by Paul Stewart
Twig looked down shyly. ‘It was nothing,’ he mumbled.
‘And now,’ said Gram-Tatum, climbing back down. ‘I dare say you're feeling hungry. Tuck in, love,’ she said, as she ladled the soup into his bowl. ‘And let's see if we can't get some colour into those cheeks of yours,’ she added.
The tilder sausage soup tasted as delicious as it had smelled. Simmered until the sausages were soft, in stock seasoned with nibblick and orangegrass, the soup was rich and spicy. It was also just the start. Juicy hammelhorn steaks, rolled in seasoned knotroot flour and deep-fried in tilder oil came next, accompanied by earthapples and a tangy blue salad. And this was followed by honey trifle and dellberry blancmange and small wafer biscuits drenched in treacle. Twig had never eaten so well – nor drunk so much. A large jug full of woodapple cider stood in the centre of each of the four tables, and Twig's mug was never allowed to empty.
As the meal went on, the atmosphere grew increasingly rowdy. The slaughterers forgot about their guest, and the air – already warmed by the blazing fire – became warmer still, with laughter and joking, with the telling of tales and sudden bursts of song. And when Gristle himself appeared, apparently none the worse for his ordeal, everyone went mad!
They cheered, they clapped, they whooped and whistled, their crimson faces aglow in the bright firelight. Three men jumped up and hoisted Gristle onto their shoulders, and while they paraded him round and round, the rest of the slaughterers beat their mugs on the table and sang a simple song in their deep and syrupy voices.
‘Welcome back lost slaughterer
Welcome like a stranger
Welcome back from the deep deep woods
Welcome back from danger.’
Over and over they repeated the verse – not all together, but as a round, with each table of slaughterers waiting their turn to start singing. The air was filled with swirling harmonies, more beautiful than Twig had ever heard. Unable to resist, he joined in. He banged the table to the beat with his own mug, and was soon singing the words with the rest.
After the third circuit of the tables, the men approached Twig himself. They stopped directly behind him, and placed Gristle down on the ground. Twig stood up and looked at the slaughterer boy. Everyone fell silent. Then, without saying a word, Gristle touched his forehead, stepped solemnly forwards and touched Twig on his forehead. His face broke into a smile. ‘We are brothers now.’
Brothers! Twig thought. If only. ‘Thank you, Gristle, but … Whoooah!’ he cried, as he himself was hoisted up onto the men's shoulders.
Swaying precariously from side to side, Twig smiled, then grinned, and then laughed with delight as the men carried him once, twice, three and four times round the table, faster and faster. He looked down dizzily at the red blur of happy faces beaming back at him, and knew that he had never felt as welcome as he did now, here in the bubble of warmth and friendliness that was the slaughterers’ Deepwoods home. It would be nice, he thought, if I could stay here.
At that moment, the air resounded with the sound of the gong clanging for a second time. The three slaughterers stopped running abruptly, and Twig felt the earth once again beneath his feet.
‘Lunch is over,’ Sinew explained as the slaughterers all jumped up from their benches and, still laughing and singing, returned to work. ‘Would you like to look round?’ she asked.
Twig stifled a yawn and smiled sheepishly. ‘I'm not used to being up at this time,’ he said.
‘But it's the middle of the night,’ said Gristle. ‘You can't be sleepy!’
Twig smiled. ‘I was up all day,’ he said.
Sinew turned to her brother. ‘If Twig wants to go to bed…’
‘No, no,’ said Twig firmly. ‘I'd like to look round.’
They took him first to the hammelhorn pens. Twig stood on the bottom rail and looked at the shaggy beasts with their curling horns and sad eyes. They were chewing drowsily. Twig leaned over and patted one of the animals on the neck. Irritated, the hammelhorn knocked his hand away with a toss of its horned head. Twig drew back nervously.
‘They may look docile,’ said Sinew, ‘but hammelhorns are unpredict-able animals by nature. You can't turn your back on them for a minute. Those horns can hurt!’
‘And they're clumsy,’ Gristle added. ‘That's why we all have to wear thick boots.’
‘We've a saying,’ said Sinew. “‘The smile of the hammelhorn is like the wind” – you never know when it's going to change.’
‘But they do taste good!’ said Gristle.
At the smoke house, Twig saw row upon row of tilder carcasses hanging on hooks. A large kiln, fuelled with redoak chips, produced a deep crimson smoke which gave the tilder ham its distinctive flavour. It was this smoke, rather than blood, which had stained the slaughterers’ skin.
Not a single part of the tilder was wasted. The bones were dried and used like wood; the fat was used for cooking, for oil-lamps and candles, and for greasing the cogs of the tarp rollers; the coarse fur was spun into rope, and the antlers were carved into all kinds of objects – from cutlery to cupboard handles. It was the leather, however, which was the most valuable part of the animal.
‘This is where the hide is rilked,’ said Gristle.
Twig watched the red-faced men and women pummelling the hides with large round stones. ‘I've heard this sound before,’ he said. ‘When the wind is from the north-west.’
‘It softens the leather,’ Sinew explained. ‘Makes it easier to mould.’
‘And these,’ said Gristle, moving on, ‘are the tanning vats. We use only the finest leadwood bark,’ he added proudly.
Twig sniffed at the steaming vats. It was the smell he'd noticed when he was floating above the village.
‘That's why our leather's so popular,’ said Sinew.
‘The best in the Deepwoods,’ said Gristle. ‘Even the sky pirates use it.’
Twig spun round. ‘You deal with the sky pirates?’ he said.
‘Our best customers,’ said Gristle. ‘They don't come often, but when they do visit they take whatever we've got.’
Twig nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. Once again, he saw himself standing at the prow of a pirate ship, with the moon above and the wind in his hair, sailing across the sky.
‘Will they be back soon?’ he asked at last.
‘The sky pirates?’ said Gristle, and shook his head. ‘It's not long since they were last here. They won't be back for a while now.’
Twig sighed. He suddenly felt immensely weary. Sinew noticed his eye-lids growing heavy. She took him by the arm.
‘Come,’ she said. ‘You must rest. Ma-Tatum will know where you're to sleep.’
This time, Twig did not argue. Almost dead on his feet, he followed Sinew and Gristle to their hut. Inside, a woman was mixing something red in a bowl. She looked up. ‘Twig!’ she said, and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘I've been wanting to see you.’ She bustled her way towards him and enfolded him in her stubby arms. The top of her head pressed against Twig's chin.
‘Thank you, Pale One,’ she sobbed. ‘Thank you so much.’ Then she pulled herself away and dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her apron. ‘Take no notice,’ she sniffed. ‘I'm just a silly old woman…’
‘Ma-Tatum,’ said Sinew. ‘Twig needs to sleep.’
‘I can see that,’ she said. ‘I've already put some extra bedding in the hammock. But before that, there are one or two important things I…’ She began rummaging furiously through a chest of drawers, and the air was soon filled with the things she was not looking for. ‘Ah, here we are!’ she exclaimed at last, and handed Twig a large furry waistcoat. ‘Try it on,’ she said.
Twig slipped the waistcoat over his leather jacket. It fitted perfectly. ‘It's so warm,’ he said.
‘It's a hammelhornskin waistcoat,’ she told him, as she did up the toggles at the front. ‘Our speciality,’ she added, ‘and not for sale.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Twig,’ she said. ‘I would like you to accept it as a token of my gratitude for brin
ging Gristle back to me, safe and sound.’
Twig was overwhelmed. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I…’
‘Stroke it,’ said Gristle.
‘What?’ said Twig.
‘Stroke it,’ he repeated, and giggled excitedly.
Twig ran his palm down over the fleecy fur. It was soft and thick. ‘Very nice,’ he said.
‘Now the other way,’ Gristle persisted.
Twig did as he was told. This time the fur bristled and stiffened. ‘YOW!’ he cried, and Gristle and Sinew burst out laughing. Even Ma-Tatum was smiling. ‘It's like needles,’ said Twig, sucking at his hand.
‘Dead or alive, you should never rub a hammelhorn up the wrong way,’ Ma-Tatum chuckled. ‘I'm glad you like my gift,’ she added. ‘May it serve you well.’
‘It's very kind of you…’ Twig began. But Ma-Tatum was not yet done.
‘And this will protect you from the unseen dangers,’ she said, and slipped a tooled leather charm around his neck.
Twig smirked. Mothers, it seemed, were superstitious, wherever they lived.
‘You would do well not to mock,’ said Ma-Tatum sharply. ‘I see from your eyes that you have far to go. There is much out there that would do you harm. And though there is an antidote for every poison,’ she added, and smiled at Gristle, ‘once you fall into the clutches of the gloamglozer, then you're done for.’
‘The gloamglozer?’ said Twig. ‘I know about the gloamglozer.’
‘The most evil creature of all,’ said Ma-Tatum, her voice cracked and low. ‘It lurks in shadows. It stalks us slaughterers, sizing up its victim all the while, planning its death. Then it pounces.’
Twig chewed nervously at the end of his scarf. It was the same gloamglozer who was feared by woodtrolls – that monstrous beast which lured woodtrolls who strayed from the path to certain death. But that was just in stories, wasn't it? Even so, as Ma-Tatum continued talking, Twig shuddered.
‘The gloamglozer consumes its victim while its heart is still beating,’ Ma-Tatum whispered, her voice trailing away to nothing. ‘RIGHT!’ she announced loudly, and clapped her hands together.
Twig, Sinew and Gristle all jumped.
‘Ma-aa!’ Sinew complained.
‘Well!’ said Ma-Tatum sternly. ‘You young people. Always scoffing and mocking.’
‘I didn't mean…’ Twig began, but Ma-Tatum silenced him with a wave of her blood-red hand.
‘Never take the Deepwoods lightly,’ she warned him. ‘You won't last five minutes if you do.’ Then she leaned forwards and seized his hand warmly. ‘Now go and rest,’ she said.
Twig didn't need telling twice. He followed Gristle and Sinew out of the hut, and went with them across the village square to the communal hammocks. Strung between the trunks of a triangle of dead trees, the hammocks swung gently to and fro, all the way up. Twig was, by now, so tired he could scarcely keep his eyes open. He followed Gristle up a ladder which was lashed to the side of one of the trees.
‘This is ours,’ said the slaughterer when they reached the uppermost hammock. ‘And there's your bedding.’
Twig nodded. ‘Thanks,’ he said. The quilt Ma-Tatum had left for him was near the far end. Twig wobbled across the hammock on his hands and knees, and wrapped it around him. The next moment he was fast asleep.
Twig was not disturbed by the rising sun, nor by the sound of the stone slab being dragged across the ground until the fire was directly beneath the hammocks. And when it was time for Gristle and Sinew and the others of the Tatum family to go to bed, Twig didn't notice a thing as they climbed into the massive hammock and settled down all round him.
Twig slipped into a red dream. He was dancing with red people in a huge red hall. The food was red, the drink was red – even the sun streaming in through the far windows was red. It was a happy dream. A warm dream. Until the whispering began, that is.
‘Very cosy, very nice,’ it hissed. ‘But this is not where you belong, is it?’
In his dream, Twig looked round. A gaunt, cloaked figure was slinking off behind a pillar. As it did so, it scratched a long sharp fingernail over the red surface. Twig stepped tentatively forwards. He stared at the scratch in the wood: it was weeping like an open wound. Suddenly the whispering returned directly in his ear.
‘I'm still here,’ it said. ‘I'm always here.’
Twig spun round. He saw no-one.
‘You silly little fool,’ came the voice again. ‘If you want to discover your destiny, you must follow me.’
Twig stared in horror as a bony hand with yellow talons emerged from the folds of the cloak, reached up and clasped the hood. It was about to reveal its face. Twig tried to turn away, but he couldn't move.
All at once, the creature cackled with hideous laughter and let its hand drop down by its side. ‘You shall know me soon enough,’ it hissed, and leaned towards him conspiratorially.
Twig's heart pounded furiously. He felt the warmth of the creature's breath against his ear, and smelt a sulphurous mustiness which seeped from its hooded cloak.
‘WAKE UP!’
The sudden cry exploded inside Twig's head. He shouted out in fear, opened his eyes and looked around him in confusion. It was light and he was high up, lying on something soft. Beside him were red-skinned individuals, all snoring softly. He looked at Gristle's face, calm in sleep and everything came back to him.
‘Wakey WAKEY, up there,’ he heard.
Twig clambered to his knees and looked over the edge of the hammock. Far below him was a slaughterer – the only one still up. He was stoking the fire.
‘Was that you?’ Twig called down.
The slaughterer touched his forehead lightly and nodded. ‘Ma-Tatum told me not to let you sleep through the day, Master Twig,’ he called back. ‘Not with your being a creature of the sun.’
Twig looked up at the sky. The sun was almost at its highest. He made his way to the end of the hammock, taking care not to wake any of the slumbering family, and climbed down the ladder.
‘That's it, Master Twig,’ said the slaughterer, and helped him down from the bottom rung. ‘You've a long journey in front of you.’
Twig frowned. ‘But I thought I might stay awhile,’ he said. ‘I like it here and I won't be missed by Cousin Snetterbark – at least, not for the time being…’
‘Stay here?’ said the slaughterer in a sneering voice. ‘Stay here? Oh, you wouldn't fit in here at all. Why, Ma-Tatum said only this daybreak what a gawky, ugly little fellow you are, with no feeling for leather…’
‘Ma-Tatum said that?’ Twig swallowed the lump rising in his throat. ‘But she gave me this coat,’ he said, touching it lightly. The fur bristled and stood on end. ‘Ouch!’ he yelped.
‘Oh, that,’ wheedled the slaughterer. ‘You don't want to take no notice of that. It's just an old coat. Can't give them away normally,’ he added, and laughed spitefully. ‘No. You want to go back to your own kind, and the path you want lies just over that way.’
The slaughterer pointed into the forest. As he did so a flock of grey birds billowed noisily up into the sky.
‘I will!’ said Twig. His eyes were smarting but he wouldn't cry – not in front of this little man with his red face and fiery hair.
‘And watch out for the gloamglozer!’ the slaughterer called out, his voice nasal and mocking, as Twig reached the trees.
‘I'll watch out for the gloamglozer, all right,’ muttered Twig. ‘And for stuck-up slaughterers who treat you like a hero one minute and a barkslug the next!’
He turned to say as much, but the slaughterer was already gone. Twig was on his own once more.
· CHAPTER FOUR ·
THE SKULLPELT
As the forest, green, shadowy and forbidding, closed in around him once more Twig nervously fingered the talismans and amulets round his neck, one by one. If there was some powerful evil at the heart of the Deepwoods, then could these small pieces of wood and leather truly be enough to keep it at bay?
‘I hope I'll n
ever have to find out,’ he muttered.
On and on Twig walked. The trees became unfamiliar. Some had spikes, some had suckers, some had eyes. All of them looked dangerous to Twig. Sometimes they grew so close together that, despite his misgivings, Twig had no choice but to squeeze between their gnarled trunks.
Time and again, Twig cursed his shape and size. Unlike the woodtrolls and slaughterers, who were short, or the banderbear, which was strong, he was not designed for a life in the Deepwoods.
And yet, when the trees abruptly thinned out, Twig grew still more anxious. There was no sign of the promised path. He glanced over his shoulder for any creature that might mean him harm as he scurried across the wide dappled clearing as quickly as he could, and back into the trees. Apart from a small furry creature with scaly ears which spat at him as he passed, none of the Deepwoods inhabitants seemed interested in the gangly youth hurrying through their domain.
‘Surely if I keep going, I'll reach the path,’ he said. ‘Surely!’ he repeated, and was shocked by how small and uncertain his voice sounded.
Behind him an unfamiliar high-pitched squeal echoed round the air. It was answered by a second squeal to his left, and a third to his right.
I don't know what they are, thought Twig. But I don't like the sound of them.
He kept walking straight ahead, but quicker now. Beads of sweat broke out across his forehead. He bit into his lower lip and started to run. ‘Go away,’ he whispered. ‘Leave me alone.’
As if in response, the squeals echoed louder and closer than before. Head lowered and arms raised, Twig ran faster. He crashed through the undergrowth. Creepers lashed his body. Thorns scratched his face and hands. Branches swung across his path, as if trying to trip him up or knock him senseless. And all the while the forest was growing deeper and denser and – as the canopy of leaves closed above his head – dismally dark.
Suddenly, Twig found himself staring at a turquoise light which sparkled like a jewel far away in front of him. For a moment he wondered whether the unusual colour might signal danger. But only for a moment. Already, the strains of soft hypnotic music were washing over him.
