by Robin Jarvis
Mortified that he had blurted out so much, Liffidia hastily added, “Terrible things are happening here, but I don’t think we ought to speak of them so openly. If you really knew the Smith …”
“Nanna did, better than most. Very alike we were. Yes, I knew him, poor dear friend.”
“Then you may be the only one who can help us. I think we had best go see the elders.”
A short while later the werling girl was riding on her fox cub’s back with Tollychook ambling at their side. Into the wood they went, calling the other werlings down from the trees and, shambling after them, carrying a bag of her belongings, was the hunched figure of Nanna Zingara.
LEADING THE BOYS THROUGH THE woodland, Yoori Mattock first took them to the hazel tree where the young werlings learned the art of wergling. Before they had mastered the basic forms, small children were always conveyed to that place concealed beneath empty hedgehog skins, and there were still several of those prickly disguises strewn about the base of the hazel.
“If wergling can’t protect us no more,” Yoori said, hoisting one above his head and signaling to Gamaliel and Finnen to fall in behind, “and as Master Lufkin can’t manage to turn into so much as a field mouse, then we’ll have to make do with what we have. Traipsing about the wood can be a treacherous business at the best of times, but if we’re to reach Moonfire Farm, then we need to be specially careful.”
“Moonfire Farm?” Gamaliel piped up. “What’s that? Where is it?”
“Just get in, lad, and don’t trip over your feet. Crouch as low as you can so as not to make this beast look lankier than it ought and we’re ready.”
Moments later a disheveled-looking hedgehog was stumbling through the wood, headed south. Peeping out of the eyeholes, Yoori guided them and explained where they were headed.
“The only farm hereabouts lies beyond the Hagburn where it sweeps around eastward and outside the strangling trees of the forest. That has to be the one the Wandering Smith meant; there is nowhere else. Moonfire Farm it’s called—or was in former days.”
Finnen’s eyes shone in the stuffy gloom as he trudged along behind Gamaliel. “I’ve heard of that place,” he exclaimed. “My old nan knows tales of them big folk. She says that the farmer and his wife were friends with the hillmen and the farmer even went a-visiting in the Hollow Hill. But that was years and years ago now, and mortal folk don’t live very long. Must be gone to dust long since; there’s been no new stories from there for ages.”
“P’raps the Smith was friends with their children,” Gamaliel suggested.
Finnen was about to make an answer, but something crunched beneath his feet and he noticed that the woodland floor was littered with beechnuts. They were passing close to the Silent Grove, the sacred place where dead werlings were interred inside the beech trees. Those unfortunates massacred by the thorn ogres were now sealed within the bark for as long as this part of Hagwood flourished, or until the High Lady’s soldiers came to despoil it.
Finnen Lufkin bit his lip and said nothing. Only a week ago he had been considered to be one of the best werglers in the land, but it was all a cheat. His remarkable gift stemmed solely from chewing the bark of those very beeches, and he closed his eyes in shame until the ground under him altered and the Silent Grove was left behind. If the others were aware of his disquiet, they said nothing. Gamaliel was concentrating on not stepping on Yoori’s heels, and his back was already aching.
“We’re approaching the border,” Yoori announced, sighting a dense growth of fern, beyond which reared an almost impenetrable hedge of elder bushes.
Soon the hedgehog skin was pushing its way through the thicket, then, abruptly, it was through.
“Where are we?” Gamaliel asked, trying to peer over Yoori’s shoulder and see out the eyeholes.
“At the southernmost tip of werling land,” came the elder’s answer.
“Can we take a look?” Gamaliel begged. “We’ve never been this far south before.”
“Only if you’re quick about it. No, you oaf, not this way. Lift the edge of the skin and view it from there.”
The two boys knelt down and the hedgehog tilted strangely as their eager faces emerged beneath its prickles.
Tall grasses surrounded them, but they were at the top of a steep slope and the view through the swaying stems drew wondering breaths from them both. At the bottom of the bank ran the familiar trackway, but beyond that lay open wilderness. Lit by the afternoon sun, it was a lovely sight; small woods dotted a gently folded landscape through which the glittering threads of brooks and streams meandered wavering courses.
“That’s enough goggling,” Yoori declared. “We’ve still a little way to go yet.”
Gamaliel and Finnen withdrew back into the skin, and they began ambling down the slope. Keeping level with the track, they journeyed on, only leaving the safety of the grass when the path led to a moss-covered stone bridge that crossed the Hagburn. The noise of the gurgling water was a glad, careless sound, as though the stream were overjoyed to have escaped the deep threatening shadows of the forest. Compelled to use the bridge, the werlings scampered over it, and soon the rejoicing Hagburn was left behind.
Keeping the forest to their left, they hastened on. Behind that dark tangle of branch and bough lay the holly fence and, within its choking ramparts, stood the lair of Frighty Aggie. Yet only Finnen thought of her, and when he did, it was not fear he felt but pity and understanding. Then, just when Gamaliel thought he would never be able to straighten his spine again, Yoori halted and the boy bumped into him.
“There it is,” the elder said. “Moonfire Farm.”
Lifting the hedgehog’s snout off his head, he gazed before him, and Gamaliel and Finnen murmured under their breaths.
The path had widened to become an overgrown road, which spilled into a yard drowned in the shade of a farmhouse. Neither of the boys had ever seen a human dwelling and they marveled at the immense size. The weathered walls looked like sheer cliffs, and the chimneys were soaring towers. Gamaliel was still a little confused; he had continued to think of it as a far mouse, but there was nothing mouse shaped at all about that ominous structure. To his astonished eyes, it was a menacing fortress built by giants, and he instinctively shrank into the hedgehog skin. The whole place appeared brooding and hostile. Blank, shutterless windows seemed to be staring at him, and he wanted to turn and run.
“You’re not … not going to try to talk with them big people?” he asked in a timid whisper.
Surveying the building, Yoori sucked the air through his teeth and shook his head. “Not right,” he uttered. “All is far from well. Can’t you feel the melancholy that sits heavy on this place? Evil things have happened here.”
“Yes,” Finnen said with a shudder. “It’s horrible.”
“Even more reason to go back now,” Gamaliel cautioned. “Before they come thundering out to stomp on us.”
Yoori tutted at him. “Where are your wits, lad?” he asked. “Look again, but use your eyes and your brains this time.”
Gamaliel did not understand what he meant, but he obeyed and then, very slowly, he began to realize.
The farmhouse was in a sorry, dilapidated condition. Blackened with age, the thatch had rotted upon the roof and in some areas had disintegrated completely, exposing the rafters beneath. Weeds straggled from clogged gutters, and ivy climbed in at broken windows to trail up filthy curtains. Moss festered between the stonework, and around the entrance a rosebush had grown into a tall and monstrous cloud of barbs and needles, sending out jagged shoots that arced back to the ground. Neglect and desolation were everywhere. The shattered remnants of the front door were hanging from rusted hinges, and nettles reared around the step.
“There’s no one here,” Gamaliel murmured. “It’s empty.”
Casting off the hedgehog skin, they passed into the cold shadow of the farmhouse and crossed the yard in silence. At the step they paused and looked up at the broken door. Beyond the splintered wood th
e gloom-filled interior reeked of creeping damp. Thistles had pushed their way through the floor, and laths sagged from buckled ceilings. Plaster, blasted with mold, had crashed from the walls, and beetles burrowed in the crumbling powder left behind.
For a while the werlings remained before the threshold, staring at the dismal scene, and Gamaliel hoped they would not have to venture inside.
“Observe the marks of violence upon the entrance,” Yoori finally said, bringing their attention back to the shattered door. “See the deep gouges and scratches? This was smashed and battered in. Some foul and savage deed was committed here. Come, we must explore within.”
“I knew he was going to say that,” Gamaliel mumbled to Finnen.
On to the step they clambered, then into the drear house they warily made their way.
Throughout the building all was ruin and devastation. Wreckage filled each room; huge chairs lay in pieces, fragments of crockery covered the floor like a crazy mosaic, the range had been dragged out of the fireplace and the bricks behind clawed out and a pit dug beneath. It was obvious that a frightening, desperate search had taken place, and in many places ugly drawings had been carved on the backs of chairs or scrawled with charcoal over the walls. They were crude images of grinning mouths and squinting eyes, axes and spears dripping with blood and hideous screaming faces. In one room a large book with tissue-fine pages had been ripped and defaced, and, into the black leather binding, desecrating the title, the rough likeness of an owl had been scratched.
“The badge of the High Lady,” Finnen said, looking at the marks but unwilling to touch them. “Her soldiers did this. She must have suspected the Smith had hidden the casket here.”
Entering another ravaged room, Gamaliel tried to imagine what it was like before, when the farmer and his wife had lived there. In his mind he swept the rubble and weeds away and pictured it as best as he could. But it was all too immense for him to comprehend, and he thought of his own little room in the Tumpin Oak, with its cozy nest of moss and treasured collection of bric-a-brac. This enormous place was as unlike that snug space as anything he could think of, and he wished he were back at home.
Staring around him, however, he saw a small east-facing window and knew that it would have streamed with sunlight in the morning, kindling a joyous glow from the lime-washed plaster opposite.
“Might have been a cheery home once,” he said glumly.
Pushing through the thistles, Yoori discovered a heap of mildewed cloth next to a long upturned basket, which he climbed in order to survey the place. The afternoon was turning to evening, and shadows were spreading from every corner. Dusty webs dangled from the bulging ceiling far above, and woodlice chewed the rotting beams.
“Cheery once maybe,” he declared, “when hearth and candles were blazing, but not now. There was no wisdom in living so close to Hagwood. It was madness to settle near the unquiet forest, and the farmer compounded his folly by having dealings with the hillmen. Look where it brought him—death and disaster.”
“He got murdered?” Gamaliel cried, his voice rising to a squeak.
“The folk of the Hollow Hill are like flames,” Yoori said starkly. “One moment they can bathe you in delicious warmth, the next scorch and destroy you.”
Finnen ran his hands along the wickerwork of the great overturned basket. “But this must have happened many years ago,” he said. “The dust is thick as a morning’s snowfall.”
“I should think it was back when the Smith first stole the gold casket,” Yoori mused. “A long time ago, and the forest has grown darker and more deadly since.”
Suddenly Finnen uttered a desolate cry, snatched his hand away, and staggered back.
“What is it?” Yoori demanded.
“Are you bit?” Gamaliel gasped.
Finnen stumbled to the door. “The basket …” he spluttered. “Can’t you see what it is?”
Puzzled, Gamaliel tilted his head to one side and looked back at the unusual construction. His green eyes flicked over the long shape, but it was only when he saw the bundle of mildewed cloth nearby that he understood.
“It’s a crib,” he whispered, feeling sick. “Was a baby murdered here too?”
Hearing him, Yoori scrambled down and hastened to the doorway. “Let us leave this detestable place,” he said thickly.
In search of light and clean air they hurried from the farmhouse, but they were dismayed to find that the evening had deepened and they stood in the darkened courtyard shivering with revulsion.
“A wasted journey,” Yoori said, attempting to drive out the terrible thoughts running through their minds. “It was a vain hope on my part. Wherever the casket may be, it is not here.”
“Can we go home now?” Gamaliel asked.
“Yes,” Yoori said gently. “Our own homes and families, that is what we need more than anything. What the morrow may bring is another—”
His words halted abruptly, and, very slowly, he turned to stare beyond the edge of the courtyard. Nervously, Gamaliel did the same, and Finnen’s hand reached for Thimbleglaive.
A little distance away, near the collapsed wreck of an old cowshed, now overgrown with brambles and wild raspberries, there stood a ruined barn. It was more derelict than the farmhouse. One end of the roof had collapsed, bringing down a great corner of the stone wall. Yet it was not merely the sight of that decaying outbuilding that had silenced Yoori and drew their attention. Somewhere within that decaying shell a weird high voice was shrieking.
“Spike them! Slay them! Kill them!”
CHAPTER 3 *
SPRITES AND BOGLES
“’TIS THE HIGH LADY’S soldiers,” Gamaliel breathed, clutching his wergle pouch tightly. “A host of Redcaps and spriggans—come to murder us.”
“Run back to the Hagburn!” Finnen urged, thinking quickly. “They detest water. It’s our only chance.”
Both boys turned to flee, but Yoori called them back, and they were astonished to see that an amused expression had settled on his whiskery face.
“Twist their scruffy necks!” The shrill voice came crowing from the barn. “Bite their skulls and rip their heads off!”
“Host of Redcaps indeed,” Yoori said with a chuckle, walking toward the ruined outbuilding.
“Mr. Mattock!” Finnen called, thinking the elder had gone quite mad.
Yoori put a finger to his lips, telling the boys to keep quiet, and continued on his way.
“Lick out the brains!” the voice continued. “Squeeze out the blood and pulp the bones to powder.”
Flustered and afraid, Gamaliel wrung his hands. “What’s he doing?” he murmured.
From the barn an almighty uproar suddenly commenced as clattering bangs and shouts came ringing out across the yard. Yet even this did not deter Yoori, and he advanced with a bewildering confidence and a jaunty stride.
Only when he reached the immense entrance did he pause and press himself against the wall to peer around the corner and glance inside.
The raucous noise persisted, and soon Yoori was looking back to the others, beckoning them over.
“What’s he want us over there for?” Gamaliel asked. “He’s gone barmy.”
Finnen was not so certain. “Come on,” he said. “It must be safe.”
“Don’t sound it,” the other boy muttered.
Swiftly, they scooted across the yard, dived into the long grass that surrounded the barn, and were soon standing behind Yoori, desperate to know what was happening.
Yoori said nothing but crooked a finger for them to follow. Then he slipped around the wall and crept into the building.
Confounded, Finnen and Gamaliel warily went after him.
Within the barn the evening shadows had poured in through the broken walls. It was a cavernous space steeped in gloom, and Gamaliel blinked in puzzlement for there was no sign of any presence other than themselves.
Before them mountains of ancient and dirty straw reared high, and their noses itched from particles of swirli
ng dust that had been hurled into the air. But whatever had caused the riotous disturbance was nowhere to be seen.
Suddenly there came a fierce squeal, and a plump brown rat shot out from one of the farthest straw mounds. Immediately, the entire heap exploded, and a wiry figure burst after it, thrashing its arms and swooping through the air to land right on top of the rat to prevent its escape.
“Got him!” the high voice cried. “Got him! No more nibbling in the dark from this one—oh no. No more scritching and scratching in the dirt, no more noise, no more of his skittering din. Bite off his head and suck out the shiny peepers. Chomp them up and gulp them down.”
Holding the captured rodent aloft in both hands, the implike figure danced a sloppy jig in the straw, its long-toed bare feet sinking into the high drifts as it hopped and capered. Swinging the wriggling animal over its head, completely unaware of the werlings watching by the entrance, it skipped up a steep bank of hay then cartwheeled down again, shrieking with glee.
“Grimditch has him!” it crowed. “Sweet syrupy supper to chew and champ!”
Gamaliel stared at the creature fearfully, but Finnen was fascinated. In all the tales his grandmother had told him, he had never heard of anything like this, and he studied it with interest.
The shrill-voiced rat catcher was twice the height of Yoori Mattock, and, dressed in ragged garments as filthy as the surrounding straw. It had a starved and wretched appearance. As it danced and jabbered to itself, Finnen found it impossible to get a proper look at its face. Almost every feature was hidden beneath a shock of matted hair, and a wild, tangled beard obliterated the rest. Once he thought he caught a glimpse of a pointed nose, but it could just as easily have been a tongue.
Then, without warning, the madcap dance was over. The creature tumbled to his knees and hunched over the squirming rat.
“Now, little gnawer,” he taunted. “The time of your chewing is done. Grimditch won’t be kept awake by your nighttime nibbling, not no more.”
