Dark Waters of Hagwood

by Robin Jarvis

  Hearing their predicament stated so bluntly made the werlings more than uncomfortable, and forlorn murmurs spread throughout the gathering.

  Nanna tutted and shook her head, making the tassels of her scarf jiggle before her eyes. “Be not overafraid,” she announced. “Hope is not lost. I am here to give what help I can.”

  “Fat lot of use she’ll be,” Bufus mumbled. “Unless the hillmen are going to die laughing.”

  “With every respect, madam,” Irvinn Goilok began, “what assistance can you give? There is no solution to our plight, none whatsoever.”

  The gypsy clicked her tongue and reached for the bag she had brought from her caravan. “Have faith in Nanna,” she said. “There are always answers. Little folk do not know how to look for them, that is all. Lalala lillery.”

  As she bowed her head to search in her belongings, Bufus Doolan pulled a face and gave Liffidia a sharp nudge. “You’ve been had,” he smirked. “She’s nothing but a batty old washerwoman, and she’s rooting in her laundry to show us her best drawers. Hope they’re clean.”

  “Quiet,” Liffidia told him.

  As Nanna Zingara took a small wooden box from her bag, her dark, glittering eyes fell upon Bufus, and he caught his breath. There was a fierce light in her stare that made him shift uneasily, and he said no more.

  “Listen to me and take heart, tiny tree folk,” the gypsy resumed, opening the box and removing a pinch of the brightly colored powder contained within. “It pleases Nanna to do all she can for the Pucca’s friends. Many are the paths we trod together down the coiling years. I know more about your troubles than you can guess.”

  Removing the pipe from her lips, she held it out before her and sprinkled the colored grains into its bowl. At once the smoldering tobacco crackled and spat. With a splutter, the hazy blue smoke began to twist and spiral as though whisked by a sudden whirling wind. Then the smoke changed color as stripes of thick yellow vapor poured upward, creating a sulfurous, spinning column, lit from beneath by leaping golden flames.

  The werlings gasped, and those closest to the dwarf drew back. A dense cloud was forming over their heads, and brilliant sparks sizzled in its foggy heart.

  Muttering strange-sounding words, Nanna Zingara lifted the silver amulet of Fikil from around her neck and twirled it in her fingers.

  “Show them,” she called aloud. “Reveal to us the dark secret of the deathless Lady. By the transforming power of the Puccas’ forge, the fiery forces that shape and create, I entreat you.”

  The cloud stirred. Wisps of vapor started to fall away like thistledown, landing gently among the werlings, who reeled backward and coughed with surprise, blinking in awe at the spectacle above them.

  “She’s a witch!” someone cried.

  One particularly dense shred of smoke floated down and settled over Tollychook, covering him completely. The alarmed boy flapped his arms and huffed and puffed the choking mist away until he was out of breath and his face had turned beetroot.

  “I doesn’t like this,” he panted. “She’m scarifying me.”

  The other werlings agreed with him. Their apprehension was turning to fear, and when they managed to wrench their gaze from the cloud above, they saw that the gypsy was trembling and her face scrunched up in fierce concentration.

  “She’s magicking up a hobgoblin!” came a frightened squeal. “A fire devil to scorch and eat us up.”

  Many of the werlings rose and began to edge away, but the others were transfixed by the sight of the blazing sparks that were now spinning furiously, and the crackling golden glare shone down upon their upturned faces.

  Faster and faster whirled the brilliant flashing specks, forming a globe of spitting flame. High over their heads it blazed, casting long shadows around them, and the leaves on the surrounding trees were like tiny mirrors for the gypsy’s magic and seemed to burn with green fire.

  “Reveal it to us!” Nanna Zingara cried. “Disclose the secret long hid from view. Let us see what must be found!”

  There was a flash and a great sizzling shower of sparks. The werlings shrieked then gasped in wonder.

  Hanging in the air above them, shining and slowly revolving, was the image of a round, golden casket.

  The dwarf drew a long breath then returned the pipe to her lips as she eyed the vision keenly.

  “This is the last great work of the Puccas,” she declared. “The box of enchantments that our friend the Smith stole away from the Hollow Hill and hid. Mark it well, my shy tree folk, for it is your only hope. You must recover this thing and destroy what it contains—the beating heart of the High Lady.”

  The assembly muttered unhappily, but the gypsy clicked her tongue and rapped the bowl of her pipe upon the trunk of the tree she sat beneath.

  “No time for woefuls and whingey glums!” she told them. “This is your only choice. The Queen of Faerie will be coming, doubt not the strength of Her powers, nor the bitter hatred that fills the space where Her heart once was. She will kill you all and this corner of the forest will be laid waste, your homes uprooted and burned on the bone fires of Her anger. You have squandered too much time already. She is mighty as a wild, raging storm—to Her you are nothing, and soon all of you will die.”

  There was an awful silence, broken only by the spitting of the sparks overhead. Nanna Zingara gazed at the image of the casket with a sorrowful expression on her wrinkled face. Then she waved her hand, pursed her lips, and blew.

  Like the seeds of a fiery dandelion clock, the vision scattered. Brilliant sparks went tumbling through the air, and the shape of the casket broke into a thousand dazzling fragments that floated away through the wood and were lost.

  Beneath the trees the glorious light dimmed and was extinguished. Suddenly the brightness of the spring evening appeared dull and chill, and the werlings shivered.

  It was some time before anyone spoke.

  Rising to her feet, Diffi Maffin cleared her throat. “What can we do?” she asked in a trembling voice. “We cannot find this thing, and we are too small to contest the might of the High Lady. We must all leave, run from our homes, find other lands far away from Hagwood.”

  The others nodded wildly, and some were already preparing to go pack whatever belongings they could carry.

  “Stay!” Nanna Zingara called out.

  The werlings halted and were surprised to see that her dark eyes were glittering, and a strange smile was twitching on her wrinkled lips.

  “There is a chance,” the gypsy said in a soft, secretive voice. “One chance for you small folk to bring about the ruin of the Faerie Queen, shake the very roots of Her realm in the Hollow Hill and be free from the fear of Her forever.”

  Irvinn Goilok wrung his hands. “What is this chance?” he asked. “The Smith’s secret perished with him.”

  Nanna Zingara chuckled to herself. “It did,” she agreed. “It did, but Hagwood is not like other places. Little tree folk do not know this, but in the world outside there are many tales and legends of their home, whispered fears and unquiet rumors. That is why no one treads the old tracks that run by the eaves of this wood: people have heard and they believe—I, Nanna Zingara, also believe.”

  “What do you believe?” Diffi Maffin asked.

  The dwarf’s eyes gleamed more brightly still, and her gaze roamed over everyone gathered before her.

  “Enchantment flows beneath these trees like summer breezes,” she said quietly. “Deep within the forest there are secret pockets where those magical forces swirl and collect like water in deep puddles. As wells of power are they, waiting for someone to put a cup to their lips and drink. Very ancient are those sites, and they have sat through the tireless ages whilst saplings rose and flourished then died around them. Oh, yes, Nanna believes—she believes in the Pool of the Dead.”

  The werlings stared at her. No one understood what she meant, no one that is except Finnen’s grandmother.

  The old lady gasped and gripped the sides of her wicker chair tightly.
“But that is only a legend,” she cried. “By the blessed beeches, you cannot …”

  “Only a legend?” Nanna Zingara laughed. “Yet here am I speaking to a mythical people in a land ruled by the deathless Lady. Mock not old tales for they are always born from seeds of truth.”

  Many of the werlings looked to Finnen’s grandmother. “What is the Pool of the Dead?” they asked her.

  She hesitated before making any answer. There was a store of forgotten stories locked in her memory, and she had told most of them to her grandson. She wondered if she had ever told him this one.

  “In the heart of the forest,” she began, “there is a ring of Dooit Stones, not as tall as the Hag’s Finger, more like the stumps of fallen trees. In the center of that circle there is a pool of black water. It is said that the souls of those who have died violent deaths are drawn to that haunted place and, when called upon, can speak with the living.”

  Nanna Zingara rocked on her haunches and drew deeply on her pipe. “That is so!” she crowed. “That is so!”

  The werlings shivered. Liffidia hugged Fly tightly and buried her face in his warm coat. Beside them, Tollychook squeezed his nose and shut his eyes. He didn’t want to think that such a horrible place existed and promised himself never ever to go looking for it.

  Irvinn Goilok uttered a cry of dismay. “You … you’re going to call upon the spirit of the Wandering Smith!” he exclaimed.

  “Ho ha!” the gypsy laughed, jangling her bracelets in jubilation. “That is our great chance! My old friend, he will tell to Nanna where this golden treasure is hid!”

  With a kick of her skirts, she rose and clapped her hands together. “There is no more time to waste,” she declared. “From now on every moment is precious. I go now to hitch up my donkey and deep into the forest we will go. Who will come with us?”

  “Go with you?” Diffi Maffin cried. “Into that wild, dark place? What use would any of us be there?”

  The dwarf stooped to answer her.

  “It is many years since last I spoke with my friend the Smith,” she said. “To call his shade from the depths of the pool, I will need other voices he knew. Who here spoke with him the longest? Who here did he befriend?”

  Tollychook gave a small whimper, and the hackles rose on Fly’s neck as he sensed the fear creeping over Liffidia.

  “There must be one!” Nanna Zingara continued. “Which of you was with him most?”

  Irvinn Goilok cleared his throat. “That would be young Gamaliel Tumpin and Finnen Lufkin,” he told her.

  The gypsy let out a delighted cackle and glanced searchingly about the gathering. “Then why do they delay?” she called. “Come, come to my wagon. We must be gone!”

  “They are not here,” Irvinn announced. “They have not been seen since this morning. We do not know where they have gone. Our chief elder, Yoori Mattock, is with them. It is most unlike him to disappear like this. We are terribly worried.”

  The gleam dimmed in Nanna Zingara’s eyes. “You have searched for them?” she asked.

  “Oh, indeed we have, but they are nowhere to be found.”

  Just then Gamaliel’s father jumped up and shouted excitedly. “But that’s it, don’t you see? That’s where Finnen and Mr. Mattock have gone—to the Pool of the Dead. They must have had the same idea!”

  “Oh, Gamaliel!” the boy’s mother cried in dismay. “What will become of him and our Kernella?”

  Everyone agreed. It was the only possible explanation.

  Diffi Maffin gave a snort of disgust. “I’m shocked at Mr. Mattock,” she said, with a shake of her stick. “Most irresponsible behavior. He should have consulted the rest of the council before taking such rash and reckless action. So unlike him.”

  “Maybe,” Nanna Zingara said uncertainly. “But the forest is dangerous for little folk on their own. Nanna must go, she must find them.”

  Hastily, she picked up her bag and whirled about, but just as she was about to depart a young voice called out.

  “But what if Gammy and Yawny Mattock don’t make it to the pool?”

  The gypsy paused and turned slowly to see Bufus Doolan standing with his arms folded and his freckled face scrunched into an impudent scowl.

  The other werlings were shushing him and telling him to sit down, but he ignored them all and continued: “If Finnen and the rest of that sorry lot croak it out there in the forest, then you’ll still be needing other voices that the smelly Smith knew,” he yelled. “There were others he spoke to, you know. Others he spent a lot of time with.”

  A curious smile spread over the dwarf’s face, and her brows bunched together.

  “Who else?” she asked.

  Bufus gave a harsh laugh and pointed at Tollychook and Liffidia. “Them two!” he shouted. “They were in the forest by Frighty Aggie’s lair with the Smith for ages—just as long as he was with Finnen and Gammy Dumpface. Why don’t you take them with you?”

  A horrified squeal erupted from Tollychook, and he stared at Bufus as though the Doolan boy had kicked him.

  “I ain’t goin’ nowhere!” he howled. “I ain’t goin’ to no dead pool and talk to no ghosties. Never eat again I wouldn’t. Fright the very skin off me it would!”

  Nanna Zingara held out her grubby hands and smiled encouragingly. “My two young friends,” she cooed. “Of course. You are not both scared of Nanna? What fun we shall have. Why do you linger? Time runs out. You must come to save all little tree folk.”

  Still twining her fingers through Fly’s fur, Liffidia rose slowly and stared hard at the Doolan boy before fixing her gaze upon Nanna Zingara. Then, in a small but determined voice, she said, “I will come with you. I will call upon the Smith at the Pool of the Dead.”

  Murmurs of astonishment and admiration rippled around her, and Bufus Doolan sniggered to himself.

  But a moment later even he was silenced when Tollychook Umbelnapper lumbered to his feet and, wringing his hands wretchedly, burbled, “I doesn’t want to go, I really doesn’t. But if she’m havin’ to, then I shouldn’t stay behind. I’ll come an’ all!”

  And with that he blew his nose on his sleeve.

  CHAPTER 6 *

  THE LAIR OF THE CANDLE SPRITE

  DOWN AND DOWN THE CANDLE sprite had taken Kernella. Plunging through the bottomless reaches of the pond, its blood-colored light glimmering in the suffocating dark like a watery comet. Deep the monster dived, kicking its powerful legs and thrashing its long, scaly tail.

  Gripped in its webbed claws, with her eyes clamped shut, the werling girl could feel her lungs straining in her chest. A trail of tiny bubbles streaked from her nostrils, and she knew that her life would soon be over. The water was icy cold, and she felt a deathly chill enter her flesh, numbing her bones and clouding her mind. Perhaps it was better to drown, she thought groggily, rather than be ripped apart in this nightmare’s jaws.

  A sudden lurch jolted her, and the candle sprite seemed to veer aside and was now swimming horizontally. But it was too late for Kernella to care. The last gasp of air had left her lungs, and her mouth opened in the deep, filling with water.

  Blurred thoughts tumbled into her head as she struggled, confused bright pictures of her small life that whirled behind her eyes. Some were vague shapes linked to distant memories and emotions whereas others were dazzling and clear. Many faces flitted across her drowning mind, but the one that brought her the most comfort and the one she tried to keep sharp in her final moments was an image of her father, Figgle Tumpin, dancing around their oak tree, wearing his ludicrous squirrel tail. Kernella had always hated it, but now she wanted to die with that harmless silliness uppermost in her thoughts. All sensation ebbed from her limbs, and even the surrounding cold was forgotten. Her time was over.

  Suddenly all was noise and chaos as the hooked, webbed claw that gripped her thrust the girl from the water and Kernella was flung from the candle sprite’s grasp. Briefly, she flew through empty air then hit bare rock and slumped to a craggy floor.

/>   The brutal landing saved the girl’s life. Spluttering, she coughed and retched up the foul water she had swallowed, then she lay on her side, gasping and filling her lungs. The air was stale, but it roused her wits, and she lifted her head to see where the fiend had brought her.

  Through a bleary haze she discovered that she was sprawled upon a wide stone ledge inside a low-roofed cave. All around, weird shapes jutted upward or formed rough, broken cages. Kernella shuddered as she realized that they were the old gnawed bones of the candle sprite’s previous victims.

  Then the monster rose from the water before her. It was a hideous spectacle lit by the fierce glare of the horn that branched from its skull. The sharklike teeth parted and came ravening down, and from the great black-speckled throat blasted a reek of death and watery decay. Kernella threw her hands before her face and screamed.

  In that instant a shining splinter of light burst from the water, and the enchanted knife of the Wandering Smith shot upward, with Finnen still clutching tight.

  Gulping for air, the boy lost no time and swung his arm around so that Thimbleglaive sliced into the horror’s cheek.

  The candle sprite bellowed. Dark blood poured over its shoulders, and it lunged sideways to strike the werling down.

  Dodging the hooked, webbed claws, Finnen kicked against the cave wall and leaped under one mighty, scale-covered arm, holding the bright blade high over his head. Deep into the pale flesh it bit, and the monster shrieked in rage and pain.

  The uproar was deafening. Kernella clamped her hands to her ears and pressed herself against the rocky wall as the terrible fight continued.

  Hurling himself forward, Finnen caught hold of the candle sprite’s slippery hair, pulled himself up on to the creature’s thick neck, and gripped the knife tightly as he prepared to strike.

  But the monster thundered in defiance and twisted and turned with such sudden violence that the boy was flung off balance and fell backward, tumbling into a mountain of old bones. Brittle ribs cracked beneath him, and his elbow struck a moldering goat’s skull with such force that his fist sprang open and Thimbleglaive dropped from his grasp.