by Robin Jarvis
“You don’t understand,” Kernella told the wergle master. “One of us will die before tomorrow; it’s been prophesied. Whether we run away and hide in the fields or bite a spriggan on the nose, it’ll still happen.”
“So we might as well make the most of it,” Bufus put in. “If that means paying a call on the ghoulies and ghosties of the Witch’s Leap, then so be it. They can’t be any worse than what we’ve already seen.”
Master Gibble fidgeted uncomfortably. “That precipice was cursed long before Black Howla dived to her death from it. There’s badness in the very boulders.”
“Maybe there is,” Gamaliel said, “but that’s where we’re going. If you don’t want to come, then go your own way—but we can’t waste any more time arguing about it.”
“Then you go without me!” Master Gibble retorted miserably. “I can’t wergle on the outside or on the inside. I’m just the same as always, puffed up with vanity and pride. The jug of my courage has always been empty. I wish it were not so but there it is. I’ve as much substance and backbone as thistledown, dithering on the wind. There, it shames me to the marrow but I can’t be more than I am. The Great Grand Wergle Master is a vacillating, cowardly wretch!”
Bufus pulled a disgusted face. “I knew you’d flit off at the first whiff of danger,” he told the wergle master. “Yellow as a dandelion, that’s what you are.”
“I told you not to speak to him in the first place,” Kernella grumbled as the two of them plodded away.
Gamaliel regarded his former tutor one last time. Terser Gibble was the most pitiful sight and he couldn’t help feeling sorry for him.
“I’m glad we met again,” the boy said warmly. “In fact, I think it was meant to be. You’re the one Nest sent us to meet, not Gwyddion—I’m sure of it.”
Master Gibble stared at him, bemused. He did not understand a word about Nest or Gwyddion.
“Do not squander your breath by speaking to me,” he answered, averting his eyes. “I am not worth any kindness. Why should anyone send you to meet this apology of a creature? I am a hollow emptiness, a vacuum devoid of pride or worth. Let me crawl away and cower like the insect I am.”
Gamaliel stepped forward and pressed the tutor’s hand in his own.
“But you have helped me, Master Gibble,” he said. “You reminded me who and what we are and, tonight, that’s what I needed most. So much has happened, I’d almost forgotten. We are werlings, not warriors or knights, or champions, just the little werglers of Hagwood and I wouldn’t change that for anything. So thank you.”
The boy smiled then turned to follow his sister and Bufus.
Terser Gibble stood there shaking and suffering. The boy’s simple affection had affected him deeply. He had never deserved it. He had always been a braggart and had a mean, needling nature. Now his breaths came sharp and shallow. He despised his own cowardice but feared the path to the haunted crag even more.
Gamaliel’s gentle voice called back. “Go far from here. Very soon war is going to sweep over this place. Don’t get caught up in that.”
Gibble jerked his head in answer but the boy was already lost in the gloom ahead. “There go some of my youngest pupils,” he murmured when he was quite alone, “and each is worth a hundred of me. Terser Gibble, if you had a scrap of self-respect left, the shame of this would destroy you.”
He covered his face with his hands and began stumbling away, down the path, as fast as his spindly legs could bear him.
“Even the Lubber’s sparrows were braver than that scaredy pimple!” he heard Bufus Doolan’s scornful voice cry out.
The rain began spitting from the sky and the werlings pressed on.
“It’s just us again, then,” Kernella stated.
“Not if what Flatface Gibble said was true,” Bufus told her. “Remember the nameless horrors. We’ll be bumping into them soon enough.”
“I’ll give them a few names they won’t forget,” the girl promised.
They both chuckled. The ground continued to rise and the trees became ever more twisted and gnarled. Gradually, gargantuan thistles and impenetrable thickets of bramble replaced the bracken and snaking roots that protruded from the soil. A deathly stillness lay over this forsaken part of the forest, and although it was spring, the must and decay of an ancient autumn filled their noses.
“Perhaps the seasons don’t even visit this place,” Kernella remarked.
“I don’t blame them,” Bufus said, kicking through a heap of soggy, moldering leaves. “Stinky, messy dump!”
The heavens growled overhead.
“Even the thunder sounds muffled here,” Gamaliel observed.
“The rain’s still wet enough, though,” Bufus grumbled, pulling his woolen hat down over his ears.
They trudged on, growing more and more uneasy. At first they thought it was merely the leaping shadows cast by the lightning, but then they caught movements in the corners of their eyes.
“We’re not alone,” Kernella whispered.
When the werlings whirled around to confront the skulking shapes, they could only see the somber darkness beneath the misshapen trees.
“Just go away!” Kernella shouted. “You don’t scare us!” But her voice sounded less confident than she had intended.
“Bog off!” Bufus yelled.
From somewhere behind them came a soft murmuring. The werlings could not catch any words, but it was an unpleasant whispering, made up of snarls and hisses and bristling with hostility. More ugly voices joined in and it spread rapidly, sweeping through the trees and undergrowth until it surrounded them. Then the thistles began to rustle and creak, as though stealthy creatures were moving between them, closing in on the werlings.
“What are those things?” Kernella asked uncertainly.
“I don’t know,” Gamaliel answered. “I can’t see them; just keep catching shadowy blurs in the corner of my eye.”
“I think that’s what they are,” Kernella said. “Dark smudges, without any proper shape.”
“I thought you were going to name them. …” Bufus muttered.
“Oh, I have,” the girl said, swallowing nervously. “They’re Scary Whatsits.”
“That’ll do just fine,” he agreed.
“If they’re ghosts, they can’t hurt us, can they?” she asked.
“I’ve no idea,” her brother said. “But the fear of them might if we give in to panic. Hold hands and follow me. The trees thin out up ahead; we can turn ’round there and face them if they come after us.”
The children linked hands. Gamaliel went first, followed by Kernella, while Bufus brought up the rear. With determined yet frightened expressions, they strode between the thistles as the whispering grew ever louder. The hatred behind those muttering voices was unmistakable.
Gamaliel had done many brave deeds over the past days, but leading the others through that murmuring night was one of the most courageous. The undergrowth was thick with repulsive voices and formless patches of darkness rushed between the woody stems ahead.
“We just want to get past,” he said aloud, edging to the side. “To reach the cliff. We don’t want to harm you.”
The hissing, cruel laughter that followed made Kernella’s skin crawl. She had the overwhelming and unpleasant feeling they were being herded by the Scary Whatsits. She imagined a pit strewn with gnawed bones, similar to the lair of the candle spright, and gripped her brother’s and Bufus’s hands even tighter.
The Doolan boy gave an answering pull and then squeezed the cold fingers that had slipped into his other hand.
His eyes almost popped out of his head. “Whose fingers are those?” he cried in horror.
Throwing his hands in the air, he let out a scream and pelted past Kernella and Gamaliel. That was enough for the Tumpins. They too shrieked and raced after him. Terrified, the three of them crashed through
the thistles and the shapeless beings swarmed in pursuit. The trees clattered their twigs overhead. Indistinct black shadows spilled from the hollows of diseased oaks and joined the hunt.
The woolen hat was torn from Bufus’s head and Kernella’s hair was snatched and pulled. Gamaliel almost tripped over some hidden obstacle, and a wintry breath spat at him. A dark cowl fell across his face. He yelled and ducked beneath it, tearing at the shadows that flew before him.
The werlings burst from the trees and onto the open stretch that lay before the seven pines at the cliff edge. The ground had become bare rock, covered in dry, crackling needles, and was littered with fir cones. Wheezing and panting for breath, the youngsters skidded to a halt and spun around, waiting for their pursuers to come rushing from the undergrowth.
The tall thistles rattled and shook and shadows surged thickly around their stalks, but nothing came forward.
Gamaliel puffed and gasped and wiped a sleeve over his forehead.
“They won’t come out,” he said. “I bet lurking in the forest, frightening travelers is the worst they can do.”
“They do it really well though!” Bufus cried, trying not to think of the spectral fingers he had squeezed as he rubbed his hand on his jerkin with a shudder.
“Well they won’t be doing that for long!” Gamaliel shouted, as fury replaced his fright. “The final battle is coming to this crag, so they’d better creep back into their crevices! Go on, slink away. A bitter ending is coming for all of us!”
“Just what are you expecting to happen up here?” Bufus asked.
Gamaliel made no answer but walked farther up the crag toward the towering pines. The massive sprawl of Hagwood spread beneath them in every direction. Southward, toward the Devil’s Table, the world was cloaked in profound night. Kernella’s gaze was fixed upon the east, where the broken watchtower stood alone on the grassy promontory. It was so far away, no more than a splinter of stone jutting into the fulminating sky. A faint, spluttering glimmer of yellow light upon its roof showed that the rain had not yet extinguished the small fire the Tower Lubber had kept burning there. She turned to the others but they were looking in the opposite direction—their stricken, horrified faces were lit by far brighter flames.
Kernella caught her breath and stared across the forest roof, westward, toward their home. The land of the werlings was ablaze.
“‘Fire burns the homely sky,’” Bufus breathed. “That’s what Nest said.”
“He said a lot of things,” Gamaliel muttered grimly.
His sister covered her mouth. “She did it,” she said desolately. “The High Lady burned them. Our families—everyone.”
“Maybe not,” Bufus comforted her, trying to sound hopeful. “Your mum and dad might have escaped; they all might have. Even my old man isn’t completely useless.”
“That’s what She’ll do to everything,” Kernella said. “Burn and destroy, spoil and turn to dust anything She doesn’t like or that gets in Her way. Until it happens to your own family, you never really understand what that actually means. Our home is gone.”
“We came so close to putting an end to Her,” Bufus sighed, running his fingers through his dripping hair. “So close.”
Gamaliel waited for one of them to blame him for losing the key, but neither of them did. They were beyond such pettiness now and they had both come to respect him. A grateful smile appeared on his chubby face.
Suddenly, a deafening boom of thunder made all three of them jump and they wrenched their eyes northward. The great round summit of the Hollow Hill looked eerie and majestic in the distance, upraised on huge monoliths. The silvery-green light that shone from the lanterns within flowed out over the treetops, but the werlings had no time to marvel at the vision. In the forest vale between, they could hear echoing shouts and cries of battle. They saw countless streaks of lightning pulled from the clouds to go sizzling down in lethal strikes. The children gaped, speechless.
“Such power,” a whispering voice softly rasped.
The werlings nodded. Each of them thought one of the others had said it.
“Mightier and more terrible than anything before,” it continued. “Tearing the very lightning from the sky.”
“It’s horrible,” Kernella breathed, her eyes dazzled by the brilliant display of crackling light.
“How can we stop that?” the voice asked mournfully.
“Nothing can,” said Gamaliel in a flat, beaten tone.
“Against magic so strong, so unstoppable, there is no hope.”
“None,” agreed Bufus. “None at all.”
“We were fools to even try.”
Gamaliel’s head began to nod. An aching fatigue was creeping over him. His sister and Bufus felt the same leaden heaviness seeping through their bodies.
“Who are we to resist that power?”
“We’re no one,” Gamaliel uttered thickly. “Just silly little werlings.”
“Listen to those cries,” the bewitching voice whispered. “Lives are being lost down there.”
“So many …” Kernella murmured. “So many dying.”
“This night tolls with death. Our families are lost in flames and our friends are being slain. We too must die.”
“I don’t mind,” Bufus said groggily. “I’m ready. Nest said, one of us … one of us by morning.”
“Why one alone when we could go together? The war will kill us anyway. We cannot escape it and there will be nothing left for us.”
“I was …” Gamaliel began slowly. “I was going … going to … try …”
“Too late for that,” the compelling voice insisted. “The battle is already lost. Listen to the shrill agonies. Do we wait to burn like those poor brave heroes yonder? Must we feel the tempest’s fire blasting into us?”
“I don’t want to die that way,” Kernella said with a fretful frown on her sleepy face.
“Or be cut down by blades or crushed beneath hooves?”
Bufus closed his eyes. “Let it be over,” he pleaded.
“Yes, we can decide our own way—a quick, peaceful way. Surrender ourselves into sweet darkness and feel no pain.”
“I’d like that,” Kernella sighed.
“We have not slept for so very long, and the path has been hard. Let us sleep deep, now and for always.”
The children’s heads slumped onto their chests. They were completely under the spell.
“Let us join hands once more,” the lulling voice crooned. “That’s right, now … this way. Follow my words. Walk here, come—come to the endless sleep. Such rest we will find there, such delicious relief from all our pains and troubles.”
Holding hands, the werlings stumbled forward, barely awake. The voice lured them on, enticing them, promising a syrupy oblivion, freedom at long last from the strife and grief that had plagued them.
And so the spirit of Black Howla seduced them ever closer to the cliff edge. The pine needles crunched under the children’s feet as they passed beneath the seven pine trees. Exposed upon that staggering height, the cold winds gusted around them.
“A little farther,” Black Howla called. “That’s it, my loves—almost there … just two steps and we shall be at peace.”
“With Mufus,” Bufus murmured dreamily.
He took another step forward, pulling the others with him. The empty night blew before his closed eyes and the precipice was now only one more step away. The rock dropped sharply into blackness below.
“Will Finnen be there?” Kernella yawned.
“All our desires are there,” Black Howla said, her voice floating out into the storm in front.
Kernella prepared to walk off the cliff.
“YOU, GIRL!” a stern voice bawled furiously. “Stand still! Stop daydreaming! Bufus Doolan, wipe that stupid smirk off your face, you nasty child. Gamaliel Tumpin—was there ever such
a clumsy, bed-wetting wergler?”
The commanding voice was instantly familiar. It cut clean through the cloying words of Black Howla’s enchantment and resonated deep within the children’s sleeping selves immediately. They did not dare ignore it.
“You’re late—all of you!” it cried. “How dare you!”
“I’m sorry!” Gamaliel spluttered, his consciousness struggling to the surface. Was it his first morning of wergling instruction? He must have overslept. Why hadn’t anyone woken him?
Kernella grabbed her wergle pouch instinctively. “I did my homework!” she blurted. “Honest I did—weasels are easy!”
“Come here at once! All three of you! See me—right now, no excuses! Don’t make me wait or I really will lose my temper!”
The children snapped their eyes open.
Terser Gibble, the one and only Great Grand Wergle Master was standing beneath the last pine, his ragged gown flapping in the storm. But his face was not that of the school’s scolding tyrant that he had compelled his voice to be. It was contorted with terror and anguish for his former pupils and his beady eyes were streaming with tears.
The children stared dumbly at him. Then, with a sickening lurch in their stomachs, they realized where they were—one slight nudge away from death. Kernella yelled and flung herself from danger. She ran to the wergle master and threw her arms around him.
Black Howla’s frustrated screech blistered through the air above them, circling up into the pine trees.
“Begone, pestilential shade!” Master Gibble shouted fiercely. “I will not let you hurt these children. They are in my care now.”
Black Howla shrieked with scorn. “Your pupils will live only long enough to curse you for saving them! My own pupil is on her way here. She will find fitting ends for you all. Expect no swift death—this night and all hereafter belong to my sisters.”
The spirit’s hideous laughter tore higher through the branches until it was lost on the wind.
Kernella looked up at Master Gibble and beamed at him. “You came back,” she said. “Even though you were so scared, you came. You saved us.”
