by Robin Jarvis
Resembling a blighted, woody parsnip, this nose was his most striking feature. Over the years, many extra nostrils had opened along its prodigious length, and Master Gibble considered it quite splendid. At times of temper or high indignation, his snorting breath would blast from those holes in sharp whistling notes. The effect was quite startling and commanded him much respect both from his students and from the rest of the werling community.
When the applause subsided, the gangly tutor gave an extravagant bow, but even as he gracefully inclined his head, his small black eyes fell upon Gamaliel and at once he jerked to attention.
“You there!” his pinched voice barked. “What ails your knees?”
Alarmed and bewildered by the question, Gamaliel stuttered. “N-nothing, sir.”
“Then use them and sit down!” Master Gibble snapped back.
Gamaliel shivered as if stung. The tutor petrified him, but he was now too shaken to do anything and remained standing like a dummy.
“I said sit!” Master Gibble repeated, and this time his voice was full of command.
But Gamaliel could only stare back at him, and an absurd burble issued from his trembling lips. Behind him Mufus and Bufus started to titter.
“What’s your name?” the Wergle Master demanded, jabbing the air with a sticklike finger. “Whose idiot child are you? Speak now, speak!”
Gamaliel shook his head dumbly and wished he had never woken up that morning.
“He’s called Gammy,” Bufus piped up. “He’s barmy.”
“A clot!” his brother added.
At the back of the assembly, Kernella disowned Gamaliel completely and became suddenly fascinated by the branches above her head.
Displeasure flared three of Master Gibble’s nostrils, and a soft hiss, like the sound of a kettle just before it comes to the boil, emanated from them.
“Clot, indeed.” He seethed, pursing his lips and taking a menacing stride toward Gamaliel. “If I am expected to squander my genius instructing imbeciles, then they must at least know how to obey. If the dolt does not seat himself before I get to him, I shall snatch him up and hurl him over the edge.”
Watching the tutor take a second purposeful step in his direction, Gamaliel felt his eyes begin to tingle and knew that he was about to cry.
Master Gibble was almost upon him when a delicate hand reached up and tugged at Gamaliel’s sleeve.
“Here!” a kindly voice began. “I’ve made a space; sit next to me.”
A further tug was all that was needed for Gamaliel’s legs to give way beneath him, and he plopped down on the deck with a bump.
“Th-thank you,” he managed to utter to the pretty werling girl who had saved him.
Master Gibble sneered and scrutinized his plump face for a moment.
“Now I see it,” he began acidly. “You’re a Tumpin, aren’t you? Well, that explains a great deal. Your father was a pupil of mine. He was an idle dreamer then and has since become a disgrace to all. If I had my way, I should exile him, send him out over the Hagburn and let him fend for himself against the terrors of the great forest. With that ludicrous tail of his, he has brought my noble teachings down to the lowest possible level. To hide from the eyes and minds of our enemies, that is the sole purpose of our art. It is not to keep our toes warm!”
Still contemplating the branches, Kernella was not simply an only child but she promptly orphaned herself as well.
“Whatever next?” the tutor continued as he turned from Gamaliel and moved back to the center of the platform. “Shall we grow rabbits’ tails to serve as cushions? Instead of hats we could all develop snail shells upon our heads, or keep long weasel bodies if we consider our natural stature too diminutive.”
Clasping his hands, he faced his audience and in a grave, somber voice warned, “If we debase our gift, then we debase ourselves, and only tragedy will follow.”
In the ensuing silence, the children nodded their agreement, but Finnen Lufkin stared long at Master Gibble until his fringe fell back across his face.
Swinging his nose from side to side, the Great Grand Wergle Master appraised his new pupils and sniffed. It was time.
Flinging his arms wide so that the black gown billowed impressively about him, he cleared his throat and blew a short, shrill blast from his nostrils.
The instruction commenced.
Unlike other inhabitants of Hagwood, the forgotten race of werlings possessed only one grain of magic. But that single, simple blessing had preserved their way of life for untold ages.
The miraculous power of transformation, or “wergling to give it the proper name, was theirs to command. They had the ability to change their shape at will and become any creature of a similar size to themselves. Yet before this talent could be used, there were many teachings to study and rules to be learned. To embark upon any change of shape without the correct instruction was unheard of and undoubtedly dangerous, so there was always a Wergle Master present whose role was to guide and educate the novices.
Terser Gibble was the latest in a distinguished line of respectable tutors, but few had ever gloried in such a skill as his. For three generations he had overseen the development of the charges in his care, and he was the most important personage in the entire community.
“The first and most important lesson to learn,” he began, “is to know the ways of the beast whose shape you desire to assume. You cannot become another creature if you are ignorant of its habits.”
Clicking his bony fingers, he looked at his older students. “How do we go about this?” he asked them.
Kernella thrust her hand in the air, but he was not predisposed to have any more dealings with the base Tumpin clan that day and chose another eager hand, instead.
“Learn all you can about the animal,” a girl named Stookie Maffin chirped. “We must think like it before we can look like it.”
“Sloppily put,” Master Gibble pouted. “But that is the essence, I suppose.”
Returning his gaze to Gamaliel’s class, he continued. “You will train your minds to step beyond their current boundaries and limitations to embrace all that you can become. As Mistress Maffin so ineloquently related, first you must study the beast, run with it, and know its habits. Only when you understand its spirit can you wear its external appearance.”
With a click of his tongue, Master Gibble then announced that the best time to begin this most important aspect of the training was straight away.
“Bearing everything I have said in mind, you shall spend the rest of the day pursuing and studying the creature that is the simplest to wergle into—the least complicated of all animals from our point of view. Do any of you know which lowly animal I mean?”
Mufus Doolan was about to suggest a “Gammy,” but someone else called out the answer before he had a chance.
“Please, sir,” a high voice cried. “Would it be a mouse?”
Master Gibble clapped his hands. “It is, indeed,” he said. “The mouse is the creature shape that we all learn first, so that is what you shall do today. I want each of you to hunt one down, for during the chase you shall discover much. Now, does everyone have their wergle pouches ready? Good, because in those I want you to place a handful of the mouse’s fur. I cannot stress how important that is. Needless to say, you will not be able to do any wergling without it.”
And so the children were divided into smaller groups. Gamaliel found himself placed with the girl who had rescued him from Master Gibble’s wrath. Her name was Liffidia. The other members of his group were a small boy named Tollychook (whose nose showed all the signs that one day it might rival that of Master Gibble) and, to his dismay, the Doolan brothers.
Each party was joined by an older child who would oversee their efforts and ensure that they came to no harm during the hunt. Gamaliel prayed that he would not be burdened with Kernella, but when he discovered that none other than Finnen Lufkin was to be their guide, he was filled with misgivings.
To all of the children Fin
nen Lufkin was a hero. In the two years since his training began, he had excelled at everything. The Lufkin family had always been champions of the art, but Finnen’s skill surprised even Terser Gibble. It was rumored that he didn’t need to use his wergle pouch anymore. Confronted with his sister’s idol, Gamaliel felt uncomfortable and was sure he would look even more foolish in comparison.
Finnen grinned at the five children. “Hello,” he said. Then, with a friendly nod at Gamaliel, “So you’re Kernella’s brother. Don’t let old Gibble put the wind up you. There’s nothing to worry about; it’s not as difficult as it sounds.”
Gamaliel managed a feeble smile. That was easy for someone with Finnen’s remarkable reputation to say.
Once every group had been allocated a leader, they were instructed to make their way down the tree. When they were all gathered about the roots, Master Gibble addressed them again.
“The moment I give the signal,” he said, lifting his left hand above his head in readiness, “I want you to run into the wood, but remain in your groups—no scattering or wandering off on your own.”
The boy called Tollychook stared at the surrounding woodland, then looked down at the empty hedgehog disguises.
“Ain’t we usin’ them then?” he asked worriedly. “I’m afeared of being summat’s dinner.”
Master Gibble pursed his lips. “That camouflage is for conveying you here in the morning and taking you home in the evening,” he answered tardy. “You’ll never catch a mouse while wearing one of those. I’m not saying that your allotted task is without an element of danger, but there is no other way. Besides, the peril will sharpen your senses.”
Tollychook grimaced and sucked his teeth unhappily. “I doesn’t like it,” he warbled.
“You’ll be all right,” Finnen whispered reassuringly. “I’ll be there to make sure you’re safe.”
The boy brightened a little, but the wood was awfully big and threatening.
“Enough!” Master Gibble declared. “Let the hunt commence.”
Down swept his arm, and sitting high in the branches above them, one of the older pupils who had remained behind put a small horn to her lips and blew a loud blast upon it.
Immediately the separate groups of children ran from the hazel tree. Squealing with exhilarated glee, they charged off in different directions, haring in the footsteps of their leaders.
The first adventure had begun.
CHAPTER 3
Hunting and Finding
“THIS WAY!” FINNEN CALLED, racing through a clump of dead stalks. “I know the perfect spot where there’ll be hundreds of mice. We’ll be back before you know it.”
To make the hunt easier for the children, many of the adult werlings were hidden throughout the wood. It was their job to act as beaters, driving mice from their holes and out into the open. When the adults heard the blowing of the horn, they set about their work with sticks and cudgels. A fearsome din erupted in the undergrowth.
Over twisting roots and under fallen branches, Finnen Lufkin’s little party hurried. The Doolans kept up with Finnen easily, and Liffidia was close behind them. A little further back, Tollychook continuously switched his gaze from the way ahead to the sky above—just in case a kestrel had strayed from the heath and was hovering up there, waiting to pounce upon him. Bringing up the rear, Gamaliel Tumpin huffed and panted. His tubby figure was not made for running along the woodland floor, and he hoped that they would not have much farther to go.
Ahead of him, the others suddenly dived through a hedge of elder. Feeling horribly alone, Gamaliel spurred himself forward with as much speed as he could muster.
Into the gloom that lay beneath the elder he plunged, then out into the bright sunlight again, and there he stumbled to a halt, staring delightedly about him.
Gamaliel was standing on a mossy bank, looking down into a small clearing filled with short grasses and the brown stems of last year’s flowers. Liffidia, Mufus, Bufus, and Tollychook were close by; they, too, could not believe their eyes. Seeing their astonished faces, Finnen chuckled.
“I told you I knew the best place,” he said.
His eyes round with wonderment, Tollychook slapped his cheeks and gurgled in disbelief.
“Glory me!” he trilled. “Look at that—just look. Glory me!
Liffidia gasped and covered her mouth with her hands, shaking her head so much that one of the wooden beads that were threaded into her hair flew off and hit Mufus on the back of the head. The spectacle before them was incredible, and even the Doolan brothers were momentarily lost for words.
The glade that Finnen Lufkin had led them to was swarming with mice.
Driven from their homes by the beaters, it seemed that every mouse west of the Hagburn had poured into this clearing in their panicking flight. There were so many of them that the grass writhed and the brittle canes of the dead flowers shuddered, their parched leaves trembling and the seed heads rattling. The place was alive with rustling movement and the piercing sound of confused squeaks and squeals.
“Don’t just stand there!” Finnen laughed at his charges. “They’re only dashing through. Go catch one.”
Roused from stupefaction, the children gave a shout and went scrambling down the bank, diving into the grass as though it were a deep pool.
After the stampeding hordes they sped, rampaging along channels already made by the streaming rodents. At first, Bufus and Mufus were too busy acting the fools to be of any use whatsoever. Pulling fearful faces at the startled creatures, they yelled and hollered but were so busy giggling that the mice easily darted away from them.
Poor Tollychook, as well as owning a long nose, also possessed large, wide feet, and he made such a trampling that no mouse ventured near him at all.
“Here, little twitchers!” he called, to no avail. “Don’t go that way! Come back!”
Gamaliel also was finding it far more difficult than he had supposed. Whereas his blundering did not make such a din as Tollychook and he actually saw many mice bolt by, catching hold of them was another matter entirely.
They moved like lightning. Just when he fixed a brown whiskery face in his sights, in a twinkling it veered instantly aside. If he lunged forward to grab at a pink tail, his hands would grasp only empty air. Gamaliel began to suspect that he was simply too slow, but he tried not to let the thought discourage him and threw himself into the hunt all the more.
Liffidia was far more successful than any of them. Making her way to the center of the glade, she leaped and danced while the rodents coursed around her. Sometimes she ran alongside them, speaking with gentle words. The werling girl loved reaching out to stroke a furry back or tickle a silken ear. Not once did she try to catch one, and from his vantage point upon the bank, Finnen watched her with concern.
“Of course,” he murmured to himself, “at the moment it’s just a grand game to them. They don’t really understand yet.”
Mufus and Bufus were enjoying themselves so much that they didn’t want the chase to end. When they grew bored of scaring the hapless mice, they began harrying them in earnest. Storming through the grass, they rushed after the squeaking quarry, bawling threats and praising the pleasures of mouse stew.
The Doolan brothers were so swift and worked so well together that they soon gave an exultant cheer. Crowing and whooping, they raised their hands to flaunt an unfortunate victim dangling from their fingers.
Wriggling in terror, the small mouse cried pitifully and hid its face in its paws.
“Skweee! Skweee!” Bufus baited, swinging the creature by the scruff.
His brother sniggered, then regarded the catch with dissatisfaction. “ ’Tis only a tidgey one,” he grumbled. “Us can do better’n that tiddler.”
“Righto!” Bufus agreed, and he flung the astonished mouse back into the grass.
Their confidence in their abilities was supreme, and they began the hunt all over again.
Observing them, Finnen tutted. “Somehow I don’t think we’ll be the
first ones back to the hazel after all.” He sighed.
In the glade, the youngsters continued the pursuit, and quickly they began to anticipate the rodents’ nimble movements. To compensate for his heavy footfalls, Tollychook learned to mimic the frantic squeals and lured many of them toward him, only to be thwarted at the last instant when they saw their mistake and fled.
Liffidia was still happily bounding alongside them. At the far edge of the clearing were numerous bolt-holes, into which many of the mice would disappear, and sometimes she scooted in after them. Down unlit tunnels she ventured, the squeals echoing eerily around her. Through that pitch-dark maze the slender werling girl ran until the passage began to rise and she emerged in a tangle of tree roots, then out into the sweet fresh air once more.
When they saw what she was doing, the Doolan brothers did the same. Into the holes they pelted and were so impressed by the echoes that they screamed and howled at each other throughout the length of their underground journeying.
Upon the bank, even Finnen could hear their racketing progress below the soil. He knew that valuable lessons were being learned; the minds and lives of mice were being discovered. However, he felt that the time had come for the tokens to be claimed.
When Mufus and Bufus next appeared, grimy but grinning from their subterranean riots, he told them they had to concentrate on the task that Master Gibble had set. Still shouting, the twins darted back into the grass.
Irritated by his failure thus far and seeing no other way around the problem, Tollychook had an idea. Marching up to one of the dead stalks, he snapped it free and tested its strength.
Content with the new rattling weapon, his face set and resolute, he tramped noisily to the nearest mouse run and waited.
“Haha!” Mufus cried abruptly.
“Hoohoo!” Bufus shrieked an instant later.
Simultaneously, both boys lifted a frightened mouse above their heads, and before the unhappy animals could squeal in protest, they each seized hold of a handful of fur and gave a hard, sharp yank.
