by Chris Mould
They looked from the rounded portholes in the doors as they rumbled over the roots and through the snowy forest. Light from the city was beginning to show itself as a vague orangey glow through the silhouetted skeletons of the winter trees.
Home was in sight.
Roach was watching Bodkin scratching his head and quizzing himself over something. He fiddled with the keys at his waist and was staring upward with a twisted expression fixed on his face.
“Is there something bothering you, Bodkin?”
“Oh, its nuffink, Misser Roach.”
“No, do tell me, Bodkin. What on earth is troubling that pointy little head of yours?”
Bodkin turned to Roach and fixed his troubled gaze on him. “Well … da fing is, Misser Roach … beggin yer pardon me askin, but, when did Misser Jarvis fix ’is ’and?”
“When did … Mister Jarvis … fix his hand?”
“Yes, sir! When did Misser Jarvis fix ’is ’and?”
“Bodkin, I have no idea what you are talking about, but please do explain.”
“Oh, it dunt matter. Bodkin gets easily muddled,” said the strange little figure, and he stared downward at the floor, as if embarrassed by his own stupidity.
“Please …” urged Roach, “carry on.”
“Well, sir, yer see, when Misser Jarvis give me da torchlight back he had two ’ands, sir. One ’and was takin’ der reins, sir … and … (He paused to think a moment).
“Yes, Bodkin, do go on, I’m intrigued,” said Roach as a realization began to dawn over him.
“And … da uvver one pass me da torch. Misser Jarvis not got two ’ands, sir. Misser Jarvis got one ’and on der right and a ’ook on da left!”
Roach closed his eyes as he took a large intake of air in through his nose and then heaved a great big sigh.
“Whassa matter, Misser Roach? You no look too well.”
“We’ve been double-crossed, Bodkin. Bring the dogs. Call the bark demons and tell the others to gather at the undergate. And hurry. We won’t be foiled again.”
“Yessir, Misser Roach,” said Bodkin and he hobbled off at high speed, waving his torch as he went and calling out at the top of his voice. “We’s been double-crossed.” And as he ran, he wondered what on earth being double-crossed was, and why it had made Mister Roach so angry. But Bodkin suspected he was probably muddled again and so he thought nothing of it, and of course, he wouldn’t ask another stupid question.
In less than no time at all, the foresters were gathered, howling and whooping at the undergate, waiting for the signal to head out and begin the short hunt. The herd of cackling and cawing beasts were thundering in a swift procession toward the black pumpkin.
A flock of witches stayed behind. They had other methods. They were assembled, all of them, around a small fire. Hogwick spoke up, whispering strange words and calling up the curse of the Spindlewood forest to work its magic.
Pip and his companions were ambling along nicely into the snowy depths of the forest, the wheels rolling comfortably across the ground.
“We did it,” said Toad, poking his head out from beneath the cloak and wearing his best grin.
And then Frankie popped out. “Well done, boys,” she said. She had been surprised at her own bravery.
A distant assembly of cries interrupted their mood. They had begun to grow almost relaxed, knowing that they were reaching the safety of the city. But the noise that came from behind them stirred them into anxiety.
“What’s that?” asked Pip.
“Some kind of excitement among the woodsfolk, Pip. You’d best step up the pace,” said Toad.
Frankie and Toad had emerged and were sitting alongside Pip at the front, the cover pulled across them to shut out the worst of the weather. Frankie stood up and looked back over the top of the pumpkin. Something moved in the distance—shapes swiftly passing between the trees. Pip pulled on the reins but they were without torchlight and the journey was much harder at a swifter pace. The wheels were slipping as they sped up over the packed snowy ground and they shifted from side to side as they steered between the trees. Pip could feel the weight too. It made it twice as difficult to drive the carriage.
Somewhere nearby the trees began to stir. Something shifted in their makeup—a stirring that came from the tips of the roots and filled the whole of the trunk and branches. It was as if they had come to life. The desire to move and flex their long limbs stirred around in their woody souls.
Distraction came to the children in the form of whooping and hollering, howling and squawking. Something flew parallel to the carriage in the distance, darting, bat-like, between the uprights. Pip looked to his left and then to his right. The twilight seekers were on them, and very quickly, they were surrounded.
Crunch. The carriage had hurled itself into a dip and was almost turned on its side, its front end speared into the ground. The back wheels were in the air and spun slower and slower until they too came to a stop. The horse was still attached to the carriage and scrambled with its front legs as if to climb from the dip, but there was no way it could release itself. If Pip could have freed it, he could have used it to flee the forest, but it would take too much time to dismantle the frame. They had to leave her there in the ditch, struggling to get back on to her feet.
“Quick,” said Frankie. “On foot, we can make it to the city.”
They hurriedly pulled the others out from inside the carriage. The door was jammed and so their skinny figures were yanked out through the porthole window like stubborn weeds pulled from the ground.
Together they stumbled through the forest. They ran and ran and ran, their breath heaving, their hearts thumping. It seemed like perhaps they were far enough ahead to make it. Were they being too hopeful? Time would tell.
Hogwick’s curse began to stir. The roots of the Spindlewood trees squirmed upon the ground like worms. Their snow-covered tendrils emerged like spring buds and then, as if life poured into them, they began whipping and winding. The lofty branches felt the same ripple of movement. The soft breezy waft of their limbs became a powerful, full-blooded swing.
Crack! Pip was clutched around the waist by the grip of a low-lying branch. Whip! Toad and Frankie were snatched by the vicious roots from the same tree. Birds lifted from the branches as they took on their own life and grabbed at the little ones. The others were subject to the same fate, almost as if the forest itself had turned on them. The McCreedy boy screamed. He was quick and almost got away. But the trees seemed to move in on him and blocked his path, sending him this way and that, until finally, he fell to his knees in exhaustion. Mister Brice’s boy was held aloft, tied with lashings of spindly branch wood. And then much the same became of the others. The forest tied itself around the children until they remained suspended against the trees, waiting for their captors to arrive and return them to their prison. The foresters came to find the children waiting for them, like flies trapped in the webs of spiders, held still by the full and frightening force of the Spindlewood Forest.
With the carriage pulled out from the ditch the creatures howled excitedly as the children were released from the trees and pushed inside. The horse was steadied on her legs by Roach and adjusted back into her frame. She brayed awkwardly and stamped her hooves into the snow, breathing clouds of hot air.
“Steady, girl,” said Roach as he used his four arms to nurse her.
Something clawed its way onto the roof and settled into position, ready to alert the flock to any movement from within. Small bark demons hung at the portholes on the doors and peered menacingly at the screaming children. A flock of crows hovered overhead like a cloud of black rain waiting to descend. And the carriage was herded back toward the undergate by screaming, hysterical woodsfolk while the children awaited their fate.
Pip didn’t think that he had ever been more frightened. He could barely make out the faces of the others but they were shoved in tight together. Toad was next to him and he could hear Frankie reassuring the young McCreedy boy.
Faces peered inside the black pumpkin. Beaked and long-snouted, they poked their excited heads into the portholes. And as they did, they squawked and squealed and argued amongst themselves while trying to take the best view. Their clawed hands and feet clamped themselves inside the window, scraping and scratching at the panels of the carriage.
Pip’s heart was beating furiously. Toad seemed to have no fear. He edged toward one of the windows and began to lash out at the woodsfolk. “Let us out, you freaks!” he called, bashing at their clawed hands as they edged inside.
Torches shone in the darkness of the woods. They must have been back at the undergate. But no, the children could sense that outside the animals had become quiet. They were puzzled at the lights ahead.
Voices came—distant inaudible voices, shouts and hollering that seemed like they came out of anger. The carriage had slowed to a halt now and the woodsfolk stood silently watching as the bedlam approached. A group was visible. They held flaming torches aloft. Some were on horseback and some on foot. But someone ran ahead of them and he had almost reached the woodsfolk when he began shouting. His cloak flapped in the wind and as he drew close to the orange light his hook could be seen glinting in the darkness.
“Draw your weapons, you fools, and be ready for battle. City folk approaching.”
At this, Pip’s heart thumped harder. It was Jarvis, with Esther flying on behind. Escaped from his hole with the city following in pursuit. War was about to be waged on forest turf. In a breath, the plight of the prisoners had been forgotten. The bark demons howled out for support and the air grew blacker still with flocking witches. Panic broke among the four-legged ones and the gathering of weapons ensued.
Pip called to his brethren through the noise and darkness. “This is our chance. Stick together and keep going.” And with that, he pushed down gently on the door handle and led the others to safety while the distraction allowed him the opportunity.
The whole earth seemed to shake as horses thundered toward the foresters. The shouting grew louder and the howls of the forest pierced the night air like sirens.
“And where do you think you’re going?” came a voice. But whatever it was received his answer in the form of a branch across the back of the head as Toad delivered a blow from behind.
“Come on,” said Toad. “We need to move quickly.”
A herd of lost children made haste across the forest floor. The only sound for now was the breathless gasping and heavy breathing coming from their mouths. That and the crisp crunch of the snowy surface breaking beneath their feet, twigs and branches snapping beneath them. They were running hard and their trail could be picked out by the puffs of foggy breath and a peppering of footprints in the icy white ground.
They did not know where they would head. Only that they should escape while the fighting between city and forest continued and the distraction was enough to allow their getaway.
In the distance makeshift weapons clashed and blood spilled across the clear white of the forest floor. Screams of pain and effort echoed between the uprights of the trees. Blades and shields crashed against the woody bark and the cries of the forest cut the stillness of the air in two. Horses reared upward onto their back legs.
Still the children kept on running. They helped each other along, pulling at one another’s tunics and cloaks. Soon they would break out into the city and, although they had no idea where they would head, freedom beckoned them onward.
They felt the surface of wooden boards beneath their feet. They were crossing the gateway to the city streets and as they reached the other side of the bridge, they instinctively stopped and took deep, heavy breaths. They were a big group now and it would prove difficult to hide.
Even here in the streets the clash of city and forest could be heard. Roars and screams and shouts of war, piercing the night. A low rumble of disturbance filtered between the trees.
“Where now?” said Pip, looking expectantly at Toad.
“Somewhere that can take the lot of us,” he replied, gasping and wheezing and looking around him. Were they still all here?
Frankie began to count and her finger worked its way around the group. “Fifteen,” she said. “All present and accounted for.”
And so they kept on running. They still had no idea where they were heading but they kept on all the same, with their hearts pounding and their cold breath clouding around them. They were weak, all of them, and they would have to find somewhere soon or else the smallest ones might drop to their knees and fall flat in the snow.
“Not much farther,” encouraged Toad but in truth, he did not know where they might go.
In typical Jarvis style he had avoided the confrontation in the forest. He was a true coward. The clash of steel and drawing of blood was down to his escape from the city, but he had been the only one to sit out on the fight. It was a grim and gruesome affair. These things always were. There were, as expected, casualties on both sides and the forest was littered with the remains of a fight. Broken weapons, injured men and horses, and other sights best left to the imagination. The city folk had returned empty- handed, their prisoner lost in the onslaught.
It was much later when the man Jarvis stepped out from the hollow of a tree. The battle was long finished and all was still and silent.
His feet crunched on the hardened white surface. The first hint of daylight was pushing the darkness back into its hole and Esther steered one eye downward as he emerged. She had faithfully waited by his side.
He dusted himself down, took a long, snake-eyed stare around, and then he began to walk back to the undergate. And as he walked he dreamed himself a story about how he had fought for his life against the city folk. He thought so long and hard of the tale that he almost began to believe it himself.
The witches were circling above. Darting between the forest and the city, searching for the little ones through the air with their black shadows dashing across the rooftops like scurrying rats. The children moved quickly in the safety of the shaded corners of the streets and houses.
“Stop,” said Frankie, calling out to Toad at the front.
“What is it?”
“The Duprie bakery is near. We should head inside. We can use the ovens and make bread. We can keep warm. It’s empty and, for now, it’s safe.”
And so they all turned and followed Frankie. Like marching ants they changed direction and snaked in a line through the alleyways.
When they reached the bakery it was boarded over. Snow piled high against the walls and it had remained untouched for some time. A sadness overwhelmed Frankie, bringing tears flooding down her face. She had pictured it with its warm fireside glow through the window, the snow twinkling in the soft orange light and her parents standing in the shop front. But it was dark and empty. Paint peeled itself from the doorway and the old sign creaked rustily on its hinges in the breeze.
Pip stepped in. “We have to be careful. It’s undisturbed. If we break in, we leave a mark.”
“Around the back,” said Frankie, wiping her tears, and she showed them the cellar door, which lay flat upon the cobbles. Carefully they raised it upward and allowed the children to file inside. Pip came last, dispersing footprints with a discarded broom and letting down the hatch gently.
Frankie set about lighting the ovens in the basement. They were vented into the sewer outlets and so they did not have to worry about the smoke piping up and announcing their position.
A whooshing sweeping sound filtered through the alleyways. The last of the twilight seekers were giving up the search for the little ones. It would grow light soon and they should be back in their holes. Jarvis was holding court around a fire in the forest. He feigned an injury and told his tale. Of how he had taken on Hector Stubbs, the city mayor, and wounded him, maybe even fatally. And how soon he would take his position when the whole forest rose up in arms against the authorities. They must be ready for war, he had announced. And soon.
It was late now but the children were all
settled into their corners and huddled together like baby mice, taking comfort from each other and burying their faces into their chests. The heat from the oven was becoming blissfully warm. There were sacks of flour stacked in one corner, enough to keep them going for some time.
“I can feel my toes again,” said young Edgar, rubbing his feet and hands.
“Come closer to the ovens,” said Frankie, and she herded them nearer to the heat.
In the morning she would show them how to make bread and they could feed themselves until they felt strong enough to move on. They were not sure yet just what they would do. Perhaps they should leave the city for good, some had suggested, and make their way across the ice valley. Or find the others across the city, in basements and attic spaces, in groups or alone.
“We should build an army and take the forest and return triumphant to the city, never again to be ignored,” said Pip, and Toad cheered in agreement. But now was not the time to decide. Rest and a good meal in the morning. That was their first task.
Pip watched the others drift into sleep. Toad was out like a light, face first into the sack of flour he lay upon. Frankie was drifting off. She gazed over at him and smiled but she was too tired to speak.
Soon Pip was the only one awake. He knew they were safe and he felt good for now. Rescuing the others had been a triumph but he was exhausted. He eased himself into comfort, but something pressed into his side. It was a small burlap bag. Of course, it was the captain. He had quite forgotten that they had brought him along, and Pip suddenly felt uneasy that they had a traitor in the camp. Perhaps he should throw him into the oven and be done with it. He was far too dangerous. They didn’t need him to find the others.
“Go on, Pip, do it,” he heard himself saying. “Burn him. He’s only a doll.”
He grew nervous. He had never held him in his hand before. He pulled the drawstring at the top of the bag and felt a shuffle of movement inside. The feather in Captain Dooley’s hat sprang up and Pip grabbed his hat and eeked him out of the bag.
