Before long, flames were flickering inside the wood-burner, heating the can of beans they had placed on top and the potatoes in foil slotted inside. Aira and Moll sank into the armchairs, letting the wall of heat seep right through them, and when the food was ready they ate silently.
There was plenty they could have said, but the events of the day and the journey across the moors had left them too tired for talk and, shortly after their meal, they flopped down into the bunk beds, heaping all of the blankets they could find on top of them. Moll placed the golden feather and the reel of piano string under her pillow in the bottom bunk, then she trailed a hand down to the ground. It was met, shortly after, by a paw.
Minutes later, Moll heard gentle snores coming from Aira’s bunk, but Moll’s mind wouldn’t still and she lay staring at the flames behind the wood-burner door, watching them dance and listening to them crackle. She thought of Siddy’s voice echoing on the moors and the possibility that tomorrow they might be together again – and for a moment her heart grew light. Then the darkness that had been lurking inside her since she’d come to the northern wilderness closed in and Moll’s mind wandered to the sprawling moors outside – to the wilderness pressing in at her on all sides. She shuddered as she thought of how far she was from the safety of her wagon in Tanglefern Forest, then she blinked back her fear. Why was she scared? She was used to living wild; she’d grown up among the Sacred Oaks, but this felt different. Something about the enormity of the moors made her feel suddenly fearful.
Look the wild in the eye and face it: those were the words Oak had said to her every time she’d got scared as a child in the woods and Moll clung to them now as she wrapped her blanket around her and padded towards the window. Gryff followed and, as Moll pulled the curtain back a fraction, he snuggled against her legs.
The night was close against the window, a cold darkness pricked with stars. And above the copse of trees the moon was a slice of silver that, for a second, held the silhouette of barn owl out on its midnight hunt. Wind soughed through the pines and Moll clutched her talisman as she tried to look it all in the eye.
‘It’s just moorland,’ she whispered into her blanket. ‘There’s no reason to be afeared.’
But these moors held cursed creatures and witch doctors vying for her life and, for the first time, Moll didn’t feel a part of the landscape around her. She felt swallowed by it. She drew the curtain, closing off the night, and tiptoed towards the wood-burning stove. Then she sat down on the floor, huddled inside her blanket with her knees raised up to her chin. The wildcat nestled up to her side and purred.
‘I don’t feel like me any more, Gryff,’ Moll whispered. ‘Crying in the tunnel, feeling afraid of the wild . . . Ever since we came north, things have been collapsing.’
Gryff may not have had words to reply with, but he felt the loneliness inside Moll. He knew her as well as he knew himself and he understood that where grit and certainty had been there was something wavering, something desperately vulnerable, so he answered the only way he knew how: by placing two heavy paws on Moll’s legs and nudging his head below her chin.
Moll felt the closeness of their bond. She might not have Alfie or Siddy or even Domino by her side, but she still had Gryff, and for now that was enough. She drew back the blanket, folded the wildcat inside with her, and for a while longer they just sat before the fire, watching the logs burn and wishing they were tucked up together in their wagon in Tanglefern forest.
Aira had been surprised to find Moll and Gryff curled up before the embers of the fire in the morning, but she hadn’t probed and, after a quick bowl of porridge and a mug of heather tea, she and Moll mounted the highland ponies and urged them out on to the snow-scattered moors.
The sun rose behind them, bathing whole hillsides pink and glinting off the snow that flicked up from the ponies’ hooves. Moll and Aira spurred Salt and Pepper over burns and through marshes and, after some time, they found a path that ran between a tumbled stone wall on one side and a bank of heather on the other. The ponies rushed up it, side by side, and, by the time they reached the summit, they were foaming at the bit. Moll and Aira reined them into a walk, but, as Moll looked up at the view in front of her, at what lay beyond the track that wound down off the moors, she gasped. It was the sea – and great mounds of land rose up from the water, dotted beyond the coastline like fragments of forgotten countries.
‘The Lost Isles,’ Aira said.
Moll’s and Gryff’s eyes travelled over them. Some of the islands were tiny and uninhabited – rocky outcrops with a few straggly trees – while others were larger and covered in frosted slopes where highland cows grazed and cottages lined wiggling tracks. And then there were the ones that burst out of the sea into jagged mountains tipped with snow. Moll marvelled at them all; it was like stumbling upon a secret kingdom.
Aira pointed to one of the closest islands – a small outcrop joined to the mainland by a humpback bridge. There was only one thing on the island, but it rose up in a jumble of stone turrets, gables and ramparts and Moll knew exactly what it was.
‘That’s Greystone, isn’t it?’
Aira nodded. ‘And Siddy’s inside.’
Moll dug her heels into Pepper’s flanks. ‘Let’s go before—’
Gryff turned suddenly and Moll’s shoulders stiffened. ‘What is it?’
The wildcat’s ears were cocked towards the way they’d come and, as Moll wheeled Pepper round, her own ears snagged on what Gryff had heard: the pounding of a horse’s hooves. Aira slid a hand to her crossbow and Moll reached for an arrow as a figure on horseback rode through the sunlight towards them.
Moll’s heart thumped. What if this was the Night Spinner . . .?
Aira squinted. ‘That’s – that’s Spud!’
Spud was galloping towards them, kilt flapping in the wind, ginger hair bouncing around his shoulders, and Aira threw up her hand and waved. But, as he drew closer, her expression changed.
Spud pulled up his horse in front of them, his face racked with worry. ‘I came as soon as I could,’ he panted. ‘I followed your tracks in the snow.’
Aira leant forward. ‘What’s happened?’
‘It’s Angus – and Moll’s friend, Domino.’
Moll flinched. How had Spud come across Domino?
‘They’re not in a good way.’
‘What’s happened?’ Aira asked again.
‘Apparently they’d been rebuilding the cottages in Glendrummie, helping those poisoned by the Veil and speaking to people about the old magic and its power over the Shadowmasks. Spirits had lifted a bit and those still fit and healthy had vowed to journey past the North Door with Angus and Domino to help Moll find the last amulet.’ Spud shook his head. ‘But the witch doctors must have sensed the threat . . .’
Moll’s stomach churned and Aira raised a hand to her mouth.
‘The Shadowmasks sent a storm bigger than anything Glendrummie has ever seen,’ Spud explained. ‘The village was flattened by the winds, some of the people were killed and Angus and Domino . . .’
Moll felt the landscape around her spin.
‘They’re alive,’ Spud said, though from his face Moll could tell there was more. ‘When we saw the storm brewing, we rode out to the village and found the survivors fleeing south.’ He paused. ‘Morag recognised us and asked the Highland Watch to take her, Angus and the twins to the safety of Fillie Crankie. She vouched for Domino too, because he couldn’t speak for himself, and—’
Moll leant forward. ‘What’s happened to him?’
Spud shifted in his saddle. ‘The Night Spinner came in the midst of the storm – in daylight this time – and Morag said Angus and Domino tried to fight, but the Veil crept in and closed round them both.’
A chill rippled through Moll and Aira’s eyes shone with tears.
‘My brother,’ Aira gasped, ‘poisoned by the Veil . . .’
Spud hung his head. ‘I’m so sorry, Aira.’
Moll swallowed as she thought o
f Domino, the boy she loved like an older brother, and Angus, with his steadfast faith in the old magic. How could both these men be trapped under the Night Spinner’s curse?
‘When we were riding to Fillie Crankie, we thought we could keep Domino and Angus going,’ Spud said, ‘just like they managed to do with the sick villagers. Both of them were crying out as if the forces of the old magic and the darkness were fighting inside them, but then their words – they – they stopped.’
Aira raised a hand to her mouth. ‘Stopped?’
Spud nodded. ‘They haven’t said a word since we arrived at Fillie Crankie last night. They won’t eat or drink. It’s as if something inside them has given up. We don’t know what to do, Aira. If we don’t find a cure in the next few days, then . . .’
Moll wanted to rush back with Spud and fling her arms round Domino, but she knew it wouldn’t fix what the Shadowmasks had done. She gripped Pepper’s reins to stop herself from shaking. ‘I – I need to find the amulet,’ she said. ‘It’s the only thing that can destroy the Night Spinner and his Veil and stop the eternal night.’
Aira glanced down at Greystone, then back to Spud until finally her eyes rested on Moll. She went to speak, but Moll knew what Aira would say, knew she’d go on with Moll if she asked. But one of them needed to find a cure – even if it was only temporary until Moll found the amulet – for Angus and Domino, and all those on the brink of death. So Moll spoke the words to stop Aira having to.
‘Go back with Spud,’ she said.
Aira shook her head. ‘I can’t leave you and Gryff alone out here.’
Moll nodded towards Greystone. ‘We won’t be alone soon. Sid’s there. I know he is. Your brother and Domino need you more – you have to find a way to help them before it’s too late and the darkness drowns them completely.’ She bit her lip. ‘And we both know where you’ll find it.’
‘Kittlerumpit,’ Aira said. ‘If there’s anyone who has an antidote for dark curses, it will be him. And the Shadowmasks won’t expect me to go back there.’
‘Return with Spud and make that horrible goblin give you a cure,’ Moll said. ‘And look after Domino for me. Tell him the stories of the old magic – make him believe again.’
Aira nudged her pony up to Pepper, then reached over and clutched Moll’s hands. ‘I’ve never met anyone like you, lass.’ She smiled. ‘I want you to remember what I told you: however small you feel, I know the toughness of your soul. I see your fight.’ She lifted something over her head – a whistle carved from an antler on a length of string – and pressed it into Moll’s gloves. ‘This was handed down to my ancestors thousands of years ago from the giants up in the mountains – the folk who were there when the old magic first turned.’
She looked into Moll’s eyes. ‘See this whistle as a promise. If you need help from the old magic, blow it and it will come.’ Then Aira picked up a ram’s horn she’d tied to her pony’s saddle, set her lips against it and blew. The sound blared, sharp and loud, and its echo drifted across the moors. ‘And, when you hear that sound, you’ll know that I have come for you.’ Aira leant forward boldly this time and wrapped her arms round Moll.
Moll closed her eyes. ‘Thank you for coming with me this far,’ she said. ‘And for believing in me.’
Aira squeezed tight. ‘The Highland Watch never leave anyone behind.’
Moll turned Pepper away from the group, dug her heels in hard and, with Gryff by her side, she rode down the track towards the Lost Isles.
The sun was high in the sky now, winking off the icy bracken that poked through the heather either side of the track. Moll could tell Pepper was uneasy about breaking off from the others, but she urged the pony on, clicking her tongue and gripping his flanks with her legs. They followed the moors down to where the bracken petered out and a dirt road running parallel to the coastline began. It curved round a bend to her left, out of sight, but to her right it led straight on past a humpback bridge a mile or so further up the road and, although Pepper yanked his neck back round to the moors and whinnied, Moll edged him on to the track.
They hadn’t taken more than a few strides before a cart rumbled round the bend and Pepper reared up, sending Moll crashing down into the bracken. She grappled for the reins, but Pepper shied, then bolted back towards the moors and Moll cursed as she remembered Aira’s words about the highland ponies: The only time you’ve got to watch them is if they leave the moors because they get spooked by carts and cottages. She watched as Pepper galloped further and further up the path, but she didn’t have time to go after him because the cart was drawing near. Gryff sank his teeth into Moll’s coat, tugging her down into the bracken with him, and then they waited, Moll’s heart throbbing as she peered through the ferns.
The cart was filled with crates of vegetables, sacks of potatoes and a large bundle of firewood and, to Moll’s surprise, a boy a few years younger than her sat up front behind the horse, his legs tucked beneath a blanket. Moll crouched lower in the bracken as he pulled the cart to a stop beside them. The boy was bundled up in an overcoat and a scarf, but beneath his woollen hat she could make out two dark eyes and a shock of white-blond hair. Moll considered him. He looked perfectly harmless, but Kittlerumpit the goblin hadn’t looked much either, so Moll didn’t want to take any chances.
The boy narrowed his eyes in Moll’s direction. ‘I see you can,’ he said, then he shook his head as if he’d realised there was something not quite right about his words. He tried again. ‘I can see you.’
Moll said nothing and kept absolutely still beside Gryff. The boy said nothing also and, just as Moll was contemplating flinging herself out into the road with her catapult in one hand and her bow in the other, the boy spoke again.
‘Are you who?’
Moll could feel the beads of sweat inching down her back. She was unsure of the boy – she knew that strangers were often not to be trusted – and she couldn’t work out why he was speaking in such a jumbled way.
The boy smacked his head. ‘I mean, WHO ARE YOU?’
Moll stood up slowly, her bow raised. Beside her, Gryff bared his teeth.
‘The question,’ she growled, setting an arrow to her string, ‘is who are you?’
The boy backed up in his seat. ‘A-a-am I Bruce?’ he stammered.
Moll’s squinted, but she kept her bow raised to her chin. ‘I don’t know. You tell me. Are you Bruce?’
The boy nodded hastily. ‘Yes, yes. I AM BRUCE. I’m not much good with words. Better with food. I’m the book – the COOK – up at Greystone.’ He reddened. ‘Sorry – it’s worse when I meet new people.’
‘Greystone,’ Moll muttered. ‘Is that where you’re going now?’
‘No. I mean, YES.’ Bruce threw his hands up. ‘Can you put your bow and arrow down, please? It’s putting me off!’
Gryff snarled beside Moll. He didn’t seem to trust the boy, but Moll could see Greystone now. She was so close to Siddy.
She lowered her bow. ‘I’m meeting someone at Greystone,’ she said evenly.
Bruce’s eyes lit up. ‘Siddy? You’re meeting Siddy, aren’t you?’
Moll’s heart skipped a beat.
Bruce smiled. ‘Mrs Grey ate him for breakfast.’
‘WHAT?’ Moll spat.
‘Oh, no! I mean, he’s HAVING BREAKFAST WITH MRS GREY. That’s what I mean.’
Moll breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Who’s Mrs Grey?’
Bruce was silent for a moment, as if planning his words very carefully. ‘She inherited the castle years ago. Keeps herself to herself, but she’s got a good heart and she believes in the old magic. She’s spent the last month trying to come up with ways to destroy the quail – I mean, VEIL – and she knows the wind spirits in the north better than anyone. When they whispered of a boy lost on the moors, she commanded them to bring him here.’
Bruce beamed, clearly pleased with his string of successful sentences. ‘You’re Moll, aren’t you? Siddy speaks about you a lot.’
Moll nodded.
Moll raised an eyebrow. ‘That would be awful.’
Bruce shook his head and looked rather glum. ‘I meant to ask if you’d LIKE A LIFT?’
Moll glanced at Gryff who eyed Bruce up and down, then reluctantly slunk round the back of the cart and leapt up between the crates. Moll clambered in after him and Bruce spurred his horse on.
‘Come far?’ the boy asked, craning his neck round.
Moll thought about it. She’d ridden north as a stowaway on a train, braved a gorge full of witches, survived moors full of peatboggers and escaped a goblin’s lair.
‘Quite far,’ she mumbled.
Bruce shrugged. ‘I’m local. Born on the Lost Isles.’
He turned back to his horse and started whistling and, after a while, the cart veered left on to the humpback bridge. Moll’s gaze fell upon the castle looming in front: a square fortress with ramparts skirting the highest level and four turrets rising from each corner. The cart crept closer still and Moll took in the tall windows lining the façade and the large wooden door, criss-crossed with iron bands. And then she heard a sound that set her heart reeling.
‘Moll! Moll!’
It was Siddy. Not an echo of his voice trapped in a knot of wind. This was him, right here on the Lost Isles, and, as he cried out again, Moll’s face broke into a grin.
‘Sid!’ she yelled. ‘I’m here!’
She scrambled down from the cart with Gryff before Bruce had even pulled it to a stop, then she darted towards the door and rapped the brass knocker. She waited, hopping from foot to foot at the thought of seeing Siddy, but no one came. She knocked again. Still no answer. Then she turned round to find that Bruce and his cart were nowhere to be seen.
Gryff’s hackles rose. Something didn’t feel right. They’d heard Siddy cry out just a moment ago and yet no one had come to the door. Moll followed Gryff’s gaze, back towards the shore, and gasped.
‘How on earth . . .?’
The Night Spinner Page 12
