung a caterbird cocoon. It was in such cocoons, hatching places of the great eater-birds, that the wise ones of the village - oakelves normally - took up residence. Sleeping in the warm, aromatic cocoons enabled them to share the dreams of the widely-travelled birds.
It seemed as if every single woodtroll villager was out there in the clearing, flaming torch in hand, as they gathered round the tree. The music was coming from the midst of the crowd directly beneath the cocoon.
