Beyond the Deepwoods (22 page)

Just ahead of him, a single root extended down into the tunnel. Twig reached out his hand. It felt as dead as everything else; cold, stiff, and not shining. So where was the light coming from? He looked up, and there, far far above his head, was a small circle of silvery brilliance.

‘He's found one of the air shafts,’ came the furious voice of one of the termagants.

Twig pulled himself up into the branch-like growths of the root. ‘Indeed I have,’ he muttered.

Hand over foot over foot over hand he went, climbing towards the light. Arms aching and fingers trembling, he looked up again. The light seemed no nearer. A wave of alarm coursed through his body. What if the hole at the top wasn't large enough for him to climb through?

Foot over hand over hand over foot, higher and higher he continued, his breathing loud and rhythmical. Ooh. Aah. Ooh! Aah! At last, the circle of light did start to look bigger. Hurrying up the last few feet of root as quickly as he dared – it was a long way back down to the bones at the bottom of the shaft – Twig stretched his arm out into the warm sunlight.

‘Thank Sky it's daytime,’ he sighed. He heaved himself out onto the grass and rolled over. ‘Otherwise I'd have never found my way ou…’ Twig fell silent. He was not alone. The air was alive with panting, with snarling, with the juicy odour of decay. Slowly, he lifted his head.

Lolling tongues and flared black nostrils. Ice-pick teeth, bared, glinting, slavering. Yellow eyes, staring impassive – sizing him up.

‘W … w … woodwolves,’ he stammered.

The ruff of snow-white fur around their necks bristled at the sound of his voice. Twig swallowed. They were
whitecollar
woodwolves: the worst kind – and here was a whole pack of them. Twig inched back towards the air shaft. Too late. The woodwolves, noticing the movement, let out a low bloodcurdling growl. With open jaws
and dripping fangs, the one nearest him leaped up from the ground and launched itself at his throat.

‘Aaaargh!’ Twig screamed. The outstretched paws of the beast thumped into his chest. The pair of them toppled backwards and landed heavily on the ground.

Twig kept his eyes shut tight. He could smell the warm rotten breath on his face as the woodwolf sniffed and tasted. He felt a row of pinpricks along the side of his neck. The woodwolf had him in its jaws. One movement – from either of them – and that would be that.

Just then, above the deafening pounding of his heart, Twig heard a voice. ‘What's going on here, then?’ it said. ‘What have you found, eh, lads? Something for the pot?’

The woodwolves snarled greedily, and Twig felt the teeth pressing down sharply into his skin.

‘Drop it!’ the voice commanded. ‘Stealth! Drop it, I say!’

The teeth withdrew. The stench receded. Twig opened his eyes. A short elf-like creature clutching a heavy whip, was standing there and glaring at him. ‘Friend or food?’ he demanded.

‘F … f … friend,’ Twig stuttered.

‘Get up, friend,’ he said. The woodwolves twitched as Twig climbed to his feet. ‘They won't hurt you,’ he said, seeing Twig's discomfort. ‘So long as I don't tell them to,’ he smirked.

‘You wouldn't do that,’ said Twig. ‘W … would you?’

‘All depends,’ came the reply. The woodwolves began pacing to and fro, licking their lips and yelping excitedly. ‘We small people have to stay on our guard. Stranger equals danger, that's my motto. You can't be too careful in the Deepwoods.’ He looked Twig up and down. ‘Mind you,’ he said, ‘
you
don't look too much of a threat.’ He wiped his hand vigorously on his trousers and thrust it forward. ‘The name's Garble,’ he said. ‘Garble the Hunter, and this here is my pack.’ One of the woodwolves snarled. Garble gave it a vicious kick.

Twig reached out and shook the hand being offered him. All round them, the woodwolves were whipping themselves up into a slavering frenzy. Garble stopped in mid-shake, pulled his hand away and inspected it.

‘Blood,’ he said. ‘No wonder the lads found you. The smell of it drives them proper crazy, it does.’ He crouched down and carefully wiped his hand on the grass until all trace of the blood had disappeared. He looked up. ‘So what exactly are you?’ he said.

‘I'm…’ Twig began, and then stopped. He wasn't a woodtroll. But then, what was he? ‘I'm Twig,’ he said simply.

‘A twig? Never heard of ‘em. You look a bit like a lop-ear or even a blunderhead. Even
I
find it difficult to tell them apart. Fetch a good price though, they do. The sky pirates are always after goblins from the wilder tribes. They make good fighters even if they are a bit difficult to control … Are the twigs good fighters?’

Twig shifted uneasily from foot to foot. ‘Not really,’ he said.

Garble sniffed. ‘Wouldn't get much for you, anyway,’ he said. ‘Scrawny little specimen that you are. Still, you might make a ship's cook. Can you cook?’

‘Not really,’ Twig said again. He was inspecting his hand. There was a cut on his little finger, but it didn't look too bad.

‘Just my luck,’ said Garble. ‘I was on the trail of a big lumpskull – would have made me a pretty penny, I can tell you – and what happens? He goes running straight into the jaws of a bloodoak and that's the end of him. Terrible mess. And then the boys pick up your scent. Hardly worth the bother,’ he added, and spat on the ground.

It was then that Twig noticed what Garble the Hunter was wearing. The dark fur was unmistakeable. How many times had he stroked fur exactly like it: sleek, smooth and tinged with green.

‘Banderbear,’ Twig breathed, his blood beginning to boil. This obnoxious little elf was wearing the pelt of a banderbear.

Garble was shorter than Twig, considerably shorter. In a straight fight, Twig was sure he could overpower him easily. But, as the circle of yellow eyes stared at him unblinking, Twig had to swallow his indignation.

‘Can't stand around all day, chatting,’ Garble went on. ‘I've got some serious hunting to be getting on with. Don't have time to waste on wolf-bait like you. I'd get that hand seen to, if I was you. Might not be so lucky next time. Come on, boys.’

And, with the yelping pack all round him, Garble
turned and disappeared into the trees.

Twig sank to his knees. He was back in the Deepwoods, but this time there was no banderbear to protect him. No sweet, lonely banderbear, just wolves and hunters and lumpskulls and blunderheads and…

‘Why?’ he wailed. ‘Why all this?
WHY
?’

‘Because,’ came a voice – a voice that sounded gentle and kind.

Twig looked up and started with horror. The creature that had spoken looked neither gentle nor kind. In fact, she was monstrous.

‘So what brings you …
SLURP
… to this part of the …
SLURP
… Deepwoods?’ she said.

Twig kept his head down. ‘I'm lost,’ he said.

‘Lost? Nonsense …
SLURP
… You're here!’ she laughed.

Twig swallowed nervously. He raised his head.

‘That's better …
SLURP
… Now why don't you tell me all about it, m'dear. Gabtrolls is very good …
SLURP
… listeners,’ and she flapped her huge bat-like ears.

The yellow light of late afternoon glowed through the pink membrane of her ears, picking out the delicate network of blood vessels. It glistened on her greasy face and glinted on the eye-stalks. It was these – long, thick, rubbery, swaying; now contracting, now elongating, and both topped off with bulbous green spheres – which had so startled Twig. His stomach still felt queasy, yet he couldn't look away.

‘Well?’ the gabtroll said.

‘I…’ Twig began.

‘
SLURP!
’

Twig shuddered. Each time the long yellow tongue flipped out to lick and moisten one or other of the unblinking green eyes, he forgot what he was going to say. The eye-stalks extended towards him. The eyeballs stared at both sides of his face at the same time. ‘What you need, m'dear,’ said the gabtroll finally, ‘is a nice cup of …
SLURP
… oakapple tea. While we're waiting.’

As they walked side by side in the fading orange light, the gabtroll talked. And talked and talked and talked. And as she went on, in her soft lilting voice, Twig no longer noticed her ears or her eyes or even that long slurping tongue. ‘I ain't never fitted in, you understand,’ she was explaining.

Twig understood only too well.

‘Course, gabtrolls have been purveyors of fruit and vegetables for generations,’ she went on. ‘Growing produce and selling it at the various market-clearings. Yet I knew…’ She paused. ‘I said to myself, Gabba, I said, you just b'ain't cut out for a life of hoeing and haggling. And that's a fact.’

They emerged in a glade bathed in the deep red glow of the setting sun. The light gleamed on something round and metallic. Twig squinted into the shadows. A small covered wagon was standing beneath the hanging fronds of a sallowdrop tree. The gabtroll waddled towards it. Twig watched as she unhooked a lantern and set it swinging from a branch.

‘Throw a little light on the matter,’ she chuckled, and proceeded to pull the wagon out from its hiding place.

Twig looked it over. For a moment, it seemed to disappear. He shook his head. It returned again.

‘Clever, eh?’ said the gabtroll. ‘I spent ages mixing the paints.’

Twig nodded. From the wheels beneath the wooden frame to the animal skin which had been stretched over hoops to make a waterproof covering, every inch of the wagon had been daubed with various shades of green and brown. It was perfectly camouflaged for the forest. Twig's eyes focused on some writing on the side: curious curling letters that looked like twisted leaves.

‘Yes, that's me,’ said the gabtroll, with a lick of her eyeballs. “‘Gabmora Gabtroll. Apothecaress and Wise One”. Now let's see about that tea, shall we?’

She bustled up the wooden steps and disappeared inside the wagon. Twig watched her from the outside as she placed a kettle on the stove, and spooned some orange flakes into a pot.

‘I'd ask you in…’ she said, looking up. ‘But, well…’ She flapped her hand round at the chaos within the wagon.

There were stoppered jars and bottles swilling with amber liquid and the innards of small beasts, there were boxes and crates full of seeds and leaves, and sackfuls of nuts spilling onto the floor. There were tweezers and scalpels, and chunks of crystal, and a pair of scales, and sheaves of paper, and rolls of bark. Herbs and dried flowers hung in bunches from hooks, alongside strings of desiccated slugs, and a selection of dead animals: woodrats, oakvoles, weezits, all swaying gently as the gabtroll busied herself with the tea.

Twig waited patiently. The moon rose, and promptly vanished behind a bank of black cloud. The lamplight glowed brighter than ever. Beside a stubby log Twig noticed a heart shape had been scratched into the dirt. A stick lay across it.

‘Here we are, m'dear,’ said the gabtroll as she emerged, a steaming mug in each hand and a tin under her arm. She set everything down on the log. ‘Help yourself to a seedrusk,’ she said. ‘I'll just get us something to park our behinds on.’

She unhooked two more of the logs from the underside of the wagon. Like everything else, they were so well camouflaged that Twig hadn't noticed them. She plonked herself down.