Dark Waters of Hagwood

by Robin Jarvis

  To Yoori’s astonishment, the boy emptied the contents of the velvety pouch on to the table. A clutter of dried leaves, fluff, fur, small seeds, oddly shaped stones, and thrush feathers spilled in front of the elder’s eyes, and he gazed back at Gamaliel in surprised disbelief.

  “Master Tumpin,” he muttered, “I see no reason why you felt the urge to present your jumble in front of me. Neither do I find the untidy contents of your wergle bag to my liking. Kindly explain the purpose of this unwarranted display.”

  Gamaliel frowned and started foraging among the debris. “Oh,” he uttered in a distracted voice, “it were here just before. I done saw it.”

  Standing at his side, Finnen shook his head and tucked a stray lock of hair behind his large ears. “There it is,” he said. “Under those bits of leaf and twigs.”

  Gamaliel sighed with relief, then, with trembling fingers, he held out a glittering object for Yoori’s inspection.

  It was a small beautifully crafted key made from purest gold and decorated with a single tiny ruby that looked like a pinprick of blood. No werling had ever beheld anything as precious, and Yoori’s brows twitched up into his forehead as he stared at it.

  “The Wandering Smith gave it to me,” Gamaliel explained in a reverent whisper. “Or leastways put it in my wergle pouch for me to find.”

  Yoori leaned back in his seat and dragged his eyes away from the delicate key. “So that tale the Smith told you about the High Lady is true,” he murmured.

  Finnen nodded. “Always knew it was,” he said. “The Smith hid Her gold casket out there in the forest, and this is the only key in the whole wild world that’ll ever open it. Magic, that’s what it is, tempered with spells in the forge of the Puccas.”

  “And if the rest of the story is also genuine,” Yoori added gravely, “then She performed evil sorceries and purged herself of all compassion. Yet I still find myself incredulous. Is it really possible, even with Her dark arts? Can that golden casket, wherever it may be, actually contain Her living heart?”

  A silence fell as each of them gazed at the shining object in Gamaliel’s podgy fingers.

  “I reckon it does,” Finnen finally breathed. “The Smith was there; he knew it were true and that it is our only chance of destroying Her.”

  Yoori drummed his fingers on the table and frowned. “But still it does not help us,” he sighed. “Return the key to your pouch, Master Tumpin, and keep it safe. On its own it is a mere curiosity. It does not tell us the hiding place of that casket. If the High Lady has never discovered it, what chance have we?”

  “The best chance in all Hagwood,” Finnen replied as Gamaliel gathered up his humble hoard once more.

  “How so?” Yoori asked.

  Placing his hand upon the hilt of Thimbleglaive, the small knife that had once belonged to the Wandering Smith and that now hung from his own belt like a sword, Finnen Lufkin said simply, “Because the Pucca trusted us. If anything happened to him, he wanted us to find that casket, and because of that I believe we will.”

  “Are you certain he said nothing more to you? Where was he going before those ogre fiends waylaid him?”

  The boys shook their heads. “We’ve racked our brains thinkin’ on that one,” Gamaliel replied. “If he did tell us, then we can’t remember. P’raps if we spoke to Liffy and Tollychook, they might do better than us.”

  Any further discussion was abruptly halted by the arrival of Kernella.

  “Mr. Mattock, Mr. Mattock!” she squawked, blundering into the council chamber, still wearing her squirrel form. “One of the big folk, setting up camp and lighting fires—oh, hello, Finnen.”

  Surprised to find Finnen Lufkin there, the squirrel drew a breath and coyly waved her tail before her face.

  “What trouble you in now then?” she asked mischievously. “Downright bad, that’s what you are—you’re shockin’ naughty, ain’t you.”

  Uncomfortable with her clumsy flirting, Finnen managed a polite smile, but her brother groaned and tried to ignore her.

  “Mistress Tumpin,” Yoori broke in sternly. “Explain yourself. Where is this person? What manner of creature is he?”

  With a toss of her head, Kernella turned from Finnen to face the elder. “On the trackway,” she reported. “And it ain’t a ‘he’ but a crabbed-up midget witch, by the looks of her. Got some sort of weird beast that pulls a wagon, and she came into our wood to gather sticks for a fire. Right under our tree she was—cheek of it.”

  “A vagabond?” Yoori murmured thoughtfully. “A wayfarer of the wild.”

  “Like the Wandering Smith?” Finnen asked.

  “I should think not,” Yoori said. “Not all strangers are as benign as your Pucca. You know how vital it is to keep our existence a secret from everyone, most especially those outside Hagwood. ‘Hide and be safe’—that has always been our motto. This person shall be watched from a distance; on no account must we have any dealings with her. Folk larger than ourselves are always dangerous and those who travel in the open country doubly so. No, if we are lucky, then she will move on soon enough. There are always new places to tempt them on their way, new doors to beg their suppers from.”

  Suddenly Finnen slapped his forehead. “That’s it!” he cried. “The Smith didn’t say where he was going to go, but he did say where he’d been the night before he met us.”

  “Where was that?” Yoori demanded, catching his excitement.

  “A farmhouse. He’d gone there hoping for supper, but the farmer wasn’t there. I think that’s what he said.”

  “What is a far mouse?” Gamaliel asked.

  Kernella snorted. “You don’t know anything,” she said haughtily, without proffering any explanation of her own.

  “Not a far mouse!” Finnen explained. “But a house on a farm. It’s a place where big folk who till and tend the land live. Grow all sorts of things them farmers do, as well as keeping hens and ducks and cows.”

  “What’s a cow?” Gamaliel added.

  This question his sister thought she knew the answer to. “You’re so dim,” she scoffed. “A cow’s a huge animal whose head is so heavy it can’t lift it for more than a few moments at a time and is so weak it has to lie down for most of the day. If they were smaller, they’d be easier than mice to wergle into. I’d make a perfect cow, I would.”

  Finnen coughed quickly and looked across at Yoori.

  The elder’s white eyebrows were jiggling up and down, but he seemed unaware of what they had been talking about. Abruptly, to everyone’s astonishment, he leaped from his seat and hastened toward the entrance.

  “Don’t dawdle,” he barked at them over his shoulder. “There’s only one place that farmhouse you mentioned could possibly be. Lufkin and Master Tumpin, you come along. If we set off at once, we can be back before nightfall.”

  Gamaliel and Finnen followed the elder outside, hotly pursued by the squirrel Kernella.

  “Wait!” she called belligerently. “Where you going? What’s happening?”

  “We’re going to search for the gold casket!” Gamaliel told her proudly. “Put an end to the tyrant of the Hollow Hill, that’s what we’re going to do.”

  “Hush!” Yoori snapped crossly. “Do not speak of such things so openly. Even here in our own land there may be spies in the High Lady’s service. We are following the Wandering Smith’s trail, that is all. We may discover more along the way, but then again we may not.”

  “Pooh!” Kernella scorned. “I don’t believe in that heart-in-a-box nonsense. Downright daft that is.”

  Yoori glowered at her. “Then why are you still dithering about here, you silly girl?” he said. “Go tell the other elders the news of that vagabond you have seen and warn them not to let anyone near.”

  “But I want to come with you!” she protested.

  “Out of the question,” he replied with firm finality in his gruff voice. “Do as I say.” Scowling, he spun around and began marching away beneath the trees.

  Delighted to see
his sister so dejected and put in her place, Gamaliel chortled and hurried after him. Holding back, Finnen shrugged his shoulders apologetically.

  “Sorry,” he said to the crestfallen girl. “We’ll not be long.”

  “It’s not fair,” Kernella objected. “Don’t see why Gamaliel should go and not me. He’s useless.”

  “Nothing I can do,” the boy answered, and with a wave he set off in pursuit of them.

  Feeling left out and miserable, Kernella folded her arms and kicked the petals off a primrose. Slowly, the squirrel shape melted from her, and she was a plump werling girl once more, pouting unhappily. When she had first heard of Finnen’s heroic deeds in the lair of Frighty Aggie, she had curdled with admiration and envy. Now, yet again, she was being excluded from an adventure, and she stamped her foot in annoyance.

  “Not this time!” she announced huffily. “I’ll not be treated like a spat-out pip.”

  And so Yoori’s warning about Nanna Zingara never reached the ears of the other councillors, and the tendrils of treachery and peril twisted a little closer about the land of the werlings.

  CHAPTER 2 *

  MOONFIRE FARM

  AT THE WAYSIDE, THE dwarf hung her pot over the crackling flames of her campfire. Then, with her pipe clamped between her teeth, she settled down on a low stool and began slicing up the vegetables.

  “Carrots for blinkers,” her voice sang as she dropped each ingredient into the steaming water. “Onion for stinkers. Parsnip, potato, a little cabbage to lift the wagon’s roof.”

  A look of wonderment flooded over Tollychook’s round face. “She’m makin’ a stew,” he breathed. “A tumfillin’ root stew, just like the Wandering Smith made fer us. Oh, that were lovely that were.”

  Presently the steam began to smell delicious. The breeze wafted its meandering ribbon directly toward the oak tree, and the boy’s large nose twitched with longing.

  Liffidia smiled at him. “Don’t you think of anything other than meals?” she asked.

  “Not often,” he replied honestly. “Even when I’m dozing, I likes to dream of what’s fer breakfast.”

  Down by the fire, the dwarf rocked on her stool and drew on her pipe. Snatches of old tunes, accompanied by circles of blue smoke, floated from the corner of her mouth, and as she sang, the pipe’s small clay bowl rose and fell, keeping time.

  The afternoon slipped slowly by.

  “What’s keeping Kernella?” Liffidia murmured. “She ought to have been back some time ago.”

  A wealth of doom-laden thoughts tumbled from Tollychook’s gloomy imagination. “Mebbe she’m been snatched up by an ’awk,” he suggested, tactlessly forgetting that Liffidia’s father had suffered exactly the same fate two years earlier. “Or fell down a hole,” he went on, “and broke ’er neck. What if the attack’s already happened and she got back home to find everyone else carved up and killed? Shock might make her loopy and deranged, more so than normal, and she could come back here with a knife and slice us up because she’m potty.”

  “I think you’d better stick to thinking about food,” Liffidia advised. “Look, I’m going to climb a little higher to see if I can see her returning from up there.”

  Leaving the maudlin boy behind, Liffidia ascended to the uppermost branches. Alone, Tollychook returned his gaze to the fire and the dwarf who was now stirring the pot with a long wooden spoon. Tollychook’s mouth watered, and his stomach began to growl. He wished he hadn’t eaten his provisions all at once and searched the bags attached to his belt in case he had overlooked a hazel biscuit or in case his mother had popped some slices of dried apple in there when he wasn’t looking.

  “Nowt,” he lamented. “’Tis too much, all this frettin’ and starvin’ myself to a shadder.”

  Feeling sorry for himself, he watched the gypsy lift the spoon to her lips and wretchedly sucked in his own. He was so transfixed by that delightful, steaming sight that nothing else mattered. For several minutes he continued to gawp, failing to realize that the dwarf was now holding the spoon perfectly still.

  “There is plenty to spare.” Her voice suddenly broke into his blank mind. “’Specially for little tree folk.”

  Tollychook shook himself. The old woman’s eyes were gleaming straight up at him. The shock nearly caused the boy to fall off the branch.

  “Come down,” she invited, holding the spoon higher and beckoning with her other hand. “Join me. Nanna Zingara not harm you.”

  Perched in the topmost branches, Liffidia heard the dwarf’s words with horror. How could she have spotted them? She and Tollychook would have to flee the oak swiftly and get as far away from that strange person as possible. Hurriedly, she started to descend, only to see that young Master Umbelnapper was already racing down the trunk below.

  “No!” she cried in dismay. “Tollychook, don’t!”

  Before she could begin to follow, he had leaped to the ground and was haring across the cinder trackway as fast as his large feet could take him. At once the goldfinch began to sing in its cage, and Tollychook stumbled to a standstill.

  At this close distance, the gypsy appeared terribly large to him, and she was observing his approach with a gleeful expression on her wrinkled face. Suddenly shy, Tollychook clasped his hands behind his back and shuffled his feet awkwardly.

  “Brave fellow,” the dwarf welcomed him. “Sit you down and don’t be afraid of Nanna Zingara. She has met many hidden people on her wide travels: folk in caves, tappers of the mine, timid spirits of the sylvan wood, beasts of the deep dark pools. All know Nanna, and she has learned many mysteries and wiseries from them.”

  Chuckling, the old gypsy spooned some stew on to a saucer and placed it on the ground at arm’s length with a chunk of bread to encourage the boy to come nearer.

  “Nanna knows how to make tasty teatimes,” she coaxed. “Have a bite and a lick of that, my titchy friend.”

  Taking a deep, heavenly scented breath, Tollychook approached and nervously seated himself before the saucer.

  “Eat,” she said gently, but the werling was already helping himself, and the dwarf nodded with pleasure.

  “Lumma lumma lum,” she sang under her breath. “You were born under a hungry star, Lupus or maybe the Little Lion.” Her gaze traveled back toward the oak tree where she plainly saw Liffidia’s anxious face staring down at them.

  “No, Tollychook,” the girl hissed. “Come back! Get away from her! Oh, where is Kernella? Why isn’t she here?”

  A dry chuckle rattled in the dwarf’s throat. “You too, my pretty oak blossom,” she called. “Come join us, let us all be friends together.” Warily, Liffidia climbed down, and when she jumped to the ground, Fly, the fox cub, ran to her side. Holding on to his fur with one hand, she crossed the trackway.

  With slow steps she approached the encampment, and her eyes caught sight of the animal tails hanging from the caravan. It was a gruesome collection. She recognized the sad trophies of stoats and weasels, a beautiful long gray wolf tail, and, worst of all for her, Liffidia saw the luxuriant brush of a fox.

  “Don’t you pay no mind to Nanna’s waggers,” the gypsy told her. “I don’t go ’round maiming animals. Dead as coffin nails the poor beasts were before I claimed those mementos. Very useful they are in Nanna’s­ trade—use them in medicines and tonics I do. Also very good for divining futures. Would you like Nanna to see what lies in store for you, my twinkly dainty?”

  Unnerved and afraid, Liffidia advanced as far as she dared and said in a wavering voice, “It is forbidden for us to speak or have dealings with the likes of you.”

  “Oh, what upturned reasoning is that?” Nanna Zingara laughed. “Why, even the shy water ponies let me pat them and tickle their ears. Nanna is no enemy; every pocket of secret folk trusts her.”

  “We have far to journey,” Liffidia lied, eager to get away. “Our home is deep in the middle of the forest and there we must return. Tollychook, come here at once.”

  The dwarf put down her pipe and sighed despond
ently. “’Tis true then,” she croaked. “This is a sad place of fear and suspicion. My old friend was right; he told Nanna it were so. ‘Avoid it,’ he told her. ‘Rottenness has eaten it away.’ Oh, Smith, my friend, I should listen to your warning words.”

  “Smith?” Liffidia repeated. “Who … who do you mean?”

  Nanna Zingara fished a talisman from her bosom and held it up for them to see. It was a small effigy made from the brightest silver, a fire devil, but before she could say anything Tollychook spluttered in surprise, almost choking on a piece of bread.

  “It’s one of his!” he exclaimed. “One of the things he had in his cart! Only, more shiny like.”

  “You know the Wandering Smith?” the dwarf asked. “He an old crony of Nanna’s. Many times we tramped and traveled the road, he and she. Oh, the times we had. To hear him speak of this forest, though, I never did think he’d set foot here again. Hates it here he does. Gave this to me he did—Fikil, lord of the transforming heats. Fikil watches over me on the road and guides me on my way when I reach out with my mind’s eye on the spectral plane. Ah, yes, never has been and never will be a more skilled master of metal than Smith—genius of the forge. Iron, silver, and gold—all were like clay under his crafty hands.”

  Tollychook turned an unhappy face to Liffidia, and the girl wondered what to say.

  Reading their expressions, the gypsy sat back and clenched the talisman in her hand. “So,” she uttered in a flat, leaden voice, “Smith is gone. Dolo dolo dah, dearest of friends, no more will we meet under this sun or journey these roads together. Loyal and true you were, and Nanna’s days were the gladder for knowing you.”

  Bowing her head, she replaced the pipe between her lips and hummed a sorrowful tune.

  Tollychook did not feel hungry anymore, and Liffidia stroked Fly’s flank, shy of intruding upon so solemn a moment. Eventually it was the dwarf who said, “How did death take my iron-headed wanderer?”

  “Thorn monsters got him,” Tollychook cried. “’Normous, girt twiggy horrors, sent by the Queen Lady of the Hill.”