Dark Waters of Hagwood

by Robin Jarvis

  “Lalla liddle lolo,” the gypsy sang to herself as she lit a lantern that hung from the caravan’s roof.

  “Night is coming,” she said as golden shapes of moons and stars flooded from the lantern’s pierced sides and across her face. “We must be wary, little befrienders. Hagwood is no place to be abroad in the dark. Hostile eyes are everywhere; remember the High Lady has spies all around. When we cross the Hagburn into the wild part of the forest, it would be better if you hid from sight.”

  Tollychook let out a wretched groan and wished he’d never volunteered to come on this deadly errand. He was certain he’d be murdered in the most horrible manner imaginable and hurriedly ate two more biscuits to comfort himself.

  The caravan trundled on its way. Running along the grassy bank beside them, Fly the fox cub glanced across at Liffidia and was reassured. He hated being away from her and would not be left behind. In its cage the dwarf’s goldfinch was silent but eyed the fox warily and refused to go to sleep on its perch.

  The trees began to grow more densely on either side of the track, and soon a tall standing stone reared into view upon the right.

  “That’s the Hag’s Finger,” Liffidia said. “They say the Dooits put it there thousands of years ago. No one knows why, not even Finnen’s grandmother.”

  “Let us hope it is not the last Dooit Stone we see this night,” the gypsy said. “Remember, the Pool of the Dead lies within a circle of them.”

  “How long will it take us to reach it?” Liffidia asked.

  Nanna Zingara tilted her head to one side and sucked her teeth. “If luck rides with us,” she began, “then who knows? Nanna does not. All she can do is follow this grassy path and pray Fortune smiles and guides us on our quest.”

  “Listen,” Liffidia whispered.

  It was the sound of running water. They were drawing near to the Hagburn.

  “Nanna hears,” the gypsy muttered. “The safe part of our journey is ending, and we cross into the untame forest. There is a bed and blankets in Nanna’s caravan for little befrienders to hide in.”

  The donkey pulled them over a turf-covered bridge and the rushing stream that flowed below.

  Tollychook was inside the caravan before they reached the other bank. He buried his head beneath a woolen blanket, dragging two bags of food with him to munch under the covers.

  Liffidia peered into the gloom around them. Already the trees on this side of the stream appeared grim and unfriendly; their exposed roots seemed to be throttling one another. She strained her eyes to see where Fly had got to.

  The fox cub was now a fleeting shred of night, glimpsed running in and out of the shadows and leaping over fallen stumps. For an instant, two golden eyes gleamed fondly at her. Liffidia smiled then followed Tollychook inside.

  The interior of the caravan was painted just as colorfully as the outside. It was tiny and cramped, but Nanna Zingara had filled every available space with her possessions. There were shelves crammed with books and ornaments. Brightly decorated plates hung on the walls, and upon a small wood-burning stove a large geranium grew out of an apple-green jug. Liffidia gazed around at this happy jumble and made herself comfortable on the little bed.

  The caravan continued on its way. It was a strange, rattling sight in that wild part of the world where only the hillmen and other strange creatures set foot. Nanna Zingara put her pipe to her crabbed lips and pondered on what awaited them.

  “Who knows, Little Emperor,” she addressed the goldfinch. “Who knows what will be done this night and what will finally be learned, after all these years of doubt.” And she began chuckling softly to herself.

  CAPTAIN GRITTLE LICKED HIS FANGS and twanged his fleshy nose. Something strange was out here in the forest; he didn’t need a Redcap’s acute sense of smell to tell him that.

  The High Lady had been shut up in her chamber throughout the day and would suffer none to enter. Her bodyguards had kicked their heels outside and grumbled to one another before they fell asleep and sank to the floor with the wall to their backs.

  When the sun had set below the summit of the Hollow Hill, and the inhabitants began to stir, Captain Grittle had leaped to his feet and leered threateningly at any courtiers who wandered by.

  The Hollow Hill was a dangerous place. Treason and treachery bred in the shadows, and no one was safe.

  Calling to his Queen through the locked door and receiving no answer, the spriggan had cursed and grumbled. She would remain in there all night, and he was itching to be outside. Something was brewing out there in the forest; he could feel it in his bones, and his large ears were tingling. That was always a very bad sign.

  “I’m a-tellin’ you,” he had growled to his soldiers, “summat ain’t right out there. If’n we don’t scent it out, then there’ll be big trouble, you mark me.”

  And so, taking two of them with him—Wumpit and Bogrinkle—Captain Grittle deserted his post, and they sneaked through the secret doors when the elf cattle were put out to graze.

  They ran into the night, their great ears flapping against their heads, and their mail clanking and jingling as they raced down the grassy slopes. Then they plunged into the bracken beneath the surrounding trees and headed for the deep heart of the forest and whatever trouble and plots they could discover.

  “Now you lads follow me, and don’t you go gettin’ no uppity notions,” Captain Grittle warned them. “I’m the captain, and it’s my nose what can sniff out assassins and their awful conspirings.”

  The others agreed with him and clasped their daggers in readiness. Wumpit clenched one between his teeth and grinned horribly. They were greedy for action and didn’t care who led them to it. It had been a long time since they had seen any fighting, and all three were glad and overjoyed to be outside with the prospect of battle or, at the least, a bloody skirmish ahead.

  They went through the undergrowth, hacking the ferns and bracken, pretending they were “enemies,” until eventually they came to the green way, along which they had processed with the Trooping Rade only four nights ago.

  “Hark!” Captain Grittle said, stomping to a halt and slapping his subordinates to a standstill behind him. “Does you hear that?”

  Bogrinkle and Wumpit pursed their lips and leaned to one side as they listened to the night.

  “I can hear beetles chewin’ this ’ere rotten oak stump,” Wumpit said with the dagger still clamped between his teeth. “An’ a big fat spider is suckin’ the guts from a moth over yonder.”

  “I likes beetles,” Bogrinkle put in with a lick of his lips. “Nice shiny black beetles with crunchy backs and juicy middles that pop when you bite ’em and spiky legs that stick between yer fangs.”

  “Hush!” their captain ordered.

  In the distance they could all now hear a rattling, tinkling rumble, and Captain Grittle scowled.

  “Summat’s a-travelin’ down our trackway,” he said. “What did I tell yers? I knowed it, I did—my tingly ears ain’t never wrong.”

  “Who you reckon it is?” Wumpit asked, wondering if one dagger in each fist was going to be enough.

  “Dirty killers,” Captain Grittle said most definitely. “Up to no good an’ comin’ to make war an’ murder our Queen. Throat slitters an’ butchering gore-handed fiends, each one.”

  “Lemme at ’em!” Bogrinkle raged, springing forward with his daggers raised and his spit frothing in fury.

  Captain Grittle kicked him as he ran by, and the spriggan went tumbling head over heels down the bank, landing in a sorry heap at the bottom.

  “Get you back ’ere,” the captain snapped. “There’ll be no attack until I gives the word, see?”

  Bogrinkle muttered under his foul breath, picked up the weapons that had fallen from his overloaded belt, and returned up the bank.

  “Look!” Wumpit hissed. “Through them trees yonder.”

  A faint light had appeared beyond the farthest trees, and the spriggans drew stealthily back into the bracken.

  “Let�
�s see what these assassins looks like afore we rampage at ’em,” Captain Grittle whispered.

  With mounting excitement, they crouched in the undergrowth, and the caravan of Nanna Zingara drew gradually closer.

  The gypsy was humming softly to herself. The cheery light of her lantern swung to and fro across her whiskery face, and behind her in the caravan Tollychook was sleeping soundly, a depleted satchel at his side and a scattering of crumbs across the blanket that was pulled up to his nose.

  Sitting close by, Liffidia was thinking about all that had happened and what lay ahead. What if the Pool of the Dead failed to conjure up the spirit of the Smith? What could they do then?

  Suddenly she heard riotous shouts and shrieks, and the caravan juddered to a sharp stop that threw the girl sideways. Tollychook, however, felt nothing and merely rolled over in his sleep and started to snore.

  “What’s all this then?” a brutish voice barked from outside. “What you doin’ ’ere in our forest? Who is yer, an’ what you up to?”

  Liffidia clambered to her feet and was about to peer out over the caravan’s half door when she heard the gypsy hiss, “No, my friend. Keep out of sight! The hillmen are upon us.”

  The girl obeyed. She pulled the blankets over herself and Tollychook, then pinched his nose to stop his snoring.

  Outside, Nanna Zingara was staring at Captain Grittle and his two subordinates. They had leaped from the undergrowth with their daggers chopping and slicing the air and had frightened the donkey. Now the beast was stamping the ground and flicking its long furry ears in agitation, and the dwarf had to pull hard on the reins to prevent it bolting. In its cage the goldfinch was chirping loudly, almost as if it too were annoyed and were twittering in outrage.

  Taking a long puff on her pipe, the dwarf blew the smoke out through her nose, and her dark eyes glittered at the spriggans as she regarded them. If she were afraid, then no trace of that fear crept on to her lined face.

  “What was it you just said, Granny?” Captain Grittle yelled. “Don’t try no tricks with us—we got ears sharper than our shiny skin jabbers.”

  Nanna Zingara slowly removed the pipe from her lips and nodded in greeting.

  “Well met, my three brave soldier lads,” she addressed them calmly. “Nanna was only saying to her Little Emperor here in his cage what a fine night for the hillmen to come calling. And what draws you good, secret folk from your halls to speak to us weary travelers?”

  “What do you know of our hill?” Captain Grittle snapped, taking a step closer and gripping his dagger threateningly. “Whose service is you in? How’d you know we hail from there, you old crab apple? Is you a filthy spy, come sneakin’ ’round to make plots and brew foul deeds?”

  The gypsy laughed, and the sound enraged the spriggans, who took such matters very seriously. Wumpit and Bogrinkle stomped forward and glowered up at her.

  “You best pack in that snickerin’,” Bogrinkle warned, “or we might just cut out that tongue of yours!”

  Captain Grittle smacked the heads of his soldiers and pulled them back by their earlobes. “I’ll say who cuts ’er tongue out!” he snarled. “An’ it won’t be either of you two!”

  “I am no spy,” Nanna Zingara said with a shrug. “All I wish is to journey through this great forest in peace and be about my own business.”

  Captain Grittle rounded on her and stroked his bulbous nose. “Ah,” he said, “but what be your business I ask meself and what you got stowed in that cart of yours? We’ll ’ave to search it. Drag out what’s inside, break open all pots an’ vessels, confiscate any weapons, an’ seize all plans an’ lists you might have.”

  “I have no lists,” the gypsy chuckled. “Nor plans. A humble wayfarer, that’s Nanna. The road is her ocean, and this is her merry little galleon. To sail over track and trail, that is her first delight.”

  The spriggans leered at her. “Can’t we slice ’er ears off?” Wumpit asked hopefully. “Just to see how keen our blades are?”

  “Not yet, not yet,” his captain told him. “She can’t answer no questions if she can’t hear them, can she?”

  “He’s right there,” Bogrinkle put in.

  Captain Grittle sniffed the air and his beady eyes narrowed. “There’s summat not right ’ere,” he said. “There’s a whiff on the night what I never whiffed afore! Does yer snortle it, lads?”

  The others took questing sniffs. They had caught the scent of the werlings. It was strange and new to them, and they frowned as they snuffled and flared their wide, hairy nostrils.

  “You got mice or rabbits in there?” Wumpit asked uncertainly.

  “Smells like a soapy weasel,” Bogrinkle put in.

  Nanna Zingara chuckled. “No,” she answered. “Only me and Little Emperor. It’s Nanna’s waggers you smell. I have a fine collection of tails hanging ’round the back. Go see how handsome they are.”

  “That’s not any tail of no normal forest critter I can smell,” Captain Grittle said. “Don’t try an’ bafflecate me. There’s summat else, summat other, an’ I intends to find out what!”

  He took a determined stride closer and, before the gypsy could stop him, jumped up next to her and thrust his large ugly head inside the caravan.

  The spriggan’s squinting eyes slid around the interior. His face soured when he saw the books on the shelves; they would have to be confiscated, examined, and then burned. He glared at the geranium and wondered if something were hidden beneath its roots in the jug, then he stared at the small bunk and the rumpled blankets and leaned in to draw the covers aside.

  “Captain!” Bogrinkle cried. “Come see what we got ’ere!”

  Captain Grittle withdrew from the caravan and hopped back to the ground.

  “What you got, my boys?” he asked, rubbing his big-fingered hands together. “Is it evidence?”

  “Better,” Wumpit declared. “A big bockle o’ wiggly worms.”

  The two soldiers had been inspecting the items dangling from wires around the caravan. They had tapped the bottles with the tips of their daggers, and Wumpit had pulled some ribbons down and tied them about his ears. Then they saw the jam jar of worms. There are few things a spriggan enjoys more than a feast of earthworms, and even Captain Grittle wetted his lips when he clapped his eyes on them.

  With a cautious glance inside, Nanna Zingara clambered down from the caravan to join them.

  “You can’t go transportin’ livestock through our forest without a permit,” Captain Grittle blustered at her. “We’ll have to take charge of these ’ere wigglers.”

  “What else she got?” Bogrinkle asked. “What was in her wagon?”

  “Just what I was about to find out,” his captain answered. “It’ll all need sorting through, and we best start now.”

  With a grin that showed his fangs, he prepared to return to the caravan, but the gypsy blithely stood in his way and turned her face to the objects dangling beside them.

  “So many treasures, Nanna has,” she said with pride. “From every corner of the country and some beyond even that. Here, look at the shiny bright pots and this, a copper kettle from far-off Turkeyland.”

  “We doesn’t want to see yer pans, you old crone,” Captain Grittle snarled. “Shift yerself.”

  The sound of a fox cub barking nearby caused the others to turn and glower into the darkness, but the dwarf stood her ground and took one of the cut-glass bottle stops from the wire where it hung.

  “Look at this,” she said in a voice charged with such authority that the spriggans flinched and stared at her in astonishment. Even under the blankets in the caravan, Liffidia felt the force of that command. It didn’t sound like Nanna Zingara at all.

  “As bonny as a diamond from a pirate’s hoard it is,” the gypsy was telling the hillmen. “See how it catches the light of my lantern. So rare, so prized. Look into the polished heart, see the golden fires burning within.”

  As she spoke she twirled the glass stopper in her fingers. The reflected light blinked an
d flashed over the spriggans’ ugly faces and danced into their eyes.

  “That’s pretty,” Wumpit murmured.

  “What a jool,” Bogrinkle added.

  All expression left Captain Grittle’s face, and his eyelids began to droop. “Like I said …” he began slowly. “I got to search in yer wagon … By the late King’s bones, I feel full of drowse.”

  “Yes,” Nanna Zingara said. “Sleep is creeping over you, lovely sweet sleep. Do not fight it. Curl up in the long grass like a field mouse in his cozy nest. Dream such dreams as please your kind. Slumber deep, be as insensible as the oldest stones and let Nanna go on her way. She no threat to the Lady you serve.”

  The spriggans began to sway unsteadily.

  “La la liddle, sink into velvet shadow sleep,” she sang in a soft whisper. “Dip into the treacly sea and sail far from the shores of waking, dar li dolo dumplety dum.”

  Wumpit groaned, and with a clatter of weaponry he fell to the ground, fast asleep, the jam jar of worms still clutched in his hands. A moment later Bogrinkle followed.

  Captain Grittle heard them topple but could not open his eyes to look. “Does we get warm milky?” he asked in a childlike voice. “Gritty likes milky …”

  “Yes,” Nanna crooned. “Lovely warm milk, fresh from the elf cattle who have grazed on lush night grasses and moon-drenched dew. Hush now, my wee mannikin. Sleep and dreams are waiting to embrace you close.”

  Captain Grittle nodded gladly. “Him go bobos now,” he said, sighing.

  Like a wilting flower he shrank to the floor. With one of his large thumbs in his mouth he slept more soundly than he had in many long years.

  The gypsy closed her hands about the glass stopper, and for a fleeting instant as she viewed the spriggans at her feet, a look of contempt twisted her features.

  In its cage the goldfinch twittered, and she pressed her lips together in a grim smile. “Oh, yes,” she promised in a low whisper. “They’ll receive their true punishment later.”

  Returning the stopper to its place on the wire, she paused for a moment then removed a long cruel-looking knife from the captain’s belt. As she stared at the vicious blade, a chill glint flashed briefly in her eyes.