Skull in the Wood

by Sandra Greaves

  ‘Nothing – until about three years ago. My Alba was friendly with Rose, see. And she told me about a fight Rose had on the phone with your mother. A big one, it was.’

  The fields. That would have been what that was all about. Aunty Rose would have been furious about giving Mum the money for the fields they’d had to sell.

  ‘Caroline must have told Rose where we’d buried the skull. Maybe the two of them got back to squabbling over all those childhood things and Caroline just gave in. Maybe she told her in anger. But whatever it was, Rose went to look for it the next day, though Alba begged her not to. She went to Old Scratch Wood. Only she didn’t come back, did she? She was run over on the moor, near the wood. They never found the car that did it. She died that very night.’

  I stared at Gabe, speechless. How come Mum had never said anything about this? Was it all her fault, or just a really nasty coincidence? No wonder Mum hadn’t wanted to go to Aunty Rose’s funeral. She must have felt so desperately guilty.

  ‘What do you think it was?’ I said. It came out as a whisper.

  ‘I reckon she saw the gabbleratchet – then paid the price.’

  And now my cousin was out on the moor with the skull that had caused so much evil and no one to help her.

  ‘We’re wasting time,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to find Tilda.’

  Gabe patted Jez, then looked at me and nodded. ‘You’ll do,’ he said.

  He strode away, and Jez and I turned to face the moor.

  It was like being drowned. The fog was in my eyes and up my nose and filling my lungs. Whenever I breathed in I inhaled millions of tiny droplets. I hated it.

  ‘Find Tilda,’ I told Jez. ‘Find Tilda, there’s a good girl.’

  Jez surged forward, pulling on my arm, and I stumbled behind her through the grey pall. Every so often I stopped to shout Tilda’s name a few times. It felt totally weird yelling out into the mist and the sound being sucked into nowhere.

  I thought of Mum and Aunty Rose, and how sad it all was. And then I thought of Kitty. If it had ended like that for Aunty Rose, what hope did I have of changing anything? What could I do to stop the gabbleratchet? For the first time I could remember, I started to pray.

  The next hour or so passed in a sort of dream. Jez led the way, her nose down to the ground, and I followed. Around us flowed the deadening white fog. I felt like I was walking on the moon. I called and called, and the sound dispersed in the dense air. Nothing replied. I hoped Tilda hadn’t made it into the wood.

  At some point we turned a sharp right, and the footpath grew bumpier and muddier and harder to track. But we kept on going at the same pace, trudging on, calling and calling again.

  And all the time, flickering on the back of my brain, the wild, crazed creatures of my dream. Out on the moor. Hunting.

  25

  Kitty

  Hot. So hot. Red tongues. Red eyes. Red. I can see them all up in the sky. Nice birdies. Nice doggies. Come down, all of you. Come to Kitty.

  Gabble. Gabble. Gabble.

  26

  Tilda

  I followed the tiny needle on my compass, past caring about the bog. My boots were thick with mud. It was spattered all the way up my jeans, too, but it didn’t matter now. I splashed and squelched through it like it wasn’t there. It wasn’t going to suck me down. No way. I’d messed up, big-time, but I wasn’t going to end up like some pathetic tourist who didn’t understand the moor. Kitty needed me.

  I floundered through the reeds, grabbing tufts of them to steady myself. Once I fell, and my hands got as black and filthy as my legs. The grey fog moved with me. It was out to get me – mean, creepy, lung-invading. It wanted to take me over, to fill my mouth and my nose, choke me. It wanted to break me. I wouldn’t give it the satisfaction.

  When I first felt the ground harden beneath my feet I thought that I was imagining it. It was true, though. Slowly the reeds disappeared, the livid green turning to damp brown. And at last there was dead bracken and a fiercely blooming gorse bush, a brilliant flash of yellow in the blanket of grey. I felt so grateful for that yellow. It made me feel safe, for now.

  Soon I came across a track that might well be the path I’d gone off in the first place. I took a chance and crossed it, and in a few minutes I was at the wall, the lovely, solid, comforting dry stone wall. I crouched there like a sheep trying to get out of the rain.

  The trouble was, I was getting colder and colder. People die of hypothermia on the moor, way more often than you’d think. You don’t realise it at first, but you start having weird thoughts, then you can’t talk properly, and soon you’re babbling like a maniac and unless they get to you fast and warm you up, you’re a goner. I hoped it wasn’t happening to me.

  But Kits was the one who mattered here. For her sake, I knew I had to get rid of the skull. I didn’t want to do it here, though – it was all wrong. This wall had been put up by generations of farmers, decent people who had nothing to do with the wild hunt or anything remotely spooky. It felt safe and friendly and good.

  And I couldn’t just go and drop the box in some dank old watery hole back out in the bog. It had to be buried properly, in Old Scratch Wood, where we found it. It had to be returned to its owner.

  I eased the box out of my rucksack, trying not to get mud on it. It seemed to weigh a tonne. With shaky hands I took out the skull. It was heavy and dark and strangely hot, almost burning my fingers.

  I found myself wondering if it might be able to summon other curlews – or other creatures. I laid it back in the box fast. The problem was, now that I’d seen it again, I didn’t want to abandon it. It was almost as if it was part of me – I couldn’t bear to lose it. I put the box in my pack and zipped it up tight.

  But it kept on calling to me. I could barely remember now why I’d set out across the moor in the first place. All I could think of was the skull. Matt was the one who’d wanted to dump it, not me, I thought. But then he was the reason everything had gone wrong in the first place. Why should I listen to him when he couldn’t care less about what happened to my family? There was no need to give it back after all – that wouldn’t change anything for Kits. It was stupid to hope. I might as well keep it. No one was going to have it. It was mine.

  Then I heard a high keening in the air, far away, sharp and insistent, filling the sky. Louder and louder. My hands were at my ears, pressing hard, desperately trying to keep it away.

  The sound swelled and jabbered and screeched. Closer now, almost above me. And it was changing, the blasts lengthening out into a kind of baying cry. Full cry, just like Matt had said. I knew it was coming. My eyes were screwed shut but I could see the pack of creatures making for me, wild and totally pitiless. I could imagine their drool, their stinking breath, the unavoidable slicing teeth. They wouldn’t stop until they’d made their kill.

  I curled myself into a ball and thought of Kitty lying pale and still and sick, and I tensed every muscle for the killer leap. I could hear them calling for me. Tilda, they bayed. Tilda, Tilda, Tilda.

  ‘Tilda!’

  I jerked up and opened my eyes. The fog swirled close in to the base of the stones where I was huddling. Then I was up and shouting.

  ‘Matt! Over here! Over by the wall!’

  There was a stamping and scuffling. Then Matt loomed out of the fog towards me. Jez leapt forward and into my arms, trying to lick me to death. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see anyone in my whole life.

  Matt just stared at me like I was a ghost.

  ‘You’ve heard it, haven’t you?’ he said.

  I nodded wordlessly.

  He suddenly switched into action.

  ‘Drink this,’ he said, thrusting a beaker of tea into my hand. It was hot and sweet and soothing. I could feel the sugar pouring into my bloodstream. He wrapped a blanket round me and handed me a slab of veal and ham pie, a flapjack and another cup of tea. I ate mechanically, then realised just how hungry I was. When everything was gone I looked up. I felt like myself ag
ain.

  ‘Do you still have the skull?’ said Matt. The question broke through my new-found warmth like an ice pick.

  ‘I was going to get rid of it.’ I could hear my voice sounding all high-pitched and defensive.

  Matt raised his eyebrows. But he hadn’t been out here on his own, had he? He wouldn’t have lasted a minute in the fog without Jez to guide him. And I bet that when it came down to it, he wouldn’t have been able to part with the skull, either.

  Matt must have read my mind. He threw me a scorching glance. ‘Give it to me then,’ he said. ‘I’ll do it.’

  I put a hand to my rucksack and stepped backwards. Matt made a move as if to grab it. I yelled and pushed his hand away.

  Suddenly Matt’s body slumped. ‘We’re at it again,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to stop. This is exactly what it wants – Alba says it thrives on bad blood.’

  We both fell silent and dropped our eyes.

  ‘I’ll go into Old Scratch Wood with the skull,’ said Matt. ‘It’s up to me – I’m the one who saw the gabbleratchet. I’m the one who started all this.’

  ‘But Kitty’s my sister!’ I said, suddenly furious. ‘I found it first. I should be the one to take it back.’

  Matt shrugged. ‘We’ll go together, then, if that’s what you want,’ he said. ‘We’ll be OK with Jez, won’t we?’

  I tried to sound confident. ‘’Course we will,’ I said.

  ‘And . . .’ He hesitated. ‘And Alba says we have to let go of the anger.’

  I pictured her knowing grey eyes. Somehow I found myself thinking of the farm and Mum, and my fury at Matt and Aunty Caroline. It didn’t seem so important now. What mattered was Kitty. My jaw relaxed, and I nodded.

  ‘You need to do it too,’ I said.

  I could see Matt was struggling. Thinking of his mum and Paul, I reckoned. His eyebrows came together in a frown. Then he shook himself like a dog coming out of water, and slowly his brow cleared. He looked strong and determined.

  ‘Yeah, OK,’ he said. ‘I know what you mean. I’ve got to stop blaming them.’

  ‘Good. Then we’re ready as we’ll ever be.’

  27

  Matt

  It’s impossible to talk in the fog. You just spend all your time looking at the metre or so you can see ahead of you and trying to avoid twisting your ankle on some stray boulder. Jez was at the front with Tilda holding on to her lead, and me at the back. We were all marching on in silence like a crack commando troop sneaking up behind enemy lines.

  I didn’t want to let my mind dwell on Old Scratch Wood. Instead I kept thinking about my family. It was because of Alba, with her strange way of looking at you and her talk of bad blood. I couldn’t help wondering if maybe I’d been too hard on Mum recently.

  Don’t get me wrong, I love my dad. But he wasn’t always that easy to live with. And if I’m totally honest, he probably wasn’t good for her. He was forever going away sailing and never remembering her birthdays or anything. She’d pretty much been on her own for years. I suppose she deserved a bit of company. And Paul makes her happy, even if he is totally boring. I should give him a chance.

  Then I remembered that in my dream I’d offered him up to the gabbleratchet without worrying over much about it. I could feel a blush spread across my face, and was glad no one could see me in the fog. I concentrated hard on my feet, keeping in step with Tilda. She had my stick now, and the thuds she was making as she felt for the edge of the path beat a comforting rhythm.

  It was easy to forget what we were doing here. My brain just focused on the effort of finding our way through the fog, so that nothing else mattered. But every so often, a picture of Kitty flashed into my mind, wan and tiny, her red-gold hair stuck to her head with sweat. The bargain I thought I’d made had backfired badly. But we were going to change all that. We were going to stop anything from happening to Kitty. We had to.

  It felt like the fog was thinning just a bit. Wraiths of mist were curdling round the gorse and rising slowly upwards. It was weird. But yes, it was definitely lifting. As we walked on, the fog rose higher and thinner in the air, and slowly the valley stretched itself out around us. At its bottom we could hear the stream racing.

  At last we reached the flat plain that approached the wood. I remembered this bit from before. It was easy going here – a clear path with no boulders or ups and downs. Just low-cropped grass, sheep droppings and the occasional muddy puddle. Then Old Scratch Wood came into blurry view, clinging to the side of the valley in its purple-grey haze.

  From being half asleep, I suddenly clicked into red alert. This was it.

  We filed along the narrow footpath in silence. As the wood took shape, my skin started to prickle. I hated those runty, twisted trees. Keep your primeval forest, I thought. I’ll take a nice bright meadow any day. Or a dusty old London street. Or a run-down estate with drug dealers on every corner, for that matter. The whole wood was malevolent, crouching in wait for its prey like some repulsive flesh-eating plant.

  Tilda seemed to have recovered her energy all of a sudden. Now she looked almost eager.

  ‘Come on, then,’ she said.

  She set off at top speed with Jez, and after a minute I dragged my feet after her.

  I didn’t want to go in again. The first time had been bad enough, but my nightmare had made it so much worse. Even though it was cold, I was sweating hard. Just what was I dragging us into?

  All I knew was that Kitty was really sick and we had to try and help her, whatever it took.

  Now the fog had gone, the wind seemed to be getting up. The trees were waving about big-time, whispering among themselves. Just what we needed. I remembered what Uncle Jack had said about stormy nights, and shivered.

  I wasn’t on my own this time, though, thank God. Tilda marched straight in, her hand on Jez’s neck. I wouldn’t have realised that she was frightened at all except that she was breathing too fast. She wasn’t like any girl I’d ever known – there was none of that ‘I’m so scared’ stuff, she just got on with it. It was pretty impressive, though I wasn’t so stupid as to tell her that.

  The path wasn’t wide enough for both of us, so I just followed on, hoping for the best. As we got deeper, the stunted trees seemed to crowd closer together, forming a kind of tunnel. They were even worse than I remembered – dark and dripping with creepy green ferns. They draped over us, stroking our faces with their horrible hairy limbs. Even Tilda was beginning to falter. She turned to look at me, her face shining pale in the darkness of the shade.

  ‘I don’t think they want to let us through,’ she whispered.

  Around us branches rustled and swayed. They were definitely getting closer.

  ‘No. But we’ve got to try.’

  She nodded. I squeezed on to the path beside her and surprised myself by taking her hand. Silently, she gripped mine. We were in this together.

  We set off again, ducking to get through the lowest branches and pushing past the twigs that clawed at our arms and legs. Maybe it was just the wind getting stronger, but it didn’t seem like that. I could feel fingers running through my hair and kept trying to brush off invisible crawling things. Beside me, Tilda was doing the same. I could hear her panting. Jez whined and kept her head down low. She was clearly hating it.

  Ahead I could see a light at the end of the path. It’s got to be the clearing, I thought. I nudged Tilda. She’d seen it too, and we both started walking faster. Then faster still, trying to keep our cool, trying not to break into a run. Only it wasn’t getting any nearer. If anything, the patch of light was shrinking, disappearing into a tiny circle. The trees must be tightening around it. I could feel them pressing in on us. In a minute or two we’d be in the dark.

  ‘Come on!’ I hissed in Tilda’s ear. ‘Quick!’

  We abandoned caution and charged ahead, me in front this time, our feet pounding on the leaf-mould path, ignoring the twiggy fingers that reached out to us. Behind us something was whispering and sighing. Adrenalin flooded my limb
s. I could hear Tilda right behind me and prayed she would keep up. The end of the tunnel was almost gone.

  Suddenly we were scrambling through a dense layer of ferns towards the light. My heart was thumping as if it wanted to get out of my chest, but I kept on sur ging forwards, desperate not to be left in the darkness.

  All at once I fell into the clearing. In a second Tilda was there, too, blinking at the weak sunshine. Finally Jez tore through and just about knocked me over. Above us rose the standing stone – vast, impassive, ancient. We were there.

  As my heartbeat slowed, the connection I’d felt with Tilda back on the path dissolved and I remembered her nasty little trick from before with that stupid mask. I got up quickly, glad to have her where I could keep my eyes on her this time. She looked like she’d been dragged through a hedge backwards, which to be fair I suppose she had.

  ‘I should be the one to bury the skull,’ said Tilda. ‘I dug it up, I should bury it.’ She stared at me defiantly. Clearly she wasn’t feeling too friendly towards me, either. I didn’t attempt to point out that her memory was playing tricks on her. It was me who’d dug the skull up – she’d just stood there and watched.

  ‘Yeah, OK, whatever,’ I said. ‘But it should be in the same place. By the standing stone.’

  Tilda hesitated. For once she seemed nervous. Then she walked slowly over to the stone, knelt down and started to dig away at the earth around it. Nothing looked disturbed, but the soil gave way easily enough. She started excavating in earnest, and soon her fingers were covered with dark rich humus.

  I was itching to get on with it myself. She was taking so long. I just hoped she’d have the guts to drop the skull in there once she’d dug the hole.

  The wind was higher now and the stunted trees creaked and whined. They seemed to have huddled even closer together, so that less and less light trickled through. I glanced round at them, then came and knelt beside Tilda. I didn’t want her distracted, but it felt like a good idea to get the whole thing over and done with as quickly as possible.