Dark Waters of Hagwood

by Robin Jarvis

  With the rat’s tail whipping frenziedly against his dirty arms, the figure shifted in the straw, and the werlings finally saw his face.

  A jungle of bristles and whiskers covered the cheeks and chin so profusely that when the red-lipped mouth was closed it could not be found. It was an untidy bird’s nest of a countenance, containing a nose-shaped egg and two wild, swiveling eyes that could revolve in their sockets quite independently of each other. When the pupils ceased spinning, they slid to a stop and locked into position, glaring at the rat’s trembling form.

  “My turn to chew,” he cooed, blowing the shivering animal a gloating kiss. “Tonight me make orphans of your chattering kin.” With that he opened his mouth and popped the rodent inside, head first.

  “Spit it out!” Yoori yelled immediately. “Go on—set the poor thing free.”

  Astounded and horrified, Grimditch leaped into the air. The large eyes rolled madly until they fixed upon the werlings, and his jaw dropped open to let out a ghastly scream.

  At once the rat fell from his lips and pelted into the concealing shadows the instant it touched the straw.

  “No no no no no no!” Grimditch wailed, gabbling in terror as Yoori approached. “Begone, get out—go. This is my place; you won’t want it. You can’t sleep, too much din, too many squeakers, but no, not enough for all of you to gnash on.”

  “Hold your tongue!” Yoori snapped, and his tone was so severe that the creature cowered back and actually gripped his tongue between his dirty fingers.

  “I won’t take such impertinence from the likes of you! My name is Yoori Mattock. I sit on the werling council, and you’re naught but a base barn bogle. How dare you speak to me like that?”

  Grimditch shuddered and cringed even farther away. “One of those vicious skin swappers!” he howled, jabbing a grubby finger at the wergle pouch that hung from the elder’s neck. “Keep back. You’ll not pluck out my beard to put in your nasty bag.”

  “Be silent till I give you leave to speak!” Yoori commanded, sounding dangerously fierce.

  Gamaliel and Finnen were very impressed by him. They did not know that this was the only proper way to deal with barn bogles.

  Yoori stomped right over and glowered up into Grimditch’s hairy face. “I’ve questions to put to you,” he said forcefully. “Answer me truthfully or I’ll wergle into something so frightening that you’ll be bald by moonrise.”

  “Anything!” Grimditch wailed, burying his face in the straw to avoid meeting Yoori’s eyes. “Don’t shout, don’t do your skin changing, don’t go scaring me.”

  Yoori folded his arms. “When did your sorry bones first start skulking in this barn and claim it as your own?” he demanded.

  “Can’t remember,” came the muffled and sorrowful reply. “Many nights of nibblings ago. Always there they are, chittering and scrabbling, keeping poor Grimditch awake and him having to listen. Hundreds of tiny feet pattering this way and that, up on the beams or in the walls, rustling in the straw and squeaking, always squeaking.”

  “Enough of that,” Yoori said. “Tell me, were the farmer and his family here then?”

  “Farmer?” the barn bogle repeated, running the word over his tongue like a forgotten but familiar taste.

  “The big folk in yonder dwelling.”

  Grimditch lifted his head from the straw, and his wide eyes twirled about the enclosing shadows. He had lived in the barn for a long time, and some memories were painful to recall. But slowly his eyes swung into their correct positions, and, in a mournful drawl, he said, “Yes, Grimditch was here then. Snugger in them days this place were, not so many drafts and aches—what with fresh bedding every year. Nowhere near so many of them long-tooth, wormtail horrors neither. Ah, an’ there were pusskins in them days, two fat pusskins to keep them in their places. Faster than me they was, better at pouncing and catching. Me liked the pusskins.”

  “The farmer,” Yoori persisted. “What happened to him?”

  The barn bogle closed one eye and cradled his head in his hands as he dredged an image from the cluttered loft of his mind. “Broad and tall Him were,” he whispered. “Great big feller with a hat and mud on His boots and ever with some pole or blade in His grasp for digging or cutting. Always hid from Him did Grimditch, high in rafter or under hay. Him never saw me, but Him knewed I was here. Spoke to me, Him did, gruffed and louded all sorts of things.”

  “What things?”

  “Oh, what Him hoped harvest would be,” Grimditch said, lifting his face as he enjoyed thinking on those far-off days. “What were happenin’ to Him and His, which cow weren’t givin’ her usual milky or askin’ where an egg or three might’ve gone. Swore at me, Him did, fer that, but Grimditch never took no more than four mouthfuls and didn’t never like suckin’ eggs anyways. Ah, but me were always so polite to the pretty cows with their brown eyes as big as my fists and lush, curly lashes. Them never grudged a drop of some milky, and me braided their tails as a thankin’ an’ put elder flowers behind their ears to keep flies clear.”

  “Never mind that,” Yoori continued. “Tell me more about the farmer and his wife.”

  The barn bogle scratched his beard and cast his roving glance to the tattered rags that barely covered his bony frame. “Made them fer me She did,” he said with an unexpected and ardent tenderness. “There it was one morny, laid out on the straw, the bonniest trimmy rig-out me ever clapped eyes on—an’ all fer me. A natty shirt and breeks with a coat and scarf to keep out the nip. Pricked and sewed with Her own clean hands them were. How handsome were that? Didn’t deserve what happened to Her, none of them did.”

  “And what was that?”

  Grimditch shook his head and turned away in sullen defiance.

  “Tell me!” Yoori ordered.

  “Me not want.”

  Yoori seized hold of the barn bogle’s beard and gave a hefty tug, forcing the creature to yelp and gawk at him.

  “I warn you!” the elder shouted. “My two young friends here and I are quite capable of wergling into venomous serpents. Do you want us to bite you with poisoned fangs and tighten our coils ’round your filthy neck?”

  “Spare me!” Grimditch howled, groveling before him. “Don’t wormicate, don’t go biting. Always nibbling, everywhere gnawing and chewing of teeth, but not me—don’t feast on me.”

  “Well then, be a good beast. What happened here?”

  The barn bogle looked across at Finnen and Gamaliel and eyed them fearfully.

  “Were a night like now,” he eventually mumbled. “But late in the year. The forest nigh had gotten danksome and groolier. Farmer, He didn’t think on it but She, with the clean hands and milky arms, weren’t easy. ’Round their hearth they’d sit an’ me’d hear them argufying, wanted to pack up and go She did—almost went once with the infant. Should have ran then, Missus—ran and not looked back.”

  Choking back a sob, Grimditch faltered, and Yoori waited impatiently for him to continue.

  “Yes, a night like this. From the pond behind the cowshed it came—a soul-letting voice a-singin’ a song that would squeeze tears from iron and make the stones bawl. Oh, it hurt the heart, and me was nearly too slow to stop the ears. Knew what it was me did, and horrored awful. But Farmer, Him didn’t know. From His hearth He came, with Her a-clingin’ on, begging Him back. Closed the door on Her, He did, and Her white face went racing to the winder a-callin’ and cryin’, but were no good. ’Cross the yard He bowled, lured on by the darling song. Me sees Him go and yelled some of me own.

  “‘Clap your ears!’ I hollered and scaddled out to hop in front. Might have drove Him back too if, at that selfsame moment, He hadn’t see’d the light dancin’ over the pond.”

  Grimditch looked out through the ruined entrance. The evening had turned to night, and he hugged himself tightly.

  “Never follow wispin’ lights,” he murmured. “Us all knows that, but not Farmer. Me saw Him go a-paddlin’ to His ankles in the water with the gleam and beam flittin’ before H
is face and that voice a-singin’ the whole while. To His waist he wades an’ then it had Him. Out the deep it splashes, and He were gone.”

  “What had him?” Gamaliel cried, unable to keep quiet any longer.

  The barn bogle raked his fingers through the tats of his hair and in a woeful whimper said, “The candle sprite. It were that what got Him, trawled down into the dark drink he was—boots an’ hat an’ all.”

  “What’s a candle sprite?” Finnen asked.

  “You durn’t want to know,” came the sharp reply. “Can’t put none of he in your fancy bags. Get you, it will, if you stop hereabouts. Often me hears his jamsweet singin’ from the pond. Tries to bait me he do; well, Grimditch ain’t shiftin’, not never. Me stay here with the noisy nibblers in the dark and stuff straw in lugs when the light goes floatin’.”

  Yoori rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “And was it this pond fiend who smashed its way into the farmhouse?” he asked.

  “No, not he,” Grimditch answered. “Him never leaves the wet, but what happened to Missus were only short whiles after Farmer were snatched. Heard them yippin’ from the forest me did, a gang of sharp-tooth vilies with red hats. Fast an’ fleet they came, with spear an’ sword, an’ She with the clean hands an’ milky arms were a-shriekin’ behind Her door till they beat an’ battered it in.”

  “And then?”

  “Dragged Her out they did an’ … an’ slew Her on the step with their blades and spears. When it was done, over Her deadness they jumped an’ went berserkin’ in. Whoop an’ roar they spreed in there, a-rabblin’ an’ slammin’ fer what seemed half the night. Then it dawned quiet an’ them killers barged out. Three rushed to fetch the goat an’ cows from the shed an’ led them off into the forest while others ran the hens till they burst their hearts. Even the pusskins were catched an’ skewered on spikes. Here was me hidin’ and frighted for me own neck, yet none put his foul head in here.”

  Grimditch halted, and his round eyes sparkled with brimming tears. “A hex upon them, tooth and straw,” he spat in a thick, trembling voice. “S-some of that crew whipped off their hats, an’ wiped and washed them in the blood they had spilled from Her as she lay slumped cold outside Her own door. Drove me ragin’ that did. But my skriekin’ was covered by another as out marched four of those grinning loathlies, an’ carried in their long arms were the babby.”

  “The farmer’s child?” Yoori broke in. “What did the Redcaps do to it?”

  Grimditch stared mournfully at his toes. “Same as the cows an’ goat,” he said. “Bore it into the forest while more carted Her off to slice up an’ put in their pots.”

  “Horrible,” Gamaliel uttered. “Did they … did they eat the baby as well?”

  The barn bogle was too upset to answer, but it was Finnen who said, “You know they didn’t. Don’t you see? When we saw the Trooping Rade a few nights ago, the farmer’s child was the infant on the High Lady’s lap.”

  “Throughout these long years,” Yoori grunted angrily, “that heartless tyrant has kept it from aging a mortal day, and she has been nourished by its life and innocence. If only we could destroy that dark witching Lady.”

  The werlings fell silent.

  “One last question,” Yoori said. “Did you see a Pucca pass this way four days since?”

  Grimditch nodded. “Heard him in the yard, so me hid in shady corner, quiet as death. Him not stay long.”

  “He didn’t go looking for anything? Not in the farmhouse or anywhere else?”

  “No, just bid sad good-bye to the memory of poor dead Farmer an’ Missus then cut into the forest.”

  The elder turned to the youngsters. “As I feared,” he declared. “Our excursion has been a waste of time. How did I permit myself to believe in such a futile hope?”

  “We really should be getting back,” Finnen said, glancing out at the darkness. “I don’t like it here.”

  “Little skin swappers go now?” the bogle asked, his voice whining with regret. “Leave me to nibbling and squeaking? Poor Grimditch, on his lone again.”

  Yoori raised a hand in farewell. “But that is the life of a barn bogle,” he said, smiling at him for the first time. “You are solitary haunters of ruined halls and stables, making mischief when you can. This is as fine a place as any for such as you; indeed, I doubt you would ever find better.”

  Grimditch grumbled into his beard, and his eyes turned in opposite directions.

  “Good-bye,” Finnen called.

  “Yes,” Gamaliel added, not knowing what else to say to so bizarre a creature. “Good-bye.”

  Yoori trudged back to the others, and Grimditch settled down into the straw. “Keep clear of the pond!” the bogle cried. “If skin swappers hear the singin’ or spy the bobbin’ light, close your peepers and scaddle back to your trees with no stoppin’.”

  “We will,” Yoori promised. “And don’t you let those rats keep you—”

  His counsel went unsaid for, at that moment, they all heard a familiar voice calling out in the yard.

  “Finnen! Finnen, where are you?”

  Gamaliel puffed out his cheeks and scowled crossly. “Kernella!” he hissed.

  “What’s she doing here?” Finnen asked in surprise.

  “Only gone and followed us, that’s what—sneaky madam. Always bargin’ in, doing her best to boss and be clever.”

  Looking out of the entrance, they peered into the darkness that swamped the farm, but it was impossible to see her. Clouds covered the moon and stars so the world was raven black, and at the edge of the night-swallowed yard the great shape of the farmhouse stood blacker still.

  “Silly girl,” Yoori tutted. “There won’t be room in our hedgehog skin for all of us on the return journey. Really, young Tumpin, why is your sister so headstrong?”

  “Finnen Lufkin!” the girl’s voice barked through the inky night. “Ages I been waitin’ out here. What you doin’?”

  “We’ll have to go to her,” Finnen urged. “She might get scared on her own.”

  “Not our Kernella,” Gamaliel stated.

  Behind them, the barn bogle covered his face with his hands and rocked from side to side. “Not clever to make so loud out there,” he gibbered. “Little skin swappers, fly; tell her to quiet and shush. Wake it she will, bring him up for certain.”

  “FINNEN!” Kernella yelled again.

  “No no no no no!” Grimditch yelped. “Must shut the noise. Close it quick!”

  Staring back at him, Yoori saw the genuine terror shining in those goggling eyes. “Hurry, lads,” he ordered, ushering the boys out of the barn. “We must run and find her. Our friend here is right. She must be silenced.”

  “Hasn’t been a wasted day after all,” Gamaliel chuckled.

  Then the mirth died on his lips.

  In the barn Grimditch yowled and grasped handfuls of straw, which he pushed into his large ears. “Me not listen! Me not listen!” he shrieked. “Clap your lugs, don’t hark, don’t hark!”

  But the werlings had already heard it. Beyond the fragmented remains of the old cowshed and carried on damp airs that reeked of deep, weed-filled waters drifted a most beautiful, plaintive sound. Out there, in the night, a beguiling voice was singing. They could not make out the words, but each note was a captivating enchantment, and Gamaliel caught his breath while Finnen wanted to charge blindly into the dark to let the song surround him.

  Yoori bowed his head, and he ached inside as joy and grief battled in his breast. The music was too perfect, a yearning anthem of bliss that promised every desire and teased forgotten dreams from the soul.

  Without thinking, Yoori began walking toward the sound, and Finnen threw his arms wide to go racing ahead and lose himself in that delicious embrace. Only Gamaliel remained still, transfixed and awestruck like a stunned sparrow. Then the light appeared.

  Behind the sparse reeds that grew about the pond, a pale radiance rose, a soft glow that floated above the water, flickering with a delicate blue-and-pink flame.

/>   “I’m here!” Finnen wept. “Wait for me.” And he sprang forward, desperate to join the song and the light.

  Petrified, Gamaliel could only watch as Yoori stumbled after him, and the song continued until even his own feet began to shuffle beneath him, bearing the boy toward the pond.

  Suddenly a violent punch in the back knocked him off balance, and he fell to the ground with a wail as a dark shape leaped over his head.

  “No no no no no!” the barn bogle shrieked, bounding across the yard in pursuit of the others. “Not go to candle sprite! Away—away!”

  Catching up with Yoori, Grimditch kicked the elder’s legs from under him then hared after Finnen without pause, flapping his arms and jabbering with panic.

  Leaving the yard behind him, Finnen Lufkin jumped into the grass that led down to the reed-fringed pond. The bewitching music was all around him now, and the entrancing light was so close he could see its glimmering reflection in the water beyond the reeds.

  The boy gave a jubilant laugh. Then, to his dismay, he was plucked off his feet and an instant later found himself being dragged backward with the barn bogle’s hands clamped against his ears.

  “Not hit me!” Grimditch cried, battling to tow the wildly struggling werling back across the yard.

  “The singing …” Finnen pleaded. “I must … the flame …” But already the spell was dissolving, and the realization of what he had been about to do overwhelmed him.

  His struggles ceased, and he stared up at the barn bogle, horrified. “Thank you,” he gasped, putting his own hands over his ears and staggering to his feet. “I couldn’t stop myself. I didn’t know what I was doing.”

  Hurrying back to the barn, they discovered Yoori and Gamaliel huddled against the wall, shaking with fear.

  “I can’t shut it out,” Yoori cried, screwing the corners of his cape into his ears. “Will it never stop?”

  Grimditch licked his fingers, and his eyes rolled frantically. “Not now,” he warbled. “All night him’ll sing and wave the pretty light. Only when him catches prey does he stop. Me told you, naughty skin swappers, run from candle sprite.”