by Paul Stewart
Refreshed and rested, the four travellers were up early the following morning, and taking it in turns to hack at the wall of thorns once more - first Twig and Woodfish, then Cowlquape and Goom. They made good headway and at midday, Woodfish announced that their ordeal was almost over.
‘Let me take over,’ said Twig, seizing his axe off Cowlquape. And he began chopping at the thick brambles like a creature possessed. ‘Yes!’ he called back a moment later. ‘I can see it. I can see the end of the thorn-bushes.’
Half a dozen well-positioned swings of the axe later, and Twig was through.
‘So far, so good,’ he panted.
The others crawled through the narrow gap and straightened up. Cowlquape looked around and trembled with horror. The relief he'd felt at escaping the clutches of the thorn-bushes instantly melted away. Before them lay waif country.
It was a dreary place, marshy underfoot, foul-smelling, and so dark that Cowlquape would have been blind had it not been for his three glowing companions. As he stared about him at the gnarled trees, encrusted with dripping moss and oozing fungus, which loomed from the shadows like fearsome monsters, he almost wished he were.
‘Where now, Woodfish?’ he heard Twig asking.
The waterwaif was crouching down with his large fluttering ears close to the ground. He looked up and pointed into the darkness of the dismal forest ahead. The heart of the Deepwoods lies in that direction,’ he said.
It was a hard slog through the cold, dank forest. The air was brittle with eerie stillness. There was no bird-song. No creature-cry. Every time a twig was cracked by a passing boot, or a pebble kicked, the sound ricocheted from tree to tree, and off into the darkness.
Cowlquape stumbled blindly on. His sodden feet had blistered and swelled. His face and hands were crisscrossed with cuts from spiny creepers he never saw until it was too late. Reduced to eating the bark and fungus that Goom selected as edible, Cowlquape's stomach cried out for food; proper food - yet he did not complain.
By night, they slept in makeshift hammocks fashioned from their cloaks and ropes, strung out between the branches of the trees. By day they walked. And walked and walked. It was on the seventh day that Woodfish discovered running water.
‘Look at it,’ he said, staring down at the tiny stream trickling through the centre of a broad river basin. ‘This used to be a raging torrent. No wonder we've seen no sign of life for so long.’
Cowlquape crouched down at the sandy edge. ‘So long as it quenches my thirst, I don't mind how little there is.’ He cupped his hands and slurped at the clear water.
Woodfish turned to Twig. ‘The running water marks the beginning of true waif territory’ His fan-like ears trembled. ‘They are all around us. I can hear them.’
‘I can't hear anything,’ said Cowlquape, looking up.
‘Yet, they are there,’ said Woodfish nervily ‘Waterwaifs. Flitterwaifs. Barkwaifs. Nightwaifs … Put your cloaks on, all of you. Raise the hoods over your heads to dim your glow. We must not draw attention to ourselves.’
‘It's so dark,’ said Cowlquape nervously. ‘How will we find our way?’
‘We follow the stream,’ said Woodfish. ‘She will lead us to the heart.’
‘But what if we lose one another?’ Cowlquape whimpered.
‘We'll rope ourselves together,’ said Twig. ‘Don't panic, Cowlquape.’
‘No, don't panic, whatever you do,’ said Woodfish. ‘Waifs will be attracted by fearful thoughts.’
Cowlquape groaned. Now, on top of everything else, he had to pretend not to be scared.
‘Follow me,’ Woodfish told them. ‘Stay close. And whatever voices you may hear, ignore them as best you can.’
Gripping the rope that was strung between them, the four of them stumbled on through the darkness, following the water upstream. Cowlquape fixed his thoughts on the stories he'd read in the barkscrolls and imagined what Riverrise might be like.
‘This way,’ whispered a voice. ‘It's over here.’
Cowlquape hesitated. He looked about. Two round eyes glowed in mid-air some way to his left, staring, unblinking. Woodfish tugged his cloak sharply.
‘Keep going,’ he warned. ‘Don't let them into your thoughts.’
But the voices continued. Sometimes tempting, sometimes pleading; always soft and seductive.
‘Come this way,’ they crooned. ‘You'll be all right. Trust us - please trust us. If you re not too timid. If you re not too scared.’
Ignore them,’ Woodfish's voice broke into their minds, calm and reassuring. ‘We must keep going.’
The eyes glinting in the invisible branches increased in number. Twenty. Fifty. A hundred pairs stared down at them as they stumbled on through the dark forest.
‘Follow us; follow,’ the voices sighed, and in their soft invitation, Cowlquape heard the promise of something he couldn't ignore. ‘Kobold the Wise came this way. Let us show you, Cowlquape.’
He let go of the rope.
‘Twig, Riverrise is so close. So close, Twig,’ whispered the voices. Twig hesitated.
‘Captain Twig!’ Woodfish's voice in his ear was urgent. ‘Do not listen to them, Cowlquape …’
‘But they're waifs, Woodfish,’ said Twig. ‘Like your good self. Like Forficule, a nightwaif I once knew in Undertown …’
‘We are not in Undertown now. These are wild waifs, and they are hunting us. They're hungry, Captain,’ said Woodfish sharply They're …’ He peered back along the line and grimaced. ‘Sky above! Where is Cowlquape?’
Twig looked about him, unable to see anything at all, apart from the gleaming eyes. ‘Has he gone?’ he said.
‘He has,’ said Woodfish, scanning the darkness. He crouched down, ears twitching. ‘Wait, I think I hear him. I… Oh, no!’
‘This way, Cowlquape, that's right,’ chorused the unseen voices.
‘Quick!’ said Woodfish. ‘He's still close by. You stick with me, Captain Twig,’ he said as he seized him by the arm and dragged him away from the river-bed and off into the darkness. ‘Stay close, Goom,’ he called back.
They stumbled and groped their way through the dark forest.
‘Calm your thoughts,’ urged the waterwaif. ‘I must listen.’
‘Kobold the Wise once trod this ground, Cowlquape,’ murmured the voices.
‘Yes, there he is!’ said Woodfish. ‘This way!’
The terrain grew wilder, more treacherous. Black logs littered the forest floor, impeding their progress. Bindweeds and barbed knotweeds slowed them down still more.
‘They're getting away with him,’ Twig gasped as the light grew dim far in front of them. ‘Oh, Cowlquape,’ he whispered. ‘Cowlquape.’
‘Wuh-wuh!’ grunted Goom.
‘Quiet!’ said Woodfish. He stopped to crouch low to the ground again.
‘Just a little further, Cowlquape. That's right.’
Woodfish shuddered. ‘We haven't much time!’ he said.
They bounded on into the darkness, Woodfish now on Goom's shoulders in front, crashing through the undergrowth, carving out a path for Twig to follow. Ahead they could see countless pairs of eyes, dropping down from the trees onto the forest floor and gathering in a circle.
‘Kneel down, Cowlquape. Rest your head. You're so tired, so very tired …’
‘What's going on?’ Twig panted.
‘I told you,’ Woodfish muttered. ‘The waifs are hungry, and they're closing in for a kill.’
Goom burst onto the scene. The waifs darted back in alarm and flew into the surrounding trees, hissing and mewling. All, that is, apart from the ones already attached to Cowlquape's twisted body. Woodfish shuddered. ‘Flitterwaifs,’ he said. ‘I might have known!’
Twig stared at the dark creatures. They had stubby legs, broad, membraned wings and flattened faces, with jagged fangs that jutted down at an angle from their top jaw. It was these fangs which were biting into Cowlquape's back, his leg, his neck …
‘Get off him!’ Twig roared. He drew his
sword and dashed forwards. He plunged the blade through the flitterwaif on Cowlquape's back and, tossing it aside, slashed at the one on his leg. Spitting and snarling, the creature flapped its wings and flew up into the branches with the rest. The flitterwaif at Cowlquape's neck turned and fixed Twig with its blazing eyes. The jagged fangs glinted. Twig gripped the sword tightly. He would have to be careful not…
‘… to sever Cowlquape's neck,’ the flitterwaif completed for him. ‘You wouldn't want to do that, captain! it said, and hissed malevolently.
Twig's eyes narrowed. Since the creature could read his thoughts he would have to act suddenly, to take it unawares … No! Don't think, don't think … just…
With a sudden swoosh, the great sword leapt forwards, flew down through the air and sliced off the flitterwaif's head in one deadly movement. Twig breathed a sigh of relief and sank to his knees. He hadn't even scratched Cowlquape's throat - yet Cowlquape was in a bad way. He seemed to be unconscious.
‘Help me move him,’ Twig called to the others. ‘Goom, can you carry him away from here?’
‘Wuh,’ the banderbear grunted, and picked Cowlquape up in his massive arms.
‘You can't escape.’ ‘You'll never make it!’ ‘Leave the boy behind,’ the flitterwaifs hissed furiously as they flapped around in the trees above them. They were ravenous. They smelt blood and sensed fear. Food so succulent was hard to find in the Nightwoods and they weren't about to surrender their prey without a fight. All at once, one of their number tilted its wings and dive-bombed. Others followed suit.
‘Aaargh!’ Woodfish screeched, as three sharp claws slashed at his face. He swung his cutlass. Twig gripped his father's great sword tightly. They took up positions on either side of Goom and staggered on blindly, stabbing and thrusting at the darkness - and as the flitterwaifs continued their frenzied bombardment, so the travellers’ heads were filled with the shrill voices of their attackers.
‘Give him up!’ they screeched. ‘Leave the boy. He's ours!’
‘What do we do, Woodfish?’ said Twig nervously. ‘We're never going to outrun them.’
Without saying a word, Woodfish crouched down and began heaping lumps of the claggy mud beneath his feet on top of one another. Then, reaching up to the youth in Goom's arms, he removed his cloak and wrapped it around the large shapeless form he'd constructed.
‘Right, let's get out of here,’ he whispered. ‘And as we leave, I want you all to think about how sad it is that we have had to abandon Cowlquape to his fate.’
‘Don't go. Not that way,’ the flitterwaifs complained. ‘Leave the boy, or you'll be sorry!’
As Twig continued into the darkness he did as Woodfish had told him, concentrating on what an awful tragedy it was that his young friend had been left behind. Goom and Woodfish were doing the same. They hadn't gone more than a hundred strides when the flitterwaifs began to fall back.
‘It's working,’ came Woodfish's voice inside his head. ‘Keep it up.’
I'm so sorry to leave you here, Twig thought. But we'll be back for you soon, Cowlquape. I give you my word!
Behind them now - and further behind with every step they took - the flitterwaifs were converging on the cloaked heap of mud. It sounded right. It smelled right. Yet the youth was not there. All at once, a far-off howl of rage echoed through the trees as the waifs realized that they had been tricked.
Woodfish turned and mopped his brow. ‘We've lost them,’ he said. The waterwaif knelt and listened again, ears close to the ground. ‘I hear water. We're very close.’
‘Close to what?’ Twig asked.
Woodfish gestured ahead. ‘The Deepwoods’ black heart.’
*
At the top of the Loftus Tower in Sanctaphrax, the Professor of Darkness was close to despair. The barometer needle was rising and falling, seemingly at will. The tacheometer was broken, as were the dynamometer and anemometer, while the fragile woodmoth material of the sense-sifter was hanging in tatters. Every single one of his precious instruments was being battered to bits. And if he was unable to collect the relevant data, then what was he to tell the academics and apprentices who were relying on their Most High Academe to come up with a reason for the sudden change in the weather?
He crossed to the broken window and, shielding his eyes from the searing blast of air, looked down on his beloved floating city. There wasn't a single building which didn't bear the scars of the ravaging storms. Statues had been toppled. Towers had collapsed. Debris littered the ground. And there were gaping holes in every roof where slates had been torn away by powerful twisters which had swept in from open sky the previous night.
It was little wonder that there were whispers going round the dusty corridors about evacuating the floating city. To remain on the great floating rock, so exposed to the incoming storms, seemed more and more foolhardy by the day. Yet, for the Professor of Darkness, leaving Sanctaphrax was unthinkable. It was his sanctuary, his home - his life. And he had the three sky pirates to consider too. Tarp, the slaughterer, and Bogwitt, the goblin, were adamant that they were to stay until Twig returned - even if the weasely Wingnut Sleet did not seem so convinced …
‘Oh, Sky preserve us,’ he muttered unhappily to himself. ‘Where is this all going to end?’
*
Drawn on by the sound of running water, Woodfish continued through the dark forest with the others following close behind. In Goom's arms, Cowlquape stirred.
‘I'm sorry,’ he moaned. ‘I didn't mean to … They said Kobold the Wise … They said …’
‘It's all right, Cowlquape,’ said Twig. ‘You're safe now. Do you think you can walk?’
‘I think so,’ said Cowlquape as Goom put him gently down. ‘It's all my fault, Twig …’
‘Quiet!’ said Woodfish. His fan-like ears quivered. ‘I sense great danger. We're not out of waif country yet.’
They edged forwards step by faltering step, each holding the shoulder of the one in front, with Woodfish leading the way. The forest was black and, with their hooded cloaks masking their luminous glow, the three sky pirates were invisible. Behind them followed Cowlquape, shivering with cold and weakened by the attack on him. Although he had no glow to mask, he missed the warmth of his abandoned outer cloak. A deep silence fell, as impenetrable as the darkness.
Then Twig saw them, just ahead - waif eyes glinting from the surrounding trees. He took a sharp intake of breath. How could they possibly survive another attack?
‘This way!’ cried Woodfish suddenly, his fan-like ears fluttering. ‘Follow the sound of the water. And don't listen to the waifs!’
Stumbling wildly, the four travellers carried on through the lurching forest, the eyes dancing in the trees ever closer, and fearful whispers invading their thoughts again.
‘You'll never escape! You'll never get away!’
‘Stay! Stay here with us …’
Twig!’ Cowlquape moaned. ‘I can't…’
‘You must, Cowlquape!’ Twig urged him breathlessly. ‘Just a little further … I can hear the water now.’
‘NO!’ came an anguished cry, and the water waif disappeared from view.
‘Woodfish!’ Twig cried.
The next moment he and Cowlquape reached the edge of the dark, boggy ground. The land fell away abruptly before them, steep and strewn with boulders. And there was Woodfish, his faintly glowing figure tumbling down over the scree, far beneath them. Cowlquape groaned with dread.
Behind, the intensity of the whispers grew to a mounting crescendo. The air trembled with flapping wings.
‘Wuh?’ Goom grunted. The bell-like sound of trickling water echoed up out of the gloomy abyss.
Cowlquape hesitated. ‘This can't be right,’ he shouted to Twig. ‘This can't be Riverrise!’
‘We must go on!’ Twig cried. ‘We must follow Woodfish!’
Before he knew what was happening, Cowlquape felt his arm being tugged, and he was pulled forwards onto the treacherous slope beside Twig. Down he hurtled, his feet slipp
ing on the sliding gravel scree.
All round them, the desolate howl of the thwarted waifs echoed through the air. Even they would not venture down into the rocky abyss.
‘Aaaaiii!’ Cowlquape screamed with pain.
His ankle had gone over. He tumbled to the ground, but kept falling down the long, steep slope. Down, down, amid a tumbling mass of rock and stone. Bouncing. Crashing. His knee struck a boulder. His face and hands were cut. His head slammed down against the ground.
Then nothing …
‘The water, Cowlquape,’ came a voice. ‘Go to the water, and drink.’
Cowlquape looked up. There before him, standing next to a deep pool at the base of a mighty waterfall, was a tall, crowned figure with embroidered robes and a long plaited beard. His warm, sorrowful eyes seemed to stare right through into Cowlquape's spirit. Every inch of him ached; his head throbbed and a sharp pain stabbed up from his legs as he tried to move.
‘You,’ he murmured softly.
‘Yes,’ said Kobold the Wise. ‘It is I, Cowlquape.’ He dipped his finger in the pool and wiped it along Cowlquape's lips. ‘The water, Cowlquape,’ he said. ‘You must drink the water. It will restore you. It is the water of Riverrise! He smiled. ‘So much awaits you, Cowlquape,’ he said, as he turned and walked off behind the waterfall. ‘But first, drink the water.’
The dream ended. Cowlquape stirred. And back came the pain. Every bone in his body felt as if it had been snapped in two. His nails were ragged and torn. Blood, from deep gashes across his forehead, trickled down his face.
Then he heard water trickling, and opened his eyes. There was a pool there. It was smaller and darker than the one of his dreams, and the mighty waterfall no more than a trickle. Drink the water. The words of Kobold the Wise filled Cowlquape's head.
