Dark Waters of Hagwood

by Robin Jarvis

  “But, Majesty!” the owl protested. “We have the rhyme to strip them of that trifling talent! Their petty disguises can no longer avail them.”

  The High Lady closed her eyes, and they sparkled beneath her lashes. “I know,” she said. “Yet they must be allowed to think their peril is over and go on with their lives as before.”

  “And what will ye do?”

  “I shall use the powers that are mine,” she answered darkly. “Now is the hour for deadly enchantments. Go at once—do my bidding.”

  With a sweep of its wings, the bird soared into the air, wheeled high above its mistress’s head, then flew between the sculpted pillars to obey her command.

  Clasping the arms of the chair, Rhiannon breathed deeply. “I have much to prepare and make ready,” she whispered. “There are other things that dwell in the deeps of Hagwood, nameless evils I shall stir and wake to aid me. Before the moon wanes, the golden casket will be mine once more.”

  As she spoke, Yimwintle Bilwind’s yowling finally disturbed her, and she rose to return to him.

  Through the colonnade of stone-wrought writhing weeds the High Lady went until she stood again by the heaped books and gazed down upon the librarian’s stricken form.

  “I have dealt with you too severely, dear Master Bilwind,” she stated, “and thus must crave your pardon. To dwell within the Hollow Hill and never to gaze upon the fair symmetry of my face is too harsh a sentence for any to bear. I would not have you suffer so unjust and bleak a fate. Therefore I release you.”

  Taking a long silver dagger from her belt, Rhiannon raised her hand and put the klurie to death.

  CHAPTER 1 *

  THE ARRIVAL OF NANNA ZINGARA

  BEYOND THE HAGBURN, IN that corner of the forest where the werlings lived, Kernella Tumpin was feeling greatly pleased with herself. Sitting in the branches of an oak tree, she beamed with delight, then hugged her knees, feeling guilty to be so happy.

  Two days had passed since the battle against the thorn ogres. Many werlings had died in that brutal onslaught. The terror of the conflict was still fresh in the survivors’ minds, yet there was no time to mourn or dispel those hideous images. Only that morning the elders had summoned everyone, even the smallest children, to a meeting at which the terrible events were discussed and debated.

  Recalling how she had been singled out for especial praise, Kernella’s guilt dissolved and her smile broadened even more. It was she who had discovered that the thorn ogres’ weakness was fire. Sighing, the girl wished she had thought of something clever to say when they had applauded her, but, annoyingly, the discussion had moved briskly on. Still, it had been one of the most glorious moments in her young life.

  With that memory, Kernella’s face glowed a ruddy pink, emphasizing her freckles, and with her goofy teeth protruding she resembled a very smug, blushing rabbit. Even Finnen Lufkin had cheered her, and the thought of that caused her to squeak and bury her face in the woolen neck of her snookulhood.

  The rest of the meeting had dealt with matters of less interest to Kernella. The betrayal by Terser Gibble, the Great Grand Wergle Master, had caused many angry outbursts. That once-respected tutor had saved his own cowardly skin by committing the worst crime any of them could imagine. He had surrendered the secret passwords that unlocked every werling transformation. Since the battle, the mere mention of his name was enough to set tempers boiling, cause fists to clench, and draw foul curses from the gentlest folk. It was a good thing he had disappeared; otherwise, there was no knowing what frightful revenge might have been visited upon him.

  Throughout long, peaceful ages the werlings had depended on the shape-shifting art of wergling as their best defense. Now that any marauding force could rob them of that, how could they protect themselves from the might of the High Lady? The merciless tyrant of the Hollow Hill was far too powerful a foe for them to overcome, and everybody despaired.

  It was decided that all wergle training was to be suspended and each family must arm itself and prepare for the contest to come. Lookout parties were assembled to watch the borders of their realm, from the Hagburn in the east, the Silent Grove in the south, the cinder trackway in the west, and the birches in the north. Nobody had the remotest idea how they could withstand an invasion of goblin knights or a horde of Redcaps, but at least they felt as though they were doing something. Hagwood had suddenly become a frightening and perilous place. The werlings had incurred the wrath of Rhiannon Rigantona, and all feared the retribution that would surely follow.

  It was such a warm spring afternoon, however, that Kernella found it impossible to be anxious or afraid. As part of the team whose duty was to observe the overgrown cinder path and the barren heath beyond, she was having a very pleasant time. The new leaves shone brightly in the sun and a gentle breeze ruffled her short reddish hair. If only the company was more to her liking.

  Looking through the branches toward the next oak, Kernella saw a plump werling boy with a large nose contentedly nibbling the last of the provisions that were supposed to keep until sunset. Popping the final crumb of chestnut pie into his mouth, Tollychook Umbelnapper suddenly became aware that he was being watched, and he gave Kernella a shy wave.

  “All’s well up here!” he called with his mouth full.

  A frown puckered the girl’s brow, and she turned away crossly. Why had she been put in this group? Most of them were younger than she, and Kernella felt that she had been lumbered with looking after a pretty useless bunch. The main danger lay to the north and east of their land, not here, where, across the trackway, there was only the exposed heathland and, beyond that, the Lonely Mere.

  “I should’ve been put in Finnen’s party,” she grumbled to herself.

  Opening the neck of the small velvety bag she wore around her neck, she sorted through the neatly bound tufts of fur it contained and wondered if she ought to spend the time practicing her wergles. Even though it was no longer any defense, Kernella, like most werlings, loved turning into other creatures. One of her favorite animal forms was the squirrel, and she twirled the appropriate token in her fingers before squeezing her eyes shut and concentrating hard.

  The girl’s face grew a little redder, and she grunted and strained until, finally, she shoved the fur to her nostrils and gave it an almighty sniff. In an instant an odd-looking squirrel was sitting in her place, dressed in her green cloak and wearing the same goofy smile.

  Popping the fur back into her pouch, Kernella jumped up, swished her new bushy tail several times behind her, then hopped from branch to branch around the tree, whistling tunelessly. If Finnen had been present, she could have had fun teasing him, but even on her own she was enjoying wearing this shape so much that all threats and dangers seemed very remote.

  As she capered about the oak, shaking its leaves and causing the weaker boughs to bend and creak under her ungainly feet, a small fox cub came hurrying beneath the nearby trees.

  Sitting upon its back was Liffidia Nefyn, the young werling girl who had saved the cub from the webs of Frighty Aggie. In memory of its ghastly plight, Liffidia had called the fox “Fly,” and the two were now inseparable.

  “Kernella!” Liffidia cried as they approached the oak. “Kernella!”

  At the base of the tree, Fly halted and the girl swung herself from his back.

  “Wait here,” she told him, throwing her arms about the cub’s neck for a farewell hug. “I must go tell her.”

  With that she sprang up the trunk.

  Watching her disappear into the branches overhead, Fly lay down, rested his chin between his paws, and whined softly.

  Kernella Tumpin was still prancing foolishly as a squirrel when Liffidia found her. With a spray of leaves in each hand and others twisted into a crown about her ears, Kernella was swaying from side to side, trilling a soppy song she had invented in which she was a princess waiting for her true love to rescue her. She looked ridiculous and sounded worse.

  “Who will save this maiden’s skin?” she warble
d. “From evil ogres and fiends so grim? Use your sword and do not miss. Oh, sweet Lufkin, give me a …”

  Liffidia coughed. The squirrel leaped in surprise and dropped the leaves, and the crown slipped down over one eye.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded, her temper bubbling to cover her embarrassment. “You should be on duty at the elm, away yonder. We’ve got hours yet before we can leave our posts. I knew you couldn’t be relied on; you’re too young and silly and—thin.”

  Before she could say any more, Liffidia interrupted and spoke with such urgency that even Kernella grew silent.

  “There’s something coming this way!” the young girl cried. “I heard it, crunching over the cinder track.”

  The squirrel’s tail drooped, and her whiskers quivered in alarm.

  “You imagined it,” came Kernella’s worried voice. “No one ever uses that path no more.”

  “Well, something is!” Liffidia insisted. “Must have passed by the old gallows already. It’ll be here soon.”

  At that moment a startled cry rang out from Tollychook’s tree, and the boy came scrambling down the trunk. He pelted across the ground, dodged past Fly, and raced up the oak to join them.

  “Noises!” he puffed, flailing his arms in panic. “Strange noises ’eaded right fer us. The attack’s happenin’ now; we’re the first to get killed! Oh, I’m not staying ’ere—I want me mam and dad.”

  Kernella scolded him and covered his mouth with her paw to keep him quiet. Trying not to snivel, Tollychook bit his lip. Liffidia put her arm around him, and Kernella tiptoed along one of the branches, her squirrel ears flicking this way and that. Then she heard too.

  It was a sound she did not recognize, or rather many sounds, but they were all bound together, creating a confused whole. Something was definitely thudding and rumbling over the gravel and with it came a jumble of squeaks and creaks, followed by rattles and tinkles. Among this uncommon clamor, a cracked voice could be heard, first muttering, then chuckling.

  “’Tis the goblin knights!” Tollychook whimpered. “Them’s ridin’ on their ’orses, comin’ to chop off our heads.”

  As if to confirm his suspicion, they all heard a sudden snorting, and nightmare visions of coal-black armored steeds with hot breath steaming from their nostrils came galloping into their minds.

  “We must warn the others,” Liffidia hissed to Kernella.

  “Why for?’ Tollychook sobbed. “We’ms all dead anyways. Warnin’s won’t do no good ’gainst all them. Tiddly little morsel bits fer the crows to guzzle—that’s what we’ll be.”

  The two girls prepared to spring away, but it was too late.

  Around the bend in the track the mysterious horrors finally lumbered into view, and the little werlings gaped in astonishment.

  “It’s not wearing no armor,” Tollychook breathed, his panic slightly deflating.

  “That’s no knight,” Kernella tutted.

  “But ’tis a horse!” he admitted.

  “Pooh!” she retorted. “Not a very big one, and it’s shabbier than my brother’s breeches.”

  “Then what is it?” Liffidia asked.

  Ambling along the track below, a tired-looking, shaggy-haired beast plodded wearily on its way. It was a donkey. No werling had ever seen one before, and none of the three children watching had even heard of such animals.

  The creature seemed most peculiar to them, and Liffidia liked it immediately. But the donkey was not alone.

  It was pulling a small gypsy caravan, resplendent in glossy red paint, embellished with yellow flourishes. In one side there was a window with green shutters that swung lazily on their hinges. Hanging from the roof were curious objects strung on wires: there were bottles containing syrupy liquids, a string of wishbones, and a clattering collection of cut-glass stoppers that glinted and winked in the lowering sun like large diamonds. Alongside their glinting grandeur a jam jar housing an assembly of wriggling worms proved a sharp contrast. Next to that there was a tin lantern perforated with tiny holes that formed the shapes of moons and stars. In among all this were lengths of brightly colored ribbon and, suspended from the rear corner, an assortment of lopped animal tails, which wagged breezily from side to side with the motion of the caravan.

  This outlandish conveyance’s four wooden wheels were covered in the same cheerful yellow that decorated the caravan, as was the small birdcage that dangled by the door. Inside, a goldfinch was too busy rocking to and fro to sing, but, as the cage was adorned with dozens of tiny bells, its silence was more than compensated for by a sweet, incessant jingling.

  Sitting beneath the tight-beaked bird, with the donkey’s reins in one hand and a short-stemmed clay pipe balanced in the other, was the small hunched figure of an old woman. She was a human dwarf, dressed from head to toe in a faded costume of purple, red, and gold. Her boots were made from scarlet leather fastened with gleaming brass buttons, a plum-colored skirt covered many layers of undergarments, and, over a tawny blouse, she wore a vermilion waistcoat. A grubby jacket that matched the skirt was draped over her sloping shoulders, and her large head was swathed in a great cherry-tinted scarf, fringed with tarnished gold tassels.

  Framed in that wrapping, hers was a singular face. Weathered by wind and sun, it was tanned and crinkled with age. Her chin curved up toward her nose, and the tips of both bristled with gray hairs that merged and meshed together when she scrunched up her features. Beneath the tassels, however, the gleam of her eyes was bright, and she peeped out at the world, seeing far more sharply and much more clearly than many half her age or twice her height.

  Up in the oak tree, Kernella and the others watched her and the caravan trundle by. Tollychook wondered who she was, where she was headed, and what was in that gaudy wagon. Liffidia’s thoughts were for the donkey; the poor beast looked exhausted. Every step seemed a labor, and it could hardly lift its hooves. Her belief was confirmed when the animal stumbled and swung its head from side to side, refusing to move any farther.

  “Yes, my friend,” the dwarf called in a withered voice that suited her face. “I know, you is tired. Lalaliddle—me also is tired, even Little Emperor here in his cage—he tired. Lalaleddle—all is tired. Is a draining world and we three have traveled the dusty lanes and roads too long. My chalky old bones are dry and groaning. Lalaloddle—time for resting under the heavenly signs. Lalaloo.”

  Singing softly to herself, she laid her pipe down, clambered from her seat, and waddled over to kiss the donkey’s long nose.

  “Here, my weary friend,” she coaxed, leading it on to the scrubby verge of the wayside. “This is our pitch this night. Nanna take off harness—lalalillo lililalla. You go, find lush green supper to graze—lololilli lala.”

  The donkey ambled onto the heath, tearing up clumps of grass, and the dwarf hummed her way back to the caravan. Disappearing inside for a moment, she emerged carrying a small basket of vegetables and an iron pot half filled with water. Next, she arranged some stones in a circle, crossed the cinder path, and climbed the gentle bank to the edge of the forest where she hunted for fallen sticks and branches.

  “Fuel for the burning,” she chanted. “Fiddle sizzle roasty, tiddle tizzle toasty.”

  Staring down through the leaves, the werlings were dismayed to see her gradually drawing closer. Liffidia’s fox cub darted away in fear, and the dwarf spent several minutes pacing around the oak’s roots, casting about for sticks.

  “What shall we do?” Tollychook murmured. “Big folk ain’t s’posed to come near here, tramping in our wood with their big old boots and—”

  On the ground, the dwarf paused in her gathering and glanced upward. Instinctively the werlings shrank against the tree trunk, and Tollychook clapped his own hands over his mouth. Had she heard him?

  To his relief, the dwarf resumed her search for fuel, and when she had collected enough, she returned to her encampment.

  “I’d best go tell Mr. Mattock of this,” Kernella decided as the stranger lit a fire. “Yo
u two stay here. He won’t like it, not a bit he won’t.”

  Before Tollychook could object and offer to join her, the squirrel-shaped Kernella darted down the oak and bounded deeper into the wood.

  YOORI MATTOCK SAT IN THE large burrow that formed the council chamber. The chamber was dug beneath a wild apple tree, where faded banners hung from tangled roots that snaked across the ceiling and where the earthen floor smelled pleasantly of rich, musty soil.

  Seated behind the crescent-shaped council table, wrapped in a dark cloak, his white whiskers bristling from his ears and eyebrows, Yoori viewed the two youngsters before him with a friendly indulgence. Only a few days ago he had considered Gamaliel Tumpin to be a clumsy fool, but now his opinion of the lad was altered, and he had always held a grudging affection for Finnen Lufkin. Since Terser Gibble’s treacherous betrayal, Yoori was now the most respected of all the werlings.

  “Well?” he began kindly. “What brings you here? I have urgent matters to attend to and should you not be on watch duty?”

  Gamaliel fidgeted awkwardly and placed his wergle pouch on the table before him, not knowing what to say.

  “Go on,” Finnen encouraged.

  His young friend wiped his nose on his sleeve and nodded. “It’s like this, Mr. Mattock,” he began. “Me and Finnen thought it best not to mention it to anyone until we’d had a word with you, and, what with things being so busy after … after what happened, this is the first chance we’ve had. Been awful hard to keep it quiet, mind. I haven’t even said anything to my folks yet as our Kernella would only be ear wigging and go blab it ’round and as I said we wanted you to see it first—”

  “Master Tumpin,” Yoori interrupted, “will you ever get to the point?”

  “’Course,” Gamaliel breathed, fumbling with the cords that fastened his wergle bag. “Best for you to see it really—there.”