The Beast of Hushing Wood

by Gabrielle Wang

  She looks up through watery eyes and nods.

  ‘Be careful, Ziggy,’ are the words I think I hear as I race out of the house.

  Grey clouds hang low and heavy over the mountains as I ride to Green Lake. The leaves are showing their silvery backs, a sure sign that a big storm is on its way. I leave my bike by the side of the road and walk through the pines towards the water.

  Mystic senses my wariness and stays close.

  I don’t know how to approach the caravan. Should I knock on the door or creep up on it? Will Raffi see me and set his leopard to attack?

  He is sitting on the top step, writing in a book, and his leopard is behind him in the open doorway, its back to me. The leopard’s spotty tail is looped around Raffi’s neck like a snake.

  Raffi looks up as I approach. His eyes darken when he sees me. Without turning his head, he says a few words in his own language. The leopard sinks into the shadows of the door and Raffi’s grandfather appears. Now they’re all looking at me, three pairs of eyes, pinning me like a moth on a board. I feel like running. I hold onto Mystic’s collar instead – for comfort, but also to keep him away from the leopard.

  Raffi stands and steps down towards me.

  ‘You dare to come here,’ he says. His voice is spiteful.

  Anger flares within me. ‘This is my town, Raffi. It is you who have come here and made everything wrong. Tell me why!’

  His lip curls, but I sense uncertainty. He glances quickly back at his grandfather, then he says, ‘We thought we might find help, find good people, find you. The shooting star, it led us to this place. And the eagle has never been wrong. But . . .’ His face turns red with anger. ‘But you hurt, you attack, you trap, you . . . try to kill Kalila.’

  There was that word again. Was it a name? I gather my nerves and stand up tall. ‘You’ve been controlling the beast that’s been hunting me and now it’s killed all of Harry Arnold’s lambs.’

  Raffi looks surprised. ‘Hunting you? And what lambs? What beast?’

  ‘You know what I’m talking about. Your silver fox. You did it as revenge,’ I say, still looking at him straight in the eye. But I feel my palms sweating. ‘Yes, I did set the trap. But it was because of your silver fox. I know it will try to kill me, to drown me. It chases me in my nightmares.’

  Raffi’s eyes narrow. ‘Kalila does not kill,’ he says.

  ‘Well, maybe it was your leopard then,’ I say.

  Raffi stares at me, a strange look on his face. ‘Leopard?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes, that one!’ I point at the animal that has emerged from the shadows.

  The grandfather says something to Raffi in that lovely, lilting language. But Raffi shakes his head and turns back to me. ‘It was not me or my leopard. I can tell you this for true. But now you tell me. Why did you trap Kalila? Are you really so cruel?’

  ‘I had to. I had no choice.’ The voices that had convinced me to set the trap echo in my head. But now they seem even less like me. My own voice betrays my uncertainty. ‘I thought I had to, anyway. Everything in my head said kill, or be killed, Ziggy Truegood. You must trap the beast! But . . .’

  I wince, remembering the horrible image of the silver fox’s pitiful hind leg.

  ‘These words, these thoughts, the voice, what did they . . . taste like?’

  What a strange idea, that a thought could have a taste, I think. But then I remember: the feel of ashes, the taste of smoke.

  I describe this to Raffi and he seems to relax. He looks up at the sky and sighs. Then he looks at me.

  ‘Ziggy Truegood, I can tell you that Kalila will never hurt you. She is gentle like a lamb herself. She would lie down next to you and you would be perfectly safe.’

  I put my hand in my pocket and feel the ball of silver fur. I know deep down that he is right. ‘Kalila came to my bedroom last night and slept on my bed.’ I take the fur from my pocket and show him.

  His face softens as he takes it and rubs it between his fingers. I can see how much he loves the silver fox, just like I love Mystic.

  ‘There is something evil,’ he says.

  I feel a cold shivery hand between my shoulder blades.

  The sound of a gunshot echoes through the woods.

  ‘Where is Kalila?’ I say, suddenly worried. ‘I thought she was here. The whole town is hunting her.’

  Raffi’s grandfather says something in urgent tones. Raffi looks frantic.

  ‘What is the evil, Raffi?’ I ask.

  ‘I must go. Stay out of the woods until I tell you it is safe,’ he says, rushing inside.

  I can go wherever I please, I’m about to reply. They are my woods, not yours. But the sound of a ricocheting bullet, and then another, silences me.

  ‘Go home,’ Raffi yells, strapping what looks like a dagger to his waist. He runs into the woods, his leopard loping beside him.

  Raffi’s grandfather takes my hand. He has a kind, serious face. He reminds me of Grandpa Truegood. I want to talk to him, but he can’t speak English so it would be no use. He smiles and shoos me gently away.

  I walk back through the trees to my bike, the wind howling. I thought the silver fox was a beast that kills and yet she lay next to me in my bed and I felt a strange connection. Raffi says she would never harm anyone. But this is from a boy who had an eagle attack me. Can I trust him?

  My heart says: Yes. And Grandpa Truegood told me to trust my heart.

  I ride home, my thoughts chasing each other like fireflies on a summer night.

  The sky bursts into light, followed by a crash of thunder that shakes the tree house. I’m sitting here, waiting.

  There’s nothing else I can do but hope that Raffi finds the silver fox before the hunters. Whoever Kalila is, she is part of me now. But what has she got to do with my life – or my death? I wish I knew.

  I look out over the woods. They are dense and dark in the approaching storm. It’s as if Kalila’s name is on the tip of every leaf, her musky scent on every tendril and vine. They call to me, inviting me to join them.

  ‘Don’t trust everything you see or hear.’ Grandpa Truegood’s words echo in my ear. Then I remember what Raffi said about the evil in the woods.

  What did he mean?

  The little chipmunk who lives in a burrow at the foot of the sycamore tree appears on the windowsill.

  ‘Hello, Esme,’ I say, sprinkling the ledge with peanuts I brought to snack on. She picks one up with her tiny hands, sits on her hind legs and eats. ‘There’s going to be a mighty storm, so don’t stay out too long.’

  As if she understands me, she picks up four peanuts and pops them one by one into both cheeks until they are bulging. Then, in a furry flash of yellow and brown stripes, she is gone.

  Mystic is lying at the foot of the tree, his chin on his paws.

  ‘Go home,’ I yell down at him, but he won’t. He wants to be close to me. He gives me a forlorn you’ve-forgotten-me kind of look. I feel guilty. We should be inside where it’s dry and warm and safe.

  I wrap the patchwork blanket around my shoulders and sit back, listening out for the sound of gunshots. Thankfully, it is silent. But then a horrible thought occurs to me – it could mean that Harry’s dad and the other hunters have done their job, that they have found Kalila.

  I smell the rain first. And then it comes, great sheets of it. The noise is like bullets hitting the tin roof of my tree house.

  Safe and dry, I fall into a half slumber as wind and rain rock the sycamore tree. This time I’m not drowning or being chased through the woods. This time it is about life. I am in a room with three doors, each one exactly the same. I open one door, but there’s a brick wall behind it. I open another and there’s a wall of seawater ready to crash down. I try the third but it’s locked. I peep through the keyhole. Inside are books, stacked high to the ceiling.

  I wake with the word ‘key’ on my tongue. Didn’t Grandpa Truegood say the bottle was the key?

  ‘Ziggy, Ziggy Truegood.’

  I sit up an
d peer out of the window.

  Raffi stands down below, curls plastered to his head, his clothes dripping wet. ‘I need your help,’ he says. There is desperation in his voice.

  I feel scared. Did he find Kalila? Has she already been killed?

  ‘Coming!’ I cry. The rope ladder is slippery and my hands are stiff and cold. Mystic prances around, wet tail wagging when I reach the ground.

  Raffi’s face is full of anguish. ‘I do not know if Kalila is alive,’ he says. ‘I went to the place where the sheep were killed. I did not believe you. I did not think Kalila could do such a thing. But I found this . . .’ He draws in a long breath as he shows me a fistful of silver fur speckled with blood. He drops his head and lets out a long sigh.

  ‘Maybe she has been too long a fox.’

  I wonder what he means. ‘Are you sure it is Kalila’s?’ I say. But I know it must be hers.

  ‘You say you know the woods,’ says Raffi. ‘I need to find her.’

  The woods are huge. She could be anywhere. But I nod reassuringly. ‘At least the hunt will be called off because of this rain.’

  I can’t help thinking, If it’s not too late.

  ‘If only I had taken greater care of her,’ he says as though to himself. He speaks as if he knows she is dead.

  ‘Mystic is a good tracker,’ I say with confidence. ‘Give me the fur.’

  He does and I put it under Mystic’s nose. ‘Go find,’ I command.

  ‘But it is raining,’ Raffi says. ‘How –’

  ‘Everyone thinks that dogs can’t pick up scent in the rain, but rain is good. It imprints the smells in the ground, which makes it easier for dogs to detect,’ I say.

  Mystic barks and runs off, nose to the ground. He zigzags from one side of the trail to the other. Sometimes he stops to sniff at a tree trunk or to paw at the earth. Then he runs to the next spot. We often play tracking games. Now he is tracking something for real.

  The ground has turned to big puddles of mud in some places and we have to skirt around them often. At one point I lose sight of Mystic and have to stop, hoping to hear him barking or see him running back. But it’s hard to hear anything over the peals of thunder shaking the woods, and we can hardly see through the teeming rain. I am wet and cold, but I say nothing – I sense Raffi’s fear, and I’m scared too of what we might find at the end.

  Finally I hear Mystic barking up amongst the Giant’s Marbles.

  In the rain and half-light of day, the huge rocks loom over the landscape like grey skulls with hollow black eyes. I shiver and don’t want to go up there. But Raffi starts climbing and I have to follow.

  When we reach the top, the first thing I see is Mystic. His lip is curled away from his teeth and he stands perfectly still, growling and staring into a deep fissure in the rocks.

  I know Mystic’s language. I know that this growl is one of fear.

  Raffi rushes forward.

  ‘No!’ I cry.

  Raffi is at the opening before I can stop him. He points his flashlight inside the crevice. I close my eyes, praying that Kalila is all right. But a wail like a wounded animal rises above the sound of the rain and I see Raffi stumbling backwards. He sways on his feet. I rush to his side to steady him as he sobs.

  I don’t want to go, but I have to see for myself.

  Slowly, I approach the opening and turn on my flashlight. There is no body. But there’s so much blood. I can almost see what happened. The hunters and their dogs at one end, and the trapped silver fox at the other. The trampled dirt is mixed with blood. It was an unfair battle.

  Raffi is on his knees now, keening. I stand beside him and all I can do is put my hand on his shoulder as the wind moans and whistles in and out of the Giant’s Marbles.

  ‘I must take Kalila’s body home,’ he says, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. ‘If I do not, her spirit will never rest.’ He stands up, wipes his muddy hands on his pants. His face is fixed and determined. ‘Do you know where the hunters would take her?’

  ‘It’s a Dell Hollow custom to skin sheep killers and hang their pelts on the fence as a warning to others,’ I say. ‘Are you sure you want to see that, Raffi?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says with determination.

  ‘Then I know where she will be.’

  I lead the way down the ridge to a trail that crosses Fiddlers Stream via a small wooden footbridge. On the other side is the Arnold farm.

  In fine weather, Fiddlers Stream is quiet and gentle, only about twelve feet across. It is filled with brook trout and croaking frogs. Smooth rounded pebbles line the bed and the larger rocks usually appear above the water. Today the level is so high from the rains that even when we cross the bridge water rushes and swirls over our shoes. I hear a distant whispering and feel a sudden fear of the water.

  Soon, Ziggy, soon, it whispers.

  I hold Raffi’s hand until I reach the other side. Through the trees, Mystic is barking and I see the distant lights of the Arnold farm.

  As we get closer, dark shapes of the outbuildings come into view – a barn, sheds, and then the farmhouse with its warm curtained windows. It’s late afternoon, but usually in the spring, night doesn’t fall until around eight o’clock. Today, though, the sky is heavy with cloud. Everything is dark and gloomy. I call Mystic to heel. I don’t want him being mistaken for another wild dog. Then I look at Raffi. He’s staring at the Arnold farm, his face blank.

  We creep up to the paddock beside the red barn. I know this is where Harry’s father hangs the skins of the wild dogs he shoots. But the fence is empty.

  ‘That’s strange,’ I say. A surge of hope rises in me. I touch Raffi’s arm as we hear voices coming from inside the barn.

  Together we creep up to the dusty window. Raffi uses his hand to wipe the glass and we peer through.

  In the dim light of a kerosene lantern, I see Harry Arnold kneeling beside his own dog, Truss. Her pale grey fur is covered in blood and she whimpers quietly. There, beside them, is Mr Arnold holding a rifle. I don’t understand what happened to poor Truss. Did she get shot by mistake?

  ‘You know the truth, Harold,’ says Mr Arnold. ‘Truss will never be the same dog again.’

  ‘But she’s always been the perfect sheepdog, you’ve said so yourself – good and loyal and obedient. She would never kill those lambs . . .’ Harry’s voice breaks at the end of the sentence and he looks down at his dog.

  ‘Oh no,’ I gasp.

  ‘Be a man, Harold. It has to be done. The dog’s a killer.’ Mr Arnold hands the rifle to Harry and leaves the barn.

  ‘It was not Kalila,’ whispers Raffi. ‘I was mistaken. It was not my Kalila’s fur in the rock cave.’

  I can hear the relief in his voice. I am happy for Raffi and happy that it wasn’t Kalila. But so sad for Truss. ‘Truss is such a gentle dog. She’s a trained sheepdog. She wouldn’t turn against her own flock for no reason, Raffi. I don’t understand.’

  Raffi turns to face me. ‘It is the jinn,’ he says. ‘It gets inside a good dog – or a person – and makes her bad, makes her a killer.’

  I feel that cold feathery hand between my shoulder blades at the sound of the word, jinn. It is oddly familiar. ‘What is it?’ I ask.

  ‘It is the bad I talk about. It is the evil in the woods,’ Raffi whispers.

  I peer back in through the window. I feel sorry for Harry. His head is bent and Truss looks up at him with such trusting eyes. I can’t imagine what it would be like if I had to shoot Mystic. And it wasn’t even Truss’s fault. It was all because of that jinn . . . that horrible jinn.

  ‘How can we get rid of it?’ I say, wiping away angry tears.

  Raffi shakes his head. ‘I must find Kalila first. I must protect her before the jinn can harm her more,’ he says.

  The wind and rain swirl around the barn and it creaks and groans. I turn and run. I don’t want to hear the gunshot. I want to get as far away as I can. But I know I can’t run away from the jinn. This evil in the woods must be the cause of everything bad t
hat has been happening to me and to Dell Hollow.

  The wind is a hungry whirling dervish, battering the trees, ripping off leaves and branches, flinging them about. Has the jinn made this happen too? Everything that’s fragile or not rooted down spins and whirls through the air. A fork of lightning strikes a nearby tree and it crashes down, missing Mystic by a couple of inches.

  ‘We have to get out of the woods!’ I shout. ‘I think I know where Kalila is, but she’ll be safe there until the storm passes.’

  Raffi nods reluctantly. He knows it’s too dangerous to go on.

  We pick our way through the woods, keeping an eye out for falling branches. Instead of taking the footbridge back across Fiddlers Stream, I decide to head straight for the road. I can’t face the water. And this will be the safest way back to shelter.

  We come out of the woods about a mile and a half from Green Lake.

  ‘Come back with me,’ says Raffi. ‘My grandfather would like to meet you and it is not safe to try and get home.’

  I look to the right, the way back to town and home. Then I look to the left towards Green Lake. Momma will be worried, but I have to find out more about the jinn, about Kalila, and about myself. And I hope Raffi’s grandfather will have some of the answers.

  I hardly recognise the road to Green Lake. Broken branches lie across our path and whole trees have been ripped out of the ground, roots and all.

  It’s almost seven o’clock when we reach the caravan. We’re both shivering from the cold and I can’t wait to get inside where it will be warm and dry, and safe. Raffi walks up the steps, takes off his shoes and goes inside. I hesitate. I don’t want to leave Mystic outside.

  ‘Mystic can come in,’ Raffi calls, as if he knows what I am thinking.

  Mystic shakes the water from his coat and bounds up the steps.

  The inside of the caravan gives me such a surprise that I let out a little cry. From the outside it looks so small, but I can’t believe how spacious and beautiful it is inside.

  The walls are made out of honey-coloured wood and the curved roof has intricate geometric patterns painted all over it in blues, greens, reds and yellows. There is a bench with stones from Green Lake, but I don’t see any kitchen or beds. I’m guessing everything folds away.