Growned

by Tracey Meredith

  Myrtle loved living here. Her family had dwelt in the same house for generations, albeit with the various modifications that came with time and usage and the needs of a growing family. After their grandparents had died and their father had been eaten on his way back from work, Hooktip had suggested perhaps the place was too big for just the three of them; but then their mother had begun talking about them getting married and providing her with grandchildren and that they’d be grateful for the room, and Hooktip had never broached the subject again.

  Myrtle liked all the strange and surprising rooms that had been created over the years, which meant you could be with people or on your own, without going out of the front door.

  Mother was sat at the kitchen table when they got in. She opened her mouth to berate her children for their lateness, but stopped when she saw Hooktip’s face. She threw a questioning glance at Myrtle. Myrtle shook her head. Mother looked annoyed, but did not pursue the matter.

  “Tea?” she said abruptly, theatrically banging the book she had been reading down on the table.

  “No, Mother,” said Myrtle hurriedly. “We’re going out again. We just came back to get some food and... and... stuff.”

  The sentence petered out as Mother stood and took up The Stance. Hands on hips, left foot tapping, topped by The Look. For a moment Myrtle met her mother’s glare, then she dropped her eyes and mumbled, “It’s Cinnabar, he’s―he’s gone missing.”

  The foot stopped tapping, the hands came off the hips and reached for a chair. Abruptly, Mother sat down. “So it’s true then,” she gasped. “It’s true!”

  “What?” began Myrtle, but was interrupted by Hooktip.

  “True?” he snapped. “What’s true?”

  “Rumours,” replied Mother, “coming from the Palace, that the Prince―the Prince―oh, it’s too awful!”

  Hooktip glared at her, his face bright with fury. “He’s not!” he shouted at his mother, bringing his fist down on the table. “He’s not dead!”

  Myrtle drew in a breath, as mother and son scowled at each other. Then Hooktip turned on his heel and slammed out of the room.

  There was silence.

  “Well, I never,” said Mother eventually. “What a way to speak to your mother, as if it was my fault!”

  “Cinnabar’s his friend, Mother.”

  “Yes, but shouting!”

  “He’s like a brother to him. They’ve known each other since they were children.” Mother fell silent. “He’s been looking for him all day. He’s tired and worried. What do you expect?”

  Mother nodded. “Word is,” she said to Myrtle, her voice lowered so Hooktip couldn’t hear her, “that Lord Pike got him. Ate him up in one mouthful. Queen’s beside herself.”

  “If it wasn’t for the fact Cinnabar was―is―her only surviving son,” said Myrtle tersely, “and it’d be such an awful thing to say of her in the circumstances, I’d say the Queen’s rather enjoying the drama.”

  “Oh!” said Mother in disbelief. “However can you think such a thing, let alone say it! That poor woman. The things she’s suffered, what with the King being eaten and Prince Swallowtail disappearing, and now... this! It’s not been easy for her, you know.”

  Myrtle rolled her eyes surreptitiously and went in search of Hooktip. She found him in the storeroom, filling up a large rucksack. A downwards glance told her he had already collected a length of rope, numerous candles and torches, a large sheet of hide for a shelter, and some blankets. He had obviously taken her suggestion on board and was preparing for a long outing.

  “Have you got any food yet?” Myrtle asked him.

  Hooktip shook his head. “Not ready for Mother yet,” he mumbled.

  “I’ll get it,” said Myrtle. “I think we should grab something to eat before we go, as well.”

  Hooktip nodded. He really wanted to get out of the house and back to the lake, but he knew his sister was being, as usual, very sensible. And as he was grateful for her support, he acquiesced.

  *

  LIAM could feel the despair rising in him. He was dreadfully tired, but too scared to stop and rest. He knew he was probably imagining it, but he was convinced something was following him. He needed somewhere to hide, but where was there a hiding place that would not become a trap?

  Visions of that ghastly white face with those filed, pointed teeth, filled his head. What if the creature had found him and was following him? How could he survive another attack, here on his own?

  Liam shuddered and quickened his pace momentarily. Exhaustion quickly tapped him on the shoulder and forced him to slow down. I’m going to die here, Liam thought dejectedly. Dream or no dream, I'm going to die here. Wasn't there a myth that if you died in your dream, you died for real? That's rubbish, a sensible voice in his head told him. How could anybody know if someone had been dreaming they had died, before they died?

  Hot tears pricked his eyes. He hurriedly wiped them away. What was the point in crying, he thought. It wasn’t going to get him out of this place. He sniffed involuntarily.

  He tramped on as daylight began to stretch itself into the sky. It wasn’t as if, he thought, he knew where he was going, or even that there was somewhere he could be going to. He could be walking around in circles or walking further and further away from those who could help. Who could help him?

  Someone? There must be someone.

  Despair and anger began to simmer together, heavily spiced with a huge pinch of exhaustion. What could he do? Just keep walking until he dropped? Then whoever or whatever was following him would have him at its mercy.

  He sniffed again. His running nose was getting on his nerves. He stopped, his chest rising rapidly as anger and exhaustion vied with frustration for an outlet. Liam yelled. He didn’t care now who or what heard him. He just wanted to end this nightmare. Either kill him or let him go home.

  “So, come on then!” he screamed. “Here I am! Come and get me!”

  There was silence. Nothing.

  Liam hadn’t really expected a reply. Shaking with exhaustion and grief, he sank to his knees, sobs racking his body, tears running down his face. He could do no more. He felt he was finished.

  The tears subsided and the sniffing resumed. What he wouldn’t give for a handkerchief right now. Then there was a hot breath at his left ear, and an unfamiliar voice whispered, “Boo!”

  *

  CINNABAR woke with a start. He sat quietly, his ears straining for the sound that had awoken him. He could hear nothing, but he had become aware his leg had gone to sleep. Probably the discomfort had awoken him, he concluded.

  He wondered how long he’d been asleep. He hoped it had been for a fair while and daylight had arrived. He hadn’t meant to go to sleep, only to rest until dawn, but his exhaustion had taken him by surprise. He was a little angry at himself, but grateful he’d passed the night unscathed. He definitely needed to move now. With a grunt, he hauled himself out of an unsavoury looking crack in the root of an old oak. He’d had to chase out a couple of woodlice before occupying it and hiding himself with leaves.

  It wasn’t just his leg that was suffering. His back ached and his right shoulder didn’t seem to want to move at all. That’s what comes of sleeping on wet wings, Cinnabar told himself grimly.

  He parted the leafy camouflage that hid his resting place, and peered out. It was not quite day, but it was definitely coming. He sat listening for the sound of nearby creatures. He could hear nothing, which surprised him, as this kind of environment should be attracting the sort of creatures that delighted in rotting wood and decaying leaf. Still, quiet was quiet, which meant it was safe to get out and be on his way.

  As his feet hit the ground, he heard an unexpected crunch. He looked down. He was standing on the remains of a woodlouse. Several woodlice, in fact. Rats or mice then? He’d been lucky.

  The birds were beginning to sing. Presumably they hadn’t breakfasted. He needed to be on his guard if he didn’t want to become something’s early morning snack. Mean
time though, he felt desperately hungry himself, but there seemed nothing tasty within reach.

  Cinnabar sighed, stooped down, and broke off a piece of woodlouse remains. Fairly revolting, he mused, but it wasn’t poisonous and it would keep him going until he found something more appetising―like a twig or a lump of coal. He popped the end of one piece into his mouth and began to chew. His face grimaced at the taste. Yes, woodlouse was truly revolting―the sort of thing you threatened your children with when they didn’t behave properly.

  As he chewed slowly, endeavouring to extract every last bit of gut wrenching goodness from the dead ‘louse, he pondered his options. He didn’t know where this was―at least, nothing was familiar. He was probably feared dead, so it might be that no one was looking for him. Except―except Hooktip. Hooktip would have hoped. He wouldn’t stop searching. Hooktip would be around somewhere. Somewhere? Where?

  If he was Hooktip, where would he be looking? Around the lake? So maybe he should keep near the lake. Or find a safe sunny spot to dry his wings.

  The cracking of something caught his attention. Instinctively, he drew back into the shelter of the root and watched.

  Staggering towards him was a dishevelled figure, its face puffy and discoloured by a range of blues and purples. Blood appeared to be smeared around its nose and mouth. It had a dejected walk, reeling and stumbling like one whose energy was all spent. It looked like a fairy but... “Where are your wings?” muttered Cinnabar.

  It stumbled past him, sniffing as it went. Cinnabar made to leave his bolt hole and follow the creature, when a slight―very slight―movement elsewhere made him freeze on the spot. The creature that had just passed him was being followed by another. This creature was equally strange, but this time Cinnabar knew what it was. The white face, the knife in its hand, told Cinnabar for certain.

  Charlock.

  What was Charlock doing out here? And more to the point, what was his interest in this other creature?

  Cinnabar waited until the assassin had passed, before quietly leaving the root. He hardly dared breathe as he followed Charlock. He couldn’t afford to make even the slightest noise. Charlock was more than able to dispatch Cinnabar with barely a pause in the pursuit of his intended victim.

  He watched with concern and surprise as Charlock's victim stopped and yelled, alerting every predator in the area to his whereabouts before crumpling into a heap and sobbing.

  Move, Cinnabar willed him, move. He watched helplessly as Charlock crept nearer and nearer.

  A weapon, thought Cinnabar, I need a weapon. He searched about. Something heavy. His eyes alighted on a stone. It took two hands to lift it. Charlock had reached his victim now. The knife was raised.

  Moving as quickly and soundlessly as he could, Cinnabar hurried after Charlock. He came up behind him, raised the stone high above his head and braced himself. Charlock must have heard something. His head snapped around. Cinnabar knew he mustn't hesitate. He wouldn't get another chance. He brought the stone crashing down on Charlock's head.

  Charlock staggered and dropped the knife. Cinnabar didn't stop to see the result of his handiwork. He grabbed the arm of the intended victim and dragged it out of harm's way. “Run!” he urged. “Run! Before he recovers.”

  *

  “HOW high do you think we should place these?” asked Myrtle, brandishing a couple of lanterns.

  Hooktip thought for a moment. “I think we'll have to set them at different heights,” he said, looking up into the tree's canopy. “If he's on the other side of the lake, he won't see the lights unless they're quite high up. There's a lot of grass and shrubs over there, and if he's not able to fly...” He paused. “Do you think it's worth flying around with a lamp?” he asked.

  Myrtle frowned. “Fly at night?” she said doubtfully. “What about bats?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Hooktip sighed.

  “Perhaps,” suggested Myrtle, talking slowly as the idea took shape in her mind, “perhaps, tomorrow, we could set up the lights in different places, and maybe some signs saying, stay here, we'll come and find you when it's daylight. Or something.” She blinked at her brother.

  “That,” exclaimed Hooktip, “is an excellent idea.” He frowned again. “It's a pity we can't do it tonight. If he's flightless, every day he's on the ground could be his last.”

  “Perhaps we could leave food and stuff at each point, and some blankets―and maybe a spear?”

  Hooktip nodded. “And some knives―they'd be useful,” he added.

  Myrtle smiled briefly. “Paper and pens might be a good idea too. If he's unable to stay there for some reason, he might leave word. At least we'd know he was―” She hesitated. “―alive,” she almost whispered.

  “He is alive,” insisted Hooktip. “I know he is.”

  *

  “THERE was a fight here,” stated Hornbeam. He picked up what appeared to be part of a leg. “And whatever took His Highness was eaten.”

  “And His Highness?” asked Mezereon.

  Hornbeam shrugged. “No idea,” he admitted. “There's no blood, so he wasn't killed here.”

  “That's good, isn't it?”

  “Well, that rather depends on whether he escaped in the fight, or was caught by whatever attacked them, for a snack later.”

  Mezereon groaned. “Can't you tell?” he implored.

  “Give me a few minutes,” sighed Hornbeam. He hunted around. There's a wide path cut through there, he thought. That's possibly where the attacker went.

  A piece of half chewed insect confirmed his suspicions. Eating on the run, he thought. So probably not taking the human home to eat.

  Hornbeam began looking for smaller, subtler signs. It took time. The traces were almost non-existent at this scale. “Here!” he said at last. “He went this way. But...”

  “But?”

  “I think he was followed.”

  Mezereon stared at him, aghast. “You don't think..? Oh, no! He won't stand a chance!”

  “We'd better get a move on then,” said Hornbeam grimly. “We might be in time.”

  Mezereon shook his head. “No chance,” he said. “It's the assassin we're talking about.” He groaned. “He's probably dead.”

  Hornbeam tutted impatiently. This was not the time for dramatics. “Nevertheless,” he said stoutly, “we've got to go and look for him. If we are too late—well, at least we can recover the body.”

  “The body!” wailed Mezereon. “I can't go back to the Queen with that! Oh, I am in such trouble!”

  “You're in trouble?” said Hornbeam incredulously. “What about this poor child we dragged from his bed? He's the one who's in trouble! I suggest we get moving. Now. Unless you'd prefer to leave me to try and find him, while you fly back to the palace and inform our dear Queen you've lost her only grandchild.”

  Mezereon moaned.

  “And,” continued Hornbeam, “you might like to mention the assassin's after him.”

  Mezereon groaned.

  “So? Are you coming or going?”

  Mezereon glared at him, opened his mouth to make a retort, but thought better of it. “All right,” he grumbled. “Which way?”

  *

  EVENTUALLY, Liam fell over and just lay where he was. He couldn't run any more. “Go,” he muttered, “go without me. I'm done for.”

  Cinnabar stood over the prone creature. “Okay,” he said, “rest a while. But we can't stay long. I know I really walloped him with that stone, but I doubt that will stop him. He was bred with a thick skull.”

  “Bred?” repeated Liam, rolling over and sitting upright. “He was bred? Like some prize bull or dog, you mean?”

  Cinnabar nodded. “It's against the law, but we know of one who's been doing it and presumably it's him who sent Charlock after you. So, what have you done to attract the attention of the Vapourer?”

  Liam groaned and put his head in his hands. “It's just a bad dream,” he muttered. “I'm going to wake up and find I've fallen out of bed and split my lip and smacked
my nose, and none of this is real.”

  Cinnabar looked at him curiously. “Do you have a name?” he asked.

  “Liam.”

  “So what are you? You've got no wings. Did you lose them or—or—?” He fell silent, peering at Liam intently. “It's you, isn't it? You're Swallowtail's boy, aren't you?”

  “Oh, don't you start! I've had all that nonsense from the other pack of jokers.”

  “Other pack of jokers?”

  “Some daft old beggar with a white beard, and his assistant—a green grey chap.”

  “Mezereon and Hornbeam?”

  “I don't know. I can't remember their names. I think the younger one might have been Hornbeam. The older one didn't think much of him, but I think this Hornbeam guy was the brains of the pair.”

  “Oh, it's definitely Mezereon and Hornbeam. They were sent to get you. And you're right. Mezereon depends on Hornbeam far more than he realises or cares to admit.” He paused. “How did you get separated?”

  “That Charlock guy jumped us. I think he kicked me in the face, but I don't remember much. We might have been attacked by some giant bug, because I came to hanging from its mouth.”

  “What? How did you escape?”

  “It dropped me when it was attacked by a bigger bug.”

  Cinnabar sighed. “They didn't take very good care of you, did they? I'm sorry about that. We should have sent Mezereon with some guards. But—” Cinnabar looked puzzled. “I still can't think why the Vapourer would want to send his assassin after you.”

  “Mezereon seemed to think I'm a prince or something and heir to a throne.”

  “Well, you are, but I still can't see why the Vapourer would want to prevent that. It's not like having a king on the throne would stop him being the nuisance he is.”

  “So, what does he do?” said Liam, rolling over and back on to his knees. “To be a nuisance, I mean.”

  “Well, nothing much. He wants to take over the fairy realm, but he's not really very capable. He's got the personality if you like, but not the brains or ability. Quite evil—you wouldn't want to fall into his hands. But, really—well, he never seems to do anything very harmful. He's got a bit of magic, but probably not much more than Mezereon, and some followers, but not many. And this assassin, Charlock. The assassin is his only real success. You've not much chance if he sends him after you.”