Beyond the Deepwoods (8 page)

‘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 ·
T
HE
S
KULLPELT

A
s 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 never 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.

As he got closer, the light spilled out onto the leafy forest floor. Twig looked down at his feet, awash with turquoise-green. The music – a swirl of voices and strings – grew louder.

Twig paused. What should he do? He was too frightened to go on. But he couldn't go back. He
had
to go on.

Chewing on the edge of his scarf, Twig took a step forwards. Then another. And another … The turquoise light washed all over him, so dazzling he had to shield his eyes. The music, loud and sad, filled his ears. Slowly, he lowered his hands and looked around.

Twig was standing in a clearing. Although the turquoise light was bright, it was also misty. Nothing was clear. Shadowy shapes floated before his eyes, crossed one another, and disappeared. The music grew louder still. All at once, a figure stepped out of the mist and stood before him.

It was a woman, short and stocky, with beaded tufts of hair. Twig couldn't see her face.

‘Who are you?’ he asked. And yet, as the music rose to a slushy crescendo, Twig knew the answer to his question. The short stumpy legs, the powerful shoulders and, when she moved her head to one side, the profile of that rubbery nose. Apart from the strange clothes she was wearing, there was no doubt.

‘Mother-Mine,’ said Twig softly.

But Spelda turned away, and began to walk off into the turquoise mist. The unfamiliar blue fur gown she was wearing trailed along the ground behind her.

‘
DON'T GO!
’ Twig bellowed after her. ‘
MOTHER! SPELDA!
’

The music grew increasingly frantic. The singing voices became discordant.

‘
COME BACK!
’ Twig cried, and he sprinted off after her. ‘
DON'T LEAVE ME!
’

He ran and ran through the dazzling mist. Sometimes he knocked into branches and stumps he hadn't seen, sometimes he tripped and fell sprawling to the ground. Each time, he picked himself up, brushed himself down and set off once more.

Spelda had come looking for him; that much was clear. She must have known I was in trouble, he thought; that I strayed from the path. She's come to take me home after all. I can't lose her now!

Then Twig saw her again. She was standing some way ahead, with her back to him. The music had become soft and gentle, and the voices sang a soothing lullaby. Twig approached the figure, his whole body tingling with expectation. He ran up to her, calling out her name. But Spelda didn't move.

‘Mother,’ Twig cried. ‘It's me.’

Spelda nodded and turned slowly. Twig was shaking from head to toe. Why was she acting so strangely?

The music was low. Spelda was standing in front of Twig, head bowed, and with the hood of the fur gown hanging down over her face. Slowly, she opened her
arms to him, to wrap him up in her warm embrace. Twig stepped forwards.

At that moment, Spelda let out a terrible scream and staggered back, flapping wildly at her head. The music became loud again. It beat, urgent and rhythmical, like a pounding heart. She screamed a second time – a savage cry that chilled Twig to the bone – and struck out frantically at the air around her.

‘Mother-Mine!’ Twig cried. ‘What's happening?’

He saw blood trickling down from a gash on her scalp. Another cut appeared on her shoulder, and yet another on her back. The blue gown turned to violet as the blood spread. And still she writhed and screamed and lashed out at her unseen assailant.

Twig stared aghast. He would have helped if he could. But there was nothing – absolutely nothing at all – that he could do. He had never felt so useless in his life.

Suddenly, he saw Spelda clutching at her neck. Blood gushed out between her fingers. She whimpered softly, collapsed, and lay on the ground twitching horribly.