Thorn Ogres of Hagwood

by Robin Jarvis

  A discordant note whistled from Master Gibble’s nose as he hunched over to bring his face close to hers, and he chanted a rhyme that was known to every werling:

  “Crickle crackle, wergle thee,

  Stray not from the cobweb tree.

  Catch my brother or eat my mother,

  O Frighty Aggie, sting not me.

  “Would that she were only a nursery bogey,” he uttered darkly. “But she is not. The horror that is Frighty Aggie is as real as you or I. Doubt that at your peril, child. Beyond the Hagburn she dwells, devouring what she finds in the darkness. Pray that she never returns to her old haunts, to climb our trees and reach into our homes. What chance would you stand then, against such a nightmare as she, you with no shape but your own to wear?”

  Liffidia swallowed dismally. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Master Gibble drew himself up. “O Frighty Aggie, sting not me,” he echoed. “The next time you yearn to be an insect, remember those words and shun such forbidden wishes.”

  Spinning upon the bony heels of his bare feet, he marched back to the front and commanded Liffidia to follow.

  “As you have no token, you cannot take part in this,” he informed her. “Remain there and watch the progress of your fellows. You will have to catch up later.”

  And so Liffidia was compelled to stand before the other children while Master Gibble turned his back on her and instructed them in the noble art of wergling.

  “Now,” he began brusquely, “let us resume our journey on the path of wisdom. This very day you will attempt your very first change of form. This is a gift we are born with, but for the novice there are many dangers. Most hazardous of all is to assume a shape but be unable to return to your own. Does anyone know how we defend ourselves against this hideous risk?”

  Many hands shot up. “The passwords!” came the children’s eager cries. “The passwords.”

  Master Gibble clicked his tongue and waited for silence. “Many years ago,” he proclaimed, when they had settled down once more, “our ancestors devised words of power.”

  Even as he said it a thrill ran through his audience. The passwords were the werlings’ most guarded secret. No one outside their race knew them; to speak of their existence to any stranger was a most heinous offense. Children were not told them until the day of instruction, and during the past two years Kernella often had taunted Gamaliel because she knew and he did not.

  Terser Gibble narrowed his eyes and his voice became even more grave than ever.

  “Words of power,” he continued, “that could unlock whatever form they had taken. If you are in difficulty then these mighty words will save you. They can also be invoked to aid any other of our kind should they be trapped in a shape and unable to break free themselves. Whatever happens, the passwords must not be used frivolously or shouted aloud, lest enemies overhear.”

  The last sentence was spoken with such severity that one child appeared on the verge of tears, but the point had been driven home, and the Wergle Master was satisfied by the fearful expressions graven upon his pupils’ faces.

  Moving forward, he pushed into their midst, and when he next spoke it was in a hushed, reverential whisper.

  “Heed then,” he began, turning this way and that to ensure no other creatures were within earshot. “I shall tell to you the words of power and you must commit them to the innermost regions of your heart.”

  In silent rapture, the werling youngsters clambered around him and listened intently.

  “Amwin par cavirrien sul, olgun forweth, i rakundor.

  Skarta nen skih cheen,

  Emar werta i fimmun-lo.

  Perrun lanssa dirifeen, tatha titha Dunwrach.”

  The children uttered small exclamations of dismay.

  “I won’t never ’member all them tongue tanglers,” Tollychook moaned, giving voice to their concerns. “If’n my werglin’ goes wrong, I reckons I’m stuck.”

  Master Gibble regarded him haughtily. “They were created in the old speech,” he said. “And handed down from our beginnings. In that form they possess the greatest strength, yet there is a loose translation that may be easier for you to learn. It will be all you need at this stage of your instruction. The beasts that you wergle into will be the most rudimentary, so the simple version will suffice for now.”

  Again he adopted the low, respectful tone, and the young werlings listened a second time.

  “I call on ye who lay beneath, soil and sky, bark and leaf.

  Unyoke flesh, unbar door.

  Cast off shape and wear no more.

  Give again the form that’s good, by the might of great Hagwood.”

  “At’s better!” Tollychook cried. “ ‘Unyoke flesh, unbar door.’ Taint so tricky, thatun.”

  Master Gibble scowled, and his bony hand flashed out to smack Tollychook soundly across the back of the head.

  “Idiot child!” he raged. “Do you want the world to hear? Speak not so loudly if you have to utter those words at all.”

  Rubbing his smarting head, Tollychook mumbled an apology.

  “And so the moment has come,” Master Gibble announced to the rest. “Remove from your wergle pouches the tufts of fur you have brought from the wood.”

  Gamaliel reached into his velvety bag and took out the snowy fur. He was so nervous that he could feel his heart beating rapidly in his chest, and a tear of perspiration trickled down his forehead. Glancing sideways to where the older children were watching, he saw Finnen grin encouragingly across at him.

  “Attention everyone!” Terser Gibble declared. “You must recall what it was like to run with the beast you have hunted this day. Let your mind return to the chase, fill your thoughts with that creature and concentrate on its form. Think so hard that your head hurts. Believe that you are mice.”

  Pausing a moment to observe the captivated faces of his audience, the tutor then added, “Some of you may find it helpful to imitate a mouse’s voice at that point. Of course, there are those who prefer to chant a favorite word over and over to themselves. So long as it aids the illusion and directs the mind I don’t care what it is. I recall one pupil who could never wergle into anything until he had recited ‘chunky chestnut clusters’ thirty times. Then, when your imagination can do no more, take that handful of fur and hold it under your noses to take a great, inspiring whiff. As the smell and nature of the beast fills your nostrils, strain with all your might.”

  Master Gibble ended with a theatrical sweep of his hands, and the children were ready.

  “Begin!” he commanded.

  Eagerly the young werlings closed their eyes and everyone thought back to the hunt, recalling as much as they could. In their minds they pictured those brown furry faces and heard the frightened squeals again. A few of the children began to squeak in anticipation, while others muttered under their breath.

  Viewing them critically, Master Gibble saw a crowd of crinkled foreheads as each youngster struggled and strained. He grunted approvingly; this was how it should be. They were all endeavoring to overcome the boundaries of their present form.

  Just a little longer, he told himself.

  Outside the gathering, Finnen Lufkin felt the atmosphere intensify. But as he stared at those reddening faces, watching the effort and exertion etched in the children’s features, he gave a shiver and looked away guiltily.

  Tollychook had screwed his face up so tightly that his eyes had disappeared and his bottom lip was touching the underside of his nose, which he had bandaged with a handkerchief.

  Perhaps it was the pain of that mouse bite that enabled him to remember so vividly the rodent that had wriggled in his arms. Up until then he had always been an unremarkable, dull-witted boy, but suddenly his imagination bounded ahead and he knew how the poor animal had felt. He was no longer wrestling with it but had swapped places. Gripped in a werling’s arms, he squirmed to get free. To run into the nearest hole and hide with his whiskers trembling was all he craved, and he let out a high shriek.
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br />   Master Gibble stared at him gleefully. “The token!” he cried. “Don’t forget the token!”

  Almost without realizing what he was doing, Tollychook raised the fur in his hand to his nose and inhaled sharply.

  With that—he wergled.

  High into the air Tollychook jumped, jiggling and quivering as the forces within him were unleashed at last.

  Immediately, he began to change. Before he landed back on the platform, a lustrous coat of fur sprouted all over his skin. His breeches flew off as a pink tail whisked into existence behind him, and his jerkin was sent flying into the branches overhead when he thrashed his dwindling arms.

  Down he tumbled, wearing only his snookulhood and the handkerchief still wrapped about his whiskery nose.

  Onto the platform he fell, springing back up again and squeaking in amazement when he stared at the paws that had replaced his hands.

  Master Gibble snorted diffidently. The transformation was not the greatest success he had overseen. The mouse that was now trying to control the movements of its tail was still recognizably Tollychook. It had the same nose and mouth, and the ears were not quite right.

  “Adequate for a first attempt,” the tutor commented. “Let us hope it will improve with practice.”

  Tollychook was too busy hopping up and down, admiring his new form, to take any notice.

  “Looky me!” he cried in a trembling, mouselike voice. “Looky me!”

  But the other children were absorbed in their own exertions. Then there came a small shout as another was jolted into his new shape, and there were suddenly two mice standing upon the platform.

  All at once the rest of the youngsters gave astonished cries, fistfuls of fur were sniffed, and pink tails came sweeping from their clothes.

  His eyes clamped shut, Gamaliel Tumpin heard the marvelous transformations erupt around him, and his anxiety mounted. Every new mouse gave a triumphant squeak as it bounced into being, and he began to panic. He didn’t want to be left behind, but his fears upset his concentration and the memories of the hunt faded from his mind.

  Gritting his teeth, he summoned them back, only to lose them again when the unmistakable voices of Mufus and Bufus proclaimed that they, too, had wergled successfully.

  Blindly, he wondered how many others remained unchanged, like himself. Excited squeaks seemed to come from all directions, and he huffed and strained, exerting every ounce of strength.

  “Come on, Gamaliel.” Kernella’s impatient call came ringing in his ears. “Hurry up!”

  Her brother was frantic. Why couldn’t he do it? Desperately he struggled to imagine he was a mouse.

  “Please, please, please!” he begged, his voice cracking with effort and emotion.

  Finally, the last of the other children wergled, and Gamaliel stood alone in a crowd of half-dressed and jubilant mice.

  Flustered and close to tears, he made one last, despairing attempt.

  Clutching the tuft of white fur to his nose, he took an enormous breath and doubled over, groaning with the stress and strain. Gamaliel’s head thumped and his eyes ached behind the scrunched-up lids. He felt his knees begin to shake and a curious buzzing filled his mind.

  This was it, he thought, the wergling was beginning, and his heart soared.

  Rejoicing, he leaped up, waiting for the tail to burst out behind.

  Yet the miracle never happened. Instead of turning into a rodent, Gamaliel Tumpin swayed dizzily and staggered backward.

  “Did it work...?” he mumbled with a slur. “Am...am I a mouse?”

  A prickling darkness engulfed him, and Gamaliel went crashing to the floor. He had fainted.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Trooping Ride

  IT WAS DARK WHEN Finnen Lufkin ascended the mighty oak in which the Tumpin family lived. Cold starlight streaked through the branches above, and the waxing moon cast black veins of shadow across his upturned face.

  Climbing effortlessly, Finnen heard the indistinct voices of the Dritch family as he passed the region where they had their dwelling and moved ever upward. The opening that led to old Mistress Woonak’s residence was dark and silent, for she often retired early, but overhead, he could see the faint glow of a lantern spilling out along the branches. A solitary, plump figure was sitting there, dangling its legs and humming softly.

  “Gamaliel?” Finnen called. “Is that you?”

  The figure started, and the lantern was lowered so that its gentle light fell full on Finnen’s face.

  “Hello, Finnen!” a voice greeted in pleased surprise. “What you doin’ here at this late hour?”

  The boy clambered a little higher until the perch was reached and he sat next to the bearer of the lamp.

  “Evenin’, Kernella,” he said. “I came to see how your brother was doing.”

  Kernella Tumpin twirled a finger in her lank hair and dismissed any talk of Gamaliel with a terse “Pfft!”

  “Is he feeling any better?” Finnen persisted.

  The girl yawned. “Don’t care,” she replied. “Them Doolans is right: He is a useless lump. Ain’t no one never swooned werglin into a mouse before. Did you hear how that Stookie Mafifin giggled with her friends?”

  “Is he inside?” Finnen interrupted.

  Kernella’s brows twitched with irritation. “Don’t you want to know what that sparrow-legged gnat-brain said to me?” she asked indignantly.

  “No,” came his blunt answer as he rose and stepped back along the branch. “Look, if Gamaliel is indoors, I’ll go find him.”

  Kernella waited until Finnen was just about to step into the small passage leading to the Tumpin home, then she coughed.

  “He ain’t in there,” she said. “Besides, if you go in now you’ll be sorry. Father’s in one of his story moods, and he’ll bore the ears off you if you let him. Why do you think I’m out here?”

  “So where is Gamaliel?” Finnen asked.

  Kernella pointed upward. “In his favorite spot,” she said. “Likes to go an’ watch the world from up there—’specially when he’s done something gormless or he’s downright glum. Seems to me as how that’s most of the time.”

  Not waiting to listen, Finnen hurried up the oak’s uppermost boughs to where the branches divided, tapering into long, elegant fingers that brushed and scoured the night.

  There, sitting upon the last twigs strong enough to support him, was Gamaliel Tumpin. This was his special, private place. Kernella was too heavy to pester him here, and from this vantage point he could gaze out across the forest roof and lose himself in dreams.

  With the cool night breeze playing over his face, Gamaliel stared into the blank darkness of Hagwood and found it comforting. No one there knew how worthless he was, and he wished he had the courage to run away—into the heart of the forest.

  “Best to be devoured by a wolf than stay here with everyone laughin’ at me,” he said sorrowfully. “An’ better to get it over with quick. If I sit here long enough, maybe that owl Mr. Mattock talked about will swoop down and cart me off.”

  “You going to sit there feeling sorry for yourself all night?” Finnen asked suddenly.

  Gamaliel turned, and the twigs swayed beneath him. “Leave me alone,” he pleaded.

  “If you really want me to, I will.”

  “I do. I don’t want none of your pity.”

  Finnen shrugged. “I wasn’t going to offer any,” he said, preparing to return down the oak. “Only came to see if you fancied joining me on an excursion tonight. Doesn’t matter. I can easily go on my own.”

  The older boy shinned down the branch, but Gamaliel called him back.

  “Wait!” he cried. “Where you off to?”

  Finnen chuckled. “Only way to find out is to come with me,” he said mysteriously.

  Gamaliel considered for a moment, then scrambled from the bobbing twigs and followed Finnen down.

  The route Finnen took as he descended avoided the branch where Kernella sat in waiting. Instead, he climbed down the fa
r side of the tree and hoped that she had not seen them.

  Quickly they moved, as silently and as swiftly as werlings can. Then, into the soft leaf mold piled over the tree’s roots, Finnen dropped—followed by Gamaliel.

  “It’s not safe to traipse through the wood at night,” Gamaliel said, gazing apprehensively around at the moon-glimmering darkness. “It looks so different; I don’t know if I dare.”

  Finnen began walking down the slope. “You’ll be perfectly safe with me to guide you,” he promised. “I prefer the wood at night. I’ve roamed in the dark hundreds of times before.”

  “If you’re sure,” Gamaliel said, scampering after him. “We going to see that old mouse again?”

  Before Finnen could answer there came a “thud” in the leaves behind, and there was Kernella—arms folded and annoyed.

  “Don’t you try and slip off without me,” she said crossly. “If you don’t let me join you, I’ll tell.”

  There was nothing Finnen could do but allow her to accompany them, and so the three werlings set off into the midnight wood.

  Under the towering black columns of the trees they journeyed, traveling northward, quite the opposite direction to the one Gamaliel had supposed. He had never been on the ground after dark, and the unfamiliar sights, smells, and sounds alarmed and thrilled him. He could not guess where Finnen was taking them, and he did not care. To be out wandering in the rich gloom was enough.

  Kernella had already forgiven Finnen for trying to leave her behind. She had seen the wood wearing its nighttime raiment before and was glad simply to be plodding alongside her hero.

  Listening politely to her chatter, Finnen Lufkin led them along forgotten pathways, over the gleaming ribbons of foraging snails, through dells thronging with rising toadstools, and into tunnels of dead fern.

  Enchanted, Gamaliel said nothing. At length the trees began to thin on their left, and he caught a glimpse of the cinder track beyond.

  Catching his breath, he stared fearfully through the outlying oaks. That neglected trail marked the edge of his world, and to be this close to it caused the hairs on his ears to tingle.