Ottilie Colter and the Narroway Hunt

by Rhiannon Williams

  As if things weren’t bad enough, Wrangler Morse announced that the trials would run over four days – one day for each squad. Their squad was last and they would be confined to their corridor until the final day to prevent them from copying the earlier fledges’ tactics.

  ‘So, that means three long days of waiting, but lots of time to ready your head,’ said Wrangler Morse, hitching an unconvincing smile onto his red-bearded face. He cleared his throat loudly. ‘Right, let’s get to work.’

  He had replaced their usual targets with jivvie-sized grain bags that hung from a rope. They were grey, to match the wall, which made them much harder to see, let alone hit, and on a breezy day they shifted a little, creating an introductory moving target. Ottilie’s aim had improved considerably, and despite the increase in difficulty she almost always nicked the edge at least, with the majority of her shots creeping towards the centre.

  Wrangler Voilies informed them that, despite the fact they had been shifted back three times, they were still standing pitifully close to their targets. Ottilie didn’t care. Every time her arrow hit the bag, her confidence grew. She was determined to be good at this – to be good at anything. She longed to be as good as Preddy, who was retrieving his arrow from the centre of his bag.

  ‘Don’t look so smug, Preddy. Just try to beat me with a cutlass!’ said Gully.

  Gully was a natural with a blade, and although the bow would be more effective during the trials, Ottilie had seen how a cutlass could be used against a flying dredretch. She was terrible with her cutlass. Her wrists were stiff, elbows awkward, fingers clumsy, and she was showing very little sign of improvement. Her only comfort was that Preddy was worse.

  ‘My father always said it was vulgar to move close to make the kill. He didn’t like spears either,’ said Preddy.

  ‘You’re vulgar,’ said Scoot, grouchily collecting his arrow from the grain bag three rows over from his own.

  ‘All right! Quiet!’ called Wrangler Voilies. ‘Well, generally I am pleased. Most of you are improving at a reasonable pace, with a few notable exceptions.’ His gaze fell upon Scoot.

  ‘I’m good at the cutlass,’ muttered Scoot. ‘Gulliver can’t shoot either!’

  ‘What was that, Mr Scoot?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Scoot.

  ‘I can shoot better than you can,’ whispered Gully.

  ‘Obviously, in the trials your targets will be much more difficult to hit, as they will not only be moving, but most likely plummeting towards your eyeballs.’

  Ottilie blinked.

  ‘So, onto moving targets. Bacon here is going to throw these balls into the air. Do not shoot him. Do you understand me?’

  Bacon was one of the three select elite helping with their training that day. He wore a Fiory uniform, with a bronze pin in the shape of a horse. Ottilie wondered what the pins were for. Leo’s was a raptor, Ned’s a wolf, Bacon’s a horse … she had noticed them before, but couldn’t recall anyone explaining their purpose.

  ‘Shooting Bacon is an extremely undesirable outcome,’ continued Wrangler Voilies. ‘If you shoot him I will be very displeased.’

  Ottilie grinned and Scoot snorted loudly.

  ‘Mr Scoot.’

  ‘Sorry Voilies – Wrangler Voilies – sir.’

  ‘Form a line and let’s begin.’

  Preddy, of course, hit the falling ball with ease. Scoot missed by a mile, as did Gully. When Ottilie stepped up to the mark she was confident that she would at least come close. But as she stood there, all eyes upon her, her heart started to thump hard and fast. She felt the colour rising in her cheeks. Her focus shifted. Her vision blurred. The pressure of everyone watching was too much, and the image of a great hairy black spider crawling out of Christopher Crow’s chest flickered before her eyes.

  Bacon threw the ball into the air, and Ottilie braced, waiting to catch it on the fall. Trying to concentrate on the shot, and not on her glowing face and racing heart, she bit her lip. Three … two … one …

  She missed – by a lot. Somehow she had misjudged the speed of the fall. Her arrow was too late and by the time it shot over Bacon’s head the ball had almost reached the ground.

  ‘Disappointing, Mr Colter,’ said Wrangler Voilies.

  ‘You’ll get her next time, Ott,’ said Wrangler Morse, ruffling her hair. ‘Good aim. Just the timing.’

  Ottilie did not get her next time. In fact, she didn’t hit the ball once. It was not only disheartening – it was terrifying. What was she going to do in the trials? If stage fright was her problem, she was doomed. Wrangler Voilies had told them that they would have an audience, and a large one at that. The fledgling trials were attended by not only the select elite and the Fiory wranglers, but the cardinal conductor from each station, all three Fiory directors, and any Fiory huntsmen not on duty. There would be hundreds of eyes upon her and, as she’d just learnt, an audience was crippling. What would she do if she couldn’t shoot? At least Gully could use his cutlass, and Scoot was great with a slingshot. If she couldn’t stop the jivvies with her bow she would be torn to pieces.

  ‘I’ll be watching too,’ said Skip, later that night.

  ‘What! The sculkies come?’

  ‘Oh sure, a lot of the custodians do. Some of us will be there waiting on the conductors and directors, and they usually let the rest watch from the back. Fiory hasn’t hosted the trials in two years. I’ll be watching!’

  Ottilie flopped down on the blue tiles edging the bath, and buried her face in her hands.

  ‘You’ll be fine. You’re obviously good under pressure.’

  ‘I’m not! That’s the problem!’ Ottilie’s shrill voice rang high and sharp in the cavernous springs. She flinched and glanced at the door.

  ‘I mean real pressure. A flock of real live jivvies will snap you out of it, you’ll see.’

  ‘It better,’ said Ottilie, gnawing at her fingernails. ‘Otherwise I’m dead.’

  ‘No more talk of leaving then?’

  Ottilie shook her head. It was true. Getting home wasn’t her goal anymore. When she pictured the Swamp Hollows, she saw it crawling with dredretches, and herself, untrained, powerless to stop them. She wanted to learn how to defend herself, how to keep them from hurting people.

  Of course this meant she would have to keep pretending to be a boy. It was becoming a second skin. She didn’t have to think about it too much. It was just there – but her anxiety about being uncovered never fully went away.

  Ottilie still caught the dark-haired sculkie and her friend giving her odd looks, but she got the sense that this was relatively normal behaviour for them. Even so, she was sure they glanced in her direction far too often, and Ottilie had taken to avoiding them when she could manage it.

  ‘Good,’ said Skip, tugging Ottilie away from her thoughts. ‘I never wanted you to go. And not just because you’d be dead beyond that wall without a bit more training.’

  ‘Thanks, Skip.’

  ‘It’s nice having a friend here, Ottilie Colter. I’d be awfully sad if you got eaten.’

  ‘I might get eaten in a week anyway.’

  ‘Of course you won’t,’ said Skip, but Ottilie was sure she detected a hint of uncertainty in her tone. How many of these huntsmen had Skip seen get hurt? Captain Lyre said what had happened to Christopher Crow was rare. Was that true? Or was he just lying to keep them feeling secure?

  ‘You haven’t seen me out there,’ said Ottilie. ‘I can’t focus, and if I’m not worrying about myself then I’m worrying about Gully!’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about Gully. He’s younger, isn’t he? Only just eleven? They only ever take them that young if they think they’re going to be exceptional.’

  ‘I thought they chose boys because they were lonely, or had no proper families?’

  ‘They do still pick a certain personality type; fearless, adventurous, athletic, that sort of thing. Reckless, mostly,’ said Skip. ‘You know that smug ginger?’

  ‘Leo Darby?’

/>   ‘They took him from a filthy rich family over on All Kings’ Hill, just snatched him off the street. There were probably plenty of people out looking for him, but they can afford to do that once in a while, as long as it’s not too often.’

  ‘Why did they want him so much?’

  ‘Same reasons they must have wanted Gully. Darby was the same age too. He was the only one that young I ever saw come in, until your brother. And it paid off, I suppose. He’s a champion two years running, and last year, when he was a second tier, he actually scored higher than the champion of the third tier. All the wranglers love him, you must have noticed.’

  ‘What about the one that’s always with Leo? Ned, or, what is it, Eddy – Edwin Skovey?’

  Skip shook her head. ‘Don’t know much about him. They’re good friends, the two of them, but people talk about Leo Darby all the time, that’s why I know so much. You’ll know more than me soon enough,’ she said. ‘You better get paired with a Fiory – I don’t want you moving stations! Plus you’re going to need me around. We’ll have to cut your hair soon. You should probably keep it as short as possible, else they might start noticing your girly nose. Actually,’ Skip narrowed her eyes and grabbed a chunk of Ottilie’s hair, ‘we should really cut it now. What did your friend Bill hack this off with, a sharp rock?’

  Ottilie laughed. ‘No, a knife, and it was dark.’

  ‘That’s exactly what it looks like. It looks awful! Lucky they know you’re from the Swamp Hollows, otherwise you’d have a bit of explaining to do. Tell you what, I’ll bring scissors next time and we’ll cut it nice and neat for the trials.’

  Ottilie stomach lurched. The last thing she wanted to think about were the fledgling trials.

  18

  The Fledgling Trials

  ‘Big day, boys!’

  Captain Lyre was back. Tapping his cane on the door, he whistled a lively tune until they roused.

  ‘Up, up, up! It’s my second-favourite day of the year – for the fourth day in a row … I want you dressed and breakfasted before that bell tolls.’

  ‘What is he doing here?’ grumbled Gully, as Captain Lyre continued to whistle down the corridor.

  ‘It’s his second-favourite day of the year,’ mumbled Ottilie with her face pressed into her pillow, ‘for the fourth day in a – agh!’ Something soft hit the back of her head. She swatted her arm at the air but didn’t roll over. ‘I know that was you, Scoot,’ she mumbled.

  Scoot cackled.

  They had gone a bit stir-crazy after three days confined to their corridor, watching the other squads head off for their trials and never come back.

  ‘Just practicing my aim, Ott.’

  ‘Practice on Preddy!’

  Another something hit Ottilie’s head. She rolled over, grabbed the knotted pair of underpants that she hoped were clean, and threw them across the room. They hit Scoot square in the face. Gully and Preddy laughed loudly and Scoot hurtled across the room, tackling Ottilie off the bed and onto the floor.

  ‘Get off me, you mongrel!’ she laughed, momentarily forgetting it was a dangerous position to be in. Sense quickly caught up with her. Passing it off as part of the game, Ottilie shoved him away. She was just about to try to tie him up with a pair of trousers when there was a soft knock at the door. Their breakfast had arrived.

  Skip was first in, carrying three trays at once, with one on her head so she could open the door. She made straight for the back of the room.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Gully, as she placed a tray at the end of his bed.

  Ottilie smiled secretly to herself and Skip shot her the tiniest of winks.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Ottilie.

  ‘My pleasure,’ said Skip. ‘Good luck today.’

  Heat spread across Ottilie’s chest, creeping up her neck. This was it. The wait was over. It was trial day.

  The fledges were shown in while the stands were still empty. Their arena was an enclosed amphitheatre. Ottilie noted the thin-barred cage encircling the stands, to protect the spectators from the dredretches. She’d heard this space was sometimes used for training with captive dredretches, and she assumed that in those instances, the wranglers sat safely behind the cage.

  ‘Here,’ said Captain Lyre, ‘is where the jivvies will be released.’

  There were two black marble blocks a bit taller than Ottilie’s knees, one towards the south and the other towards the north. Ottilie noted the animal carvings that covered the entire surface of both blocks. She had seen similar carvings on many of the Fiory doors and wondered if they were depictions of the old gods. Considering she kept coming across the same image of an ordinary-looking duck, she wasn’t entirely sure about that.

  ‘These both open to the burrows below,’ said Captain Lyre. ‘The jivvies will be released from one of them, but you won’t know which one.’

  Ottilie had a closer look. She noted the subtle split down the middle of each block. They were doors; two dense, very heavy doors.

  She swallowed.

  ‘We’re going to draw numbers out of this pail to determine your trialling order. And don’t be nervous if you get number one! Believe me, better one than twenty-one. Your score will be determined by the bone singers and will appear on that board over there immediately after your trial.’ He pointed to a square panel of white marble above three throne-like chairs.

  Ottilie was confused. Skip had said the bone singers dealt with felled dredretches. Why were they in charge of scoring?

  ‘There will be no argument about your scores. The bone singers know a thing or two about dead dredretches and you will be scored in the same manner that every huntsman is scored throughout the course of the year. All right, line up now, and one at a time draw your number from the pail.’

  Of her friends, Preddy was first in line. He drew number fourteen. Next was Scoot. Twelve. Then came Gully. Four. Ottilie slipped her sweaty hand into the pail. She didn’t know what she wanted. Somewhere towards the beginning she supposed, to get it over and done with. Her fingers closed around a small, smooth cube and, holding her breath, she drew it out.

  Twenty.

  ‘At least you’re not last,’ whispered Gully.

  ‘No, second to last is much better,’ said Ottilie.

  It was going to be a very long day.

  There was no way of knowing how much time had passed. The usual bells were silenced, so as not to distract a fledge during his trial. Ottilie’s only method of keeping time was watching the waiting room empty little by little as the fledges moved out to face their fates.

  The muffled whistling and applause seemed very far away and Ottilie grew tired and tense with boredom. It was only when the room had emptied to four people that the boredom lifted, leaving anxiety to govern her mind. Gully was long gone, as were Preddy and Scoot. There was no way to know how they had done. The noise from the amphitheatre sounded much the same for each fledge.

  By the time she was left with only two boys, Ottilie began to panic. She focused on her breathing.

  In and out.

  In and out.

  In and out.

  It didn’t seem to help. It also didn’t help that one of the boys, the weedy Dimitri Vosvolder, kept staring at her. He had a pinched face with large front teeth. His pouty mouth quirked up at the sides as he watched her struggle to stay calm. She felt a flicker of rage spark beneath her nerves and turned her back to him. She was already shaking, and she knew it was only going to get worse if she let herself feel angry.

  Only minutes later, Ottilie watched with eyes the size of dustplums as Dimitri Vosvolder was led from the room by a huntsman. This was it. She was next. She clung to her bow with slippery palms and stood, unmoving, by the door. Time flew. It felt like less than a minute before the huntsman returned to lead her into the arena.

  ‘Ready?’ he said.

  Ottilie nodded, jaw clenched. Her teeth ground together as the pair of them marched down the passageway to a small metal door. The huntsman knocked once and a single knock s
ounded in return from the other side. The huntsman lifted the iron latch and Ottilie passed through.

  The weary crowd clapped politely as she stepped out into the arena. Ottilie was too anxious to single anyone out, but she did note the six or so huntsmen standing with bows at the ready around the edges of the arena. They were behind the cage with the spectators. Were they there to protect the crowd if a jivvie got loose?

  Wrangler Voilies had said the jivvies would be released at the sound of the gong, but she didn’t know how long she would have before that. Ottilie fingered the bronze ring on her thumb. Suppose it fell off and she was left unprotected? She closed her eyes and shook her head to clear it.

  Ottilie could feel hundreds of eyes upon her. Face reddening, she thought fast. She would move into the centre so as not to get cornered. She ordered her shaky feet to walk and, after a breath or two, they did.

  She remembered Wrangler Morse’s words from a training session a bit over a week ago: ‘Jivvies are blind. They rely on sound and movement to navigate, so you’ll be at an advantage. The crowd will confuse them.’

  She would limit her movements. Once that gong sounded, Ottilie would not move. At least she could trust her body to freeze. Quickly she nocked an arrow. Her palm was sweaty but it did not slide on the grip. ‘You’re fine,’ she whispered.

  The gong sounded. The block to her left split down the centre and slid apart with a scrape, leaving a wide gap between the two halves. There was a terrible whooshing and a chorus of high-ringing caws as a swirling black cloud of jivvies swooped up into the arena.

  The crowd made a great deal of noise. Ottilie wondered for a moment if it was true excitement or if they were just trying to help by distracting the jivvies. If the latter was the case, it was working. The flock of jivvies flew in a circle around the edge of the cage, quickly discerning their surroundings.