by Robin Jarvis
A honk of laughter came from Kernella’s goofy mouth, and she promptly assumed her own form again.
“Hoo, Stookie!” she exclaimed. “How well you fit that there shape. What an honest-to-goodness shrew you are!”
Stookie squealed, and the wergled shape was discarded. “Better than being a fat dollopy rabbit!” she answered hotly.
Before the insults worsened, Master Gibble called for silence, then turned to Finnen Lufkin, who had, as yet, not changed into anything at all.
“And you, Master Lufkin,” he said with forced cordiality. “Will you be joining your fellows, or is that beneath you nowadays?”
Finnen brushed the hair from his forehead, and a slow smile spread across his face. “I didn’t know where to begin,” he replied honestly.
“Are there, indeed, so many forms in your repertoire?” Master Gibble asked archly.
Finnen put his head to one side as he counted, then nodded. “Yes,” he said, much to the tutors consternation and annoyance. “There are.”
A soft, whistling peep escaped from one of Master Gibble’s nostrils, and he clenched his teeth together.
“Would you care to demonstrate?” he hissed. “If it isn’t too much trouble. I’m sure we would all benefit enormously from such a display of your gift.”
Ignoring the sarcasm, Finnen agreed, and removing the wergle pouch from his belt, let it fall to the floor. “Won’t be needing that,” he said.
Terser Gibble trembled with indignation, then held up his hand before the boy could begin. “A moment!” he cried. “As you are so proficient, why not make the performance a trifle more interesting for the others? I suggest that we both wergle together and see who falters first.”
The children around them grew silent, and everyone resumed their normal shape. This had never happened before, and they looked at Finnen nervously. Would he accept the challenge?
“A friendly competition,” Master Gibble goaded. “Nothing more.”
Finnen was not certain, but he could see that the others were anxious for him to try. Kernella was staring at him expectantly, her eyebrows jiggling wildly up and down. The confidence they all had in him was overwhelming, and he knew there was no way out.
“Very well,” he assented. “I’ll do it.”
The other werlings gave a glad cheer and ran to their seats, forming a clear stage where the contest could take place.
Swishing his gown around him, Master Gibble strode into the center, and Finnen followed.
“From the simplest through to the most sophisticated,” the spindly tutor announced. “When you are ready, we shall begin.”
Finnen took a deep breath and prepared himself. “Ready,” he said.
Master Gibble struck a flamboyant pose, and his shape dissolved effortlessly down into the black creases of his gown.
A scrawny mouse with an inordinately long nose popped his head out of the collapsing robe and scurried free before the topmost fold fell.
Squeaking with vain pride, he turned, but saw that Finnen had already wergled and his mouse was staring back at him.
Master Gibble slapped his tail upon the deck. The face of Finnen’s mouse was far more convincing than that of his own. With an irritated toss of the head, the tutor wergled into a hedgehog.
Yet Finnen did not accompany him, and Master Gibble wondered if the game already was won. Finnen had remained a mouse, but no—thrilled murmurs were fizzing through the audience, and when the tutor stared at his competitor he understood why.
With impertinent ease, Finnen was wergling into many different species. From a wood mouse he blended his shape into that of a dormouse, then he became a harvest mouse, and with a flick of his ears slipped into a gray house mouse.
The spines covering Master Gibble’s hedgehog shape quivered, and the tutor transformed into a skinny rat. He ran at the mouse to cuff his head.
Too late he saw Finnen assume the hedgehog form and he drove his paws onto sharp bristles.
Squealing, the tutor shook himself, and his outline rippled as the remaining primitive forms were rapidly dispensed with in their correct order, from squirrel through to mole.
The speed of the changes was astonishing, and the watching children gasped with wonder, not daring to blink in case they missed the next new shape. Before them the figure of Master Gibble shifted endlessly; yet Finnen was not defeated. Shape for shape he matched the Great Grand Wergle Master until the list of simple forms was completed and the specialist section of the tournament commenced.
At once Master Gibble became a cream-colored ferret, but Finnen expertly eclipsed the move by wergling into a green-and-yellow frog. The ferret vanished and in its place was a newt, peppered with dark spots.
Finnen’s frog leaped over the newt’s head, but when he landed he had become a lanky-legged rabbit, which hopped madly about the platform, taunting the newt with an impudent jig.
“That’s it, Finnen!” the Doolan brothers called. “You’re showing the old misery!”
The newt raised its head and glared at them imperiously, but Mufus and Bufus only snickered and mumbled behind their hands.
Gamaliel could not believe how splendidly Finnen was doing. His sister’s infatuation and the other children’s hero worship was more than explained.
Sitting in a corner by herself, Liffidia watched the competition intently. She wanted to shout out something rude and insulting to Master Gibble to put him off. But while she struggled for the appropriate heckling jibes, the newt moved and started to chase its tail. A moment later the glistening body had stretched in length, and there on the deck was an adder with a long tongue flicking between its oddly tapering jaws.
Liffidia forgot her insults, and the Doolans shuffled backward. Sitting beside Gamaliel, Tollychook began to fret, and Kernella’s mouth dropped open.
Finnen’s young hare was still oblivious to the new and deadly change that had occurred behind him. He continued to caper while the snake slithered close and reared its scaly head.
Frightened whimpers issued from the audience. For a dreadful instant they thought the adder would strike. At the crucial moment, however, the rabbit reached up with its front legs and two webs of leathery skin unfurled.
With a downward thrust of his new wings, the bat that Finnen had transformed into flitted up into the overhanging branches of the hazel. There, with the sunlight glowing redly through the fine membrane spanning his fingers, he acquired a perfect covering of feathers and perched upon one of the boughs as a wood lark.
“He can do feathers!” the children cried.
“And he can fly!” Kernella crowed, her devotion bursting out of its former bounds. “Ooh, Finnen—you never cracked on!”
Overhead, the wood lark opened its beak and, in a beautiful chirping voice, sang a piping cadence of notes as a finale. The werling children applauded enthusiastically and rose to their feet.
The snakes lidless eyes considered the sweetly singing bird for a moment, then the competition was over and the familiar, gangly figure of Master Gibble was standing there, wrapping his gown about him once more.
A somber expression was etched upon his face, and the tutor bowed so low to Finnen that his nose touched the floor and bent sideways.
“Your skill is, indeed, very great,” he acknowledged. “In all these years of instruction, never have I had the privilege of teaching any pupil with such a gift as yours. This day I have seen my successor. You will be one of the grand adepts, Master Lufkin.”
The wood lark hopped from its perch, and Finnen jumped onto the platform as himself. The children surged forward and clapped him on the back, praising his name and stamping so hard that the branches of the hazel tree quivered and shook. Finnen squirmed with discomfort under the gushing acclaim and wished he had never allowed himself to be persuaded into the foolish contest.
When the clamor and adulation subsided, Master Gibble returned to the serious matters of the day.
“Tonight you younger students will venture out int
o the wood and commence the next stage of instruction,” he announced. “At sundown we shall reassemble here. Then, in the same groups as yesterday, you will remain outside all night and study the second animal on the wergling list. You all saw just now that it is the hedgehog. I want you to learn its ways and return at daybreak tomorrow with a token of prickly bristles to add to your wergle pouches—and remember to keep those pouches tidy!”
Hearing this, Gamaliel tucked his own velvety bag out of sight, for it still was stuffed with the gleanings of the woodland floor. The other werlings were extremely excited at the prospect of the nocturnal adventure, but those in Gamaliel’s group knew that they were the luckiest of all—they were going to be led by Finnen.
The rest of the day passed all too slowly for the impatient children. Most of them were put to bed in the afternoon so that they would not be too tired when darkness fell, but sleep eluded them all—except for Tollychook, who dropped off immediately.
Liffidia Nefyn was made to repeat the previous day’s exercise. With Master Gibble standing over her, she caught a mouse and miserably plucked out a small amount of fur. Back at the hazel she was given another stern lecture on the do’s and don’ts before she was finally permitted to wergle. Liffidia did it beautifully, and impressed for the second time that day, the tutor was compelled to send her home to prepare for the next lesson.
Evening came at last. Streaks of scarlet striped the sky as the sun dipped behind the gathering clouds, and for a time Hagwood appeared aglow with angry flame.
Slowly the light faded, and the waiting shadows crept out under the trees. When the early stars winked above the forest, the children set off.
Into the woodland they trailed, splitting into their different groups and disappearing into the dark. The leaders each carried a lantern to illuminate the finer points of hedgehog behavior, and everyone was armed with a good strong stick in case of owl attack. It was going to be a long night, and bags of provisions were slung across the youngsters’ shoulders.
For a brief while it looked as though Kernella wanted to join her party with that of Finnen’s. But Master Gibble, who was keeping a watchful eye on the departures, shouted at her, and she scuttled away with her charges scampering after.
Gamaliel was relieved; he didn’t want his sister bossing him about again.
Heading north, Finnen led them along much the same route as the previous night’s journey to the Hag’s Finger. But this time each of them would be forced to confront a terrible danger.
When the edge of the woodland was in sight and the heath dimly visible beyond, he called a halt, and by the roots of an ash tree they made their encampment.
“It’s as likely a spot as any,” he said, setting the lantern down, “Our prickly friends will be stirring soon, and they always come foraging between the wood and the heath.”
Gamaliel and the others sat upon the ground, but Mufus Doolan stared out at the tantalizing expanse of the heath and whistled longingly.
“That looks better over there!” he argued. “Bet there’s more hedgehogs in all that grass than you can find trundling through these leaves.”
His brother agreed wholeheartedly. “I’m gonna go and see,” he declared.
“Sit down!” Finnen told them. “No one’s going over there. You’re nowhere near ready to leave the shelter of the trees, and that wasteland is far too exposed. You’d be an owl’s supper before you knew what had happened.”
The Doolans kicked the leaves sullenly but joined the others in the circle they had formed around the lantern.
“How long will it be before we see a hedgehog?” Liffidia asked.
Finnen shrugged. “Could be hours yet,” he answered.
The Doolans groaned and looked bored.
“What we gonna do till then?” Bufus complained.
Turning his gaze from one member of the company to another, his brother snickered at Tollychook, who was already tucking into the food from his bag. Mufus puffed out his cheeks and patted his stomach in mockery, but Tollychook was too engrossed in a delicious berry-and-chestnut pie to notice.
Mufus switched his attention to Gamaliel and nudged his brother. Young Master Tumpin was sorting through the treasures he had popped into his wergle pouch and was examining them carefully.
“Hoy, Gammy!” Mufus cried. “What’s all that rubbish? Pointy-nosed Gibble would have a fit if he knew what you had in there! Just wait till I tell him!”
Gamaliel hurriedly refilled the pouch and looked worried.
Delighted to see that the threat had discomforted him, the Doolans decided to taunt some more.
“How you getting on with your wergling, Gammy?” they asked. “We’ve been practicing all afternoon. Real good at it, we are now.”
Bringing out their tokens of fur, the brothers sniffed them and instantly changed into mice.
“Hardly takes any effort at all now!” they squeaked. “Shame you can’t do it.”
Gamaliel stared at the ground, but the Doolans kept wergling in and out of the mouse shapes and laughed at his forlorn expression.
“That’s enough!” Finnen said crossly. “You’ll exhaust yourselves doing that.”
Reluctantly and with deliberate slowness, the Doolans returned to their normal forms.
“I could tell you a story if you like,” Finnen suggested, hoping this bribe would prevent any more teasing. “I know lots of good ones from my nan.”
Mufus and Bufus were not impressed, but Tollychook spluttered eagerly and sprayed crumbs of piecrust everywhere. “Yessy, please!” he said, the ends of the handkerchief that was still bound about his nose flapping madly.
“What about a tale of the hillfolk?” Gamaliel asked.
The Doolans muttered and curled their lips peevishly while Finnen searched his memory.
“No,” Liffidia interrupted. “I’d like to know more about Frighty Aggie.”
Finnen looked at her sharply. That particular tale was not one he would relish telling.
“I’m not sure I remember it properly,” he mumbled.
“ ’Course you do!” the Doolans urged. “We like that one, we do.”
Glancing round at the darkened wood, Finnen shivered. There were elements of the tale that touched too closely on his own secrets, but he could not deny the demands of his group now.
“All right,” he began. “Frighty Aggie it is.”
With the night close about them, the werlings huddled before the lantern, and the buttery light played over their faces as Finnen commenced the tragic history of the nightmare that haunted the dreams of infants.
“In long years past,” the boy said, repeating the tale precisely as it had been told to him, “the instructor of the young was called Agnilla Hellekin...”
“She was one of the great adepts of the werling folk, one of the finest champions of the art that our kind has ever known. Ever she thirsted for knowledge, but her lust for even greater understanding drove her to a terrible folly. There was not a creature in the forest beyond the range of her powers, and yet she was not content. Mastering the forms of animals, fish, birds, and serpents was not enough for her, and Agnilla’s thoughts finally turned to the insect world.
“No one had ever discovered the secrets of those creatures that creep and buzz, and her heart became inflamed with the desire to learn all she could. From our early beginnings, that branch of lore has been closed to us, and our forefathers forbade its study, with good cause.
“It is said that the shape of insects is almost impossible to attain, but that alone is not the reason why the discipline was avoided. Legends spoke of Wergle Masters in the ancient past who dabbled in such experiments and of the horror that befell them. There is great peril wergling into an insect: The mind of a werling alters, and he forgets his former existence.
“That is what happened to Agnilla Hellekin. She had grown proud and considered herself far too skilled to succumb to such hazards; her gift surpassed that of any who had gone before. Yet to ensure her triumph,
she...”
Finnen faltered and hastily cleared his throat.
“What did she do?” Liffidia asked.
“Thought she could cheat,” the boy answered clumsily as he fumbled to reorganize the story in his head. “And for a while it worked...
“Yes, to begin with, Agnilla’s attempts were successful. The first insect she wergled into was a huge and beautiful moth that flew through Hagwood, sailing silently between the trees with the moonlight scattering over her fragmented eyes.
“The other werlings were amazed and honored her as the mightiest that had ever lived. But it did not stop there.
“Too fiercely did the lust for that dreadful knowledge burn within her, and twice more she transformed into insect forms. Then on that third and last time her powers failed her, and she became a monstrous, hybrid terror—part wasp, part spider.
“The other werlings ran to her aid, calling out the unlocking passwords, but they were useless, for the frightful shape that Agnilla had assumed was entirely new, and over it those ancient charms had no control. Desperately they implored her to wergle back, but the previous transformations had afflicted Agnilla without her realizing. Each time, her mind had suffered, and now it was too late. Agnilla Hellekin no longer existed. Her mind and will had fallen into that of the hideous nightmare she had become, and so the greatest of our kind was lost.
“When the werlings realized there was no hope of her redemption, they were forced to drive the vile creature from the wood and out over the Hagburn. There, in the deep forest, behind the holly fence, she made her awful abode, and it is said by some that she dwells there still—Frighty Aggie.”
Finnen fell silent and passed a hand over his eyes.
“O Frighty Aggie, sting not me,” Gamaliel murmured with a shiver.
Gulping his last mouthful, Tollychook glanced around warily as if he expected the terrible monster to suddenly spring from the gloom.
“Now I understand why Gibble was so angry,” Liffidia breathed. “Mother should have told me the story years ago.”
“Perhaps she thought you’d had enough nightmares,” Finnen said. “What with your father being carried off and all.”
