The figure continued on, creeping up to the first of the Sacred Oaks. It stretched out a blackened hand, the fingers burned to stumps, and placed a roll of leather into a hollow in the tree. The initials on the leather gleamed in the moonlight: MP. And then the figure slipped from the trees, back into the night.
The camp was buzzing with excitement: the Jumping of the Broomstick ceremony had arrived. The stars were out and Oak and Mooshie were sitting round the fire on stools carved from beech wood, drinking bog-myrtle beer and feeding titbits to the camp’s two greyhounds. Beside them, wearing so much purple she was almost blue, Patti was sprinkling herbs into her husband’s soup. ‘It’s lovage, Jesse,’ she whispered. ‘It’ll increase your love for me – and ensure faithfulness at all times.’ Jesse rolled his eyes, but drank the concoction nonetheless. To his right Cinderella Bull held a sparkling fortune-telling ball before Hard-Times Bob and the children gathered round the fire, sipping wood-sorrel fizzes – delicious, bubbly drinks Mooshie made from green-leafed plants that grew along the forest floor.
Moll watched from the edge of the clearing with Siddy.
‘You sure you don’t want to muck in for a bit?’ Siddy said. ‘You could stand by me when Ivy jumps the broomstick . . .’
Moll threw him a withering look so Siddy didn’t push it further. It had been bad enough bumping into Oak and Mooshie on their way back to Moll’s wagon earlier. When they’d tried to talk to Moll, she had been as uncommunicative as Porridge the Second and Siddy had found the whole thing so profoundly awkward his ears had burned red and began to twitch. And it was obvious the children in the camp had been told as they’d knocked several times on Moll’s wagon door to see if she wanted to climb trees with them. But Moll hadn’t answered; she was boarded up against them all.
Sparks from the fire crackled into the air and floated upwards, lost in the overhanging branches. Domino had come down from his watch and was playing the fiddle, slow and haunting, like a call to worship. Then came Mooshie’s voice as Keeper of the Songs – gravelly like grain – lilting and drifting over the fire. The gypsies watched spellbound as Ivy, her hands covered in henna and her plaited hair scooped up over her head, took her place beside Wisdom, before the birch broomstick they had to jump over to bless their marriage.
And set back from the celebrations, from somewhere in the darkness of the Ancientwood, branches stirred.
‘If you jump higher than Wisdom,’ Patti shouted, ‘you’ll be the decision-maker of the family!’ She tucked a coin under Ivy’s arm. ‘Seven years’ good luck to the person who catches the coin when Ivy jumps!’
Beneath the branches of a Sacred Oak, Moll and Siddy looked on – half intrigued, half appalled. To them, Wisdom was a fist-fighter. Jumping the Broomstick seemed a bit of a let-down.
Patti glanced around the camp. ‘Siddy!’ she hollered. ‘Wherever you’ve got to, you better come here now! Your sister’s getting married and it’s not the kind of thing you skulk off for!’
‘I’ve got to go and join them, Moll,’ Siddy said, tying Porridge the Second into a knot and popping him into his pocket. ‘I’ll bring you back a wood-sorrel fizz.’
But Moll was barely listening. ‘I’m going to get my pa’s bone reading from Cinderella Bull’s wagon.’
‘Can’t you wait a while, then I can come with you?’ Siddy hissed.
Moll shook her head. ‘It can’t wait, Sid. I need to—’
Siddy nudged her. ‘I think someone wants a word with you, Moll.’
She followed his gaze. Tucked back from the Sacred Oaks, among the hawthorn bushes, two yellow-green eyes glinted and then Gryff stepped out, his footsteps softer than falling snow.
Moll felt a rush of warmth. ‘Gryff.’ She wanted to leap forward and wrap her arms round him. Somehow they were in this together – in a way that no one in the camp was, except perhaps Siddy. ‘If Oak or Mooshie ask for me, Sid, say I’m sulking in my bed. Oak’s boys aren’t up on watch right now so Mooshie won’t know I’ve slipped out.’
Siddy nodded, watching in awe as the wildcat slunk towards them. He’d seen Gryff many times with Moll, but there was always something unpredictable and wild about him and that kept the rest of the camp at a wary distance. ‘Just stay here with Gryff; don’t go to Cinderella Bull’s wagon without me. OK?’
Siddy ran back towards the fire; Mooshie’s lyrics were growing livelier and faster and before long Patti was clamouring on the spoons, Domino was spiralling out notes from his fiddle and Hard-Times Bob was making a series of squeezy noises from his accordion – in time with his hiccups.
And, nestled into the branches not so very far from Moll and Gryff, a pair of eyes continued to watch, blinking every now and again and narrowing.
Moll smiled as Gryff stopped before her. ‘Thank you, Gryff, for helping me last night.’ She paused. ‘And for watching out for me all those years ago.’
Gryff dipped his head and purred. His way of talking, of understanding.
‘You left the northern wilderness – your home – for me. Didn’t you?’
Again Gryff dipped his head. In the moonlight, his coat looked almost brown, just like the fur on his belly.
Moll knelt down slowly and, for some seconds, she just watched Gryff and he watched back. And then, so gently she felt like she might not be moving at all, Moll stretched out her hand. Gryff stayed where he was. Still. Watching. And then he took one step closer to Moll.
The movement was fluid, like liquid, and Moll watched in silence. Her hand was now just centimetres from the wildcat’s head. His whiskers twitched and he craned his neck forward until his fur was touching the tips of Moll’s fingers. She held her breath. Gryff moved closer, nestling his head deeper into her hand. A great warmth surged through Moll’s body as she felt her fingers sink into his fur. She edged closer, stretching out her other hand. But Gryff didn’t back away. He leant into Moll, curling his body into hers, burrowing his head into her neck and nuzzling into her chest.
Everything Moll had seen and heard – the Dream Snatch, the Bone Murmur, her parents – fell away. All she could feel was Gryff. She didn’t even realise she was crying. But Gryff did. And he nuzzled closer until all Moll could hear was his purr, rumbling deep within her own body.
And, like a stain in the darkness, the two eyes watched on, unseen. Minutes passed then the eyes moved. Closer. Towards a Sacred Oak, towards the one the figure had placed the roll of leather inside. A hand reached out towards the tree. Because, to the hand, it didn’t matter whose initials the leather bore. The hand had come for Moll; the roll of leather was just a lucky find.
Back in the clearing the camp were dancing quick-stepping jigs round the fire as Wisdom and Ivy clasped each other’s hands and leapt over the broomstick. Everyone roared and clapped before gathering round the fire for hotchi-witchi – baked hedgehog – a meal Moll strongly disagreed with since she’d struck up a friendship with an injured hedgehog a few years before.
Moll drew back from Gryff and together they watched the festivities unfold. Oak was laughing with Wisdom and Ivy while Mooshie fussed round them with food. Moll felt a pang of sadness as she thought of what could have been if her own parents were still alive. She leant in closer to Gryff and for several minutes they just watched. And then Gryff padded away from Moll, towards the trees.
‘Go hunt,’ Moll smiled. ‘I’ll wait for you here.’
Gryff melted into the forest but, within minutes of his leaving, a chill slithered over Moll’s skin. Behind her, the camp was full of noise – music, cheers, shouts – but it was silence that fell upon Moll’s ears. A silence loaded with danger. And then, almost so faintly it might not have been there at all, the Dream Snatch began to pulse inside her. Moll’s heart quickened and the chanting pounded louder, feeding on her fear.
Something was shifting between the branches ahead. Not Gryff, Moll could tell. This was larger, darker, and it was gathering speed, coming straight towards her.
Moll drew breath to scream, but out of no
where a hand clapped down over her mouth. The Dream Snatch screeched inside her. And the cloaked figure slid nearer still.
Moll squirmed beneath the iron grip of the hand that trapped her mouth, but it held her fast, forcing her to look ahead. She recoiled in horror; the cloaked man who now stood before her seemed neither young nor old; he was barely even human.
One eye was stitched closed, the other half open and running. A vein throbbed in his forehead, amid strands of limp hair, and his skin was shrivelled, like a crumpled balloon. But it was the lump that frightened Moll the most. His back was hunched and it rose up in a deformed bulge as if the body of a shrunken child had been moulded to it.
Moll forced her body round, twisting her neck as far as it would go. The figure holding her had pale eyes and a mop of light hair: the boy with the cob called Raven. She tried to dig a hand into the pocket of her dress, but the larger man was too quick. He yanked out her catapult and hurled it into the undergrowth. Moll wanted to hiss and scream, but the boy’s hold was firm and he muffled her cries. She struggled against him, slamming her legs into his, jabbing with her elbows, but he gripped her tight. Eyes wide, panting hard, Moll looked back towards the camp.
Shadows danced round the campfire and music flared. With all the celebrations, no one could hear her; no one was even looking her way.
The man with the shrivelled skin jerked his head towards the trees and the river. Moll knew where they were going to take her and she struggled harder.
‘We’ll gag her,’ the man hissed. ‘We haven’t got time for this; Skull’s waiting.’ His voice was thick like glue and when he spoke his hunched back bulged.
Moll’s heart hammered within her chest as the man tugged a cloth from his pocket and bound it over her mouth. She could feel his stale breath crawling up her nose and she retched – suffocated by the gag, choked by fear. The man drew out a rope and jerked it round Moll’s ankles. She fell to the ground, writhing and twisting, as the man bound her wrists.
Where are you, Gryff? Where are you? Come back . . .
Towering above her, she saw Raven and, behind him, a mare. The man with the shrivelled skin turned towards the boy.
‘Take Raven. I’ll hoist the girl up to you,’ he growled. ‘Then make for camp – as fast as you can.’
The boy threw the man a defiant look. ‘I know, Gobbler; I was there when Skull briefed us. Remember?’
Gobbler scoffed. ‘You lost the palomino, Alfie.’ He jerked his head towards Moll. ‘And you didn’t get a hold of her first time round. No wonder they don’t respect you back at camp. Skull only feeds you and gives you shelter because he needs someone to tend the cobs and wash the dishes . . . Now get a move on! It’s time you made up for losing the girl last time.’
Alfie flashed Gobbler a look, his eyes wild and fierce.
Moll trembled as she felt the blood race through her body and a sickening taste fix in her throat.
Gobbler seized Moll by the hair and yanked her up. She squirmed and wriggled, but she could feel the Dream Snatch within her already, making her fight weak. Alfie leapt on to Raven’s back and Gobbler shoved Moll up to him. Gripping her hard, Alfie spurred Raven on through the trees.
Up until just the day before, a surge of curiosity had brewed inside Moll every time she thought of Skull’s camp, but now that she was being dragged helplessly towards it, every fibre in her body wished it had never existed.
Eyes wide, Moll watched the Ancientwood flash by, scouring it for any signs of Gryff. Raven bounded over fallen branches and tore round gnarled trees, galloping faster and faster towards the Deepwood. Before long, the river was in front of them, shining silver beneath the moon. Moll yanked her body away, tearing herself back from the boundary, but Alfie rode Raven on, wading into the water. Gobbler charged in behind them, clattering over slippery pebbles.
Without warning, the reeds on the far side of the riverbank burst open and Gryff was there, leaping towards the cobs, his claws splayed, his teeth bared. The cobs shied, rearing up in shock, hurling their riders into the river. Arms flailed and hands grappled, but Moll was wriggling her legs free. The cobs thrashed in the water, reins tangling Alfie’s leg, a hoof clipping the back of Gobbler’s head.
‘They’re—’ water choked Alfie’s words, ‘they’re getting away!’
Moll kicked and kicked, feeling the Dream Snatch weaken inside her now Gryff was near. She launched her bound arms into the current. Alfie tried to grab her feet, but the reins of his struggling cob were pulling him back; Moll booted him hard, then swam on, tearing at the ropes with her teeth. Water gushed into her mouth, but it was softening the ropes and she wriggled her hands free. Seconds later, Gryff was beside her and they were careering downstream in a tangle of limbs, round a bend – away from Gobbler and Alfie.
Moll yanked the gag from her mouth and her breath sawed through her. ‘Keep us safe,’ she panted to the water spirits.
The current quickened, carrying Moll and Gryff further and further downstream until Gobbler’s and Alfie’s yells were little more than faraway echoes. Gryff paddled beside Moll as they raced round rocks and bumped down rapids. Stones skinned Moll’s knees, but she let the current take her until at last the water slowed and the river widened.
It was Gryff who started back-paddling first. The river was propelling them towards a lip where the water was black and shining. Moll’s eyes widened in terror: she knew what came after.
The roar began, rumbling and fierce.
Moll turned against the current, clutching at rocks and weeds, grappling for overhanging branches. But the river beat on, dragging her and Gryff towards the waterfall. Moll closed her eyes.
She felt her belly shoot up as they tumbled off the edge, then they plummeted down, down, down, plunging into the foamy churn. Blood roared in Moll’s ears as the fall sucked them deeper and deeper into its seething sway. Then they burst up into the misty spray while the torrent crashed down behind them. Kicking hard against the current, they swam towards the riverbank.
They hauled themselves up, coughing and spluttering, then flopped down into the reeds. The river rolled on beside them, smudging the silence of the forest.
‘Thank you, Gryff,’ Moll panted.
Gryff stood up and shook the water from his fur.
‘I would’ve been mushed if you hadn’t turned up.’ Moll wrung her dress. ‘I—’
Gryff’s ears twitched and Moll fell silent.
Hooves – thundering through the trees towards them.
A bead of cold sweat trickled down Moll’s forehead and Gryff’s fur tightened in panic. But neither Gobbler nor Alfie burst out of the trees.
Moll’s mouth dropped open. It was Siddy. And he was charging towards them on Jinx.
Moll rushed forward. ‘Sid! How did you find us?’
Siddy slowed Jinx, then slipped from her back. ‘When I saw you’d gone, I tracked Gryff,’ he said simply. ‘Pa’s been teaching me animal prints and I’ve been getting good. I followed him to the river—’
‘Skull’s gang were trying to drag me across it!’ Moll muttered. ‘Did you see them back by the boundary?’
Siddy shook his head.
Gobbler’s head wound, the cobs crazed with fear . . .
‘They’ll have gone back to the Deepwood then,’ Moll said. ‘They won’t be back tonight.’
Moll and Siddy sat on the banks of the river while Gryff tucked himself beneath the overhang where he could rest, hidden by the reeds and ferns.
‘The banks by the boundary were scuffed by cob hooves,’ Siddy said, ‘so I knew there’d been a struggle. I figured you must have swum downstream, only,’ he pointed to the waterfall, ‘you didn’t go over that, did you?’
Moll nodded. ‘Didn’t plan to though.’
Siddy straightened his flat cap. ‘Well, it’s a good job one of us has been planning.’ He opened his fist and grinned. Because there, lying in the palm of his hand, were three small fragments of animal bone, their surfaces covered with tiny black mark
ings, like the pictures of an ancient code.
Moll’s eyes widened. ‘My pa’s bone reading. But how?’ she stammered. ‘You were at the feast!’
Siddy shook his head. ‘I saw Gryff touch you! When I was standing by the fire . . . He’s wild, Moll, but somehow he trusts you. And, when I saw him actually nuzzling against you, I figured there were things to be done more important than drinking wood-sorrel fizz.’ He paused. ‘It all happened pretty fast actually. Cinderella Bull was reading Ma’s fortune so I crept into her wagon. After that salt circle you said she did round you this morning, she must have gone back to the bone readings to get your pa’s one ready for you. The key for the chest was out on her chest of drawers!’ Siddy blushed. ‘Didn’t see it at first though so I might have turned the whole wagon upside down. But that’s not the point; we can answer for that another time. I found a rusty tin inside the chest which said “Ferry” on it, and even I could work that bit out.’ He tipped the bones into Moll’s hands.
Moll grinned. ‘Well done, Sid!’
The grooves had been carved by a knife, then filled with charcoal and there were dashes, circles with lines through, triangles upside down or drawn on top of squares and wispy markings like the veins of leaves. Moll held one fragment of bone up; the symbol on it looked like an eye resting on top of a three-pronged stick. She traced the bone script with her finger, then her heart sank.
‘I should’ve listened more when Cinderella Bull taught us the alphabet. We were too busy burping it through while gargling river water. I can’t read this.’
‘Course you can’t,’ Siddy said. ‘It’s Oracle Bone script – I overheard Cinderella Bull talking about it to Hard-Times Bob at the feast. You have to practise for years to learn that stuff.’ He flicked each fragment over in Moll’s hands. ‘Lucky for us, it looks like your pa carved a translation into the back of each bone.’
Moll gasped. The words were faded and cracked, but they were there, three of them, as if her pa had carved them just for her:
The Dreamsnatcher Page 6
