Crik (7 page)

‘Good, come on, before you’re spotted,’ said Bill, turning and running for the gate.

Yang stretched toward the road, impatient as Bill to get away. Jack started to follow, when he noticed Bill’s footsteps had impressed themselves over the Hatchling’s from the previous night, mingling to form a hybrid of the two. Elongating the rounded edge of Bill’s shoes were three claws.

GrandpaPoulis had tol
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Jack that no one knew Crik Village’s age, neither in writing nor in memory. The houses held no clue, they had new walls, and the old well was the third to reside within the graveyard. Certain graves gave some insight, with the oldest belonging to the old mayor’s son, Strident Castly. His epitaph, immortalised in blackened stone, lay un-mourned for two hundred years.

The wood, surrounding the village, was much older. Harsh seasons had bowed trees, transforming them into grim sculptures to haunt secluded paths. Great roots, burrowing deep underground, like huge wooden worms, churned the earth and broke stone. These aged bastions gave home to the long eared rabbit, sheltering amongst the dark and moist roots, the squirrel ran along its branching paths, and the snake lay in wait to put an end to the scampering feet. Fat staring owls, and cruel crows, watched from hidden perches. Crooked shadows, stretched and skewed, crawled across the leaf-strewn floor, darkening every dell and hill. Gurgling brooks, tumbling over round stones, spread through the wood like arterial blood.

At one time, the wood stretched farther than now, its green and brown swathe ending where the land met the sea. The earliest name man gave to the wood is still spoken of in legend. No one realises that Criklow Wood remains the same dark forest where trees snatched girls and heroes fought scaled demons. Earliest man named the wood Illyarden Forest, a name still whispered in stories. If Grandpa Poulis knew that Criklow was Illyarden, he would forbid Bill from entering the woods. Everyone remembers the cursed name of Illyarden.

The boys rushed into the wood, eager to get beneath the trees to escape prying eyes. They ran to a stop, both panting. Bill sat down, sweat trickling down his broad face. Standing over him, Jack had his breathing under enough control to look around. The tight packed trees darkened the morning to evening, with a few scattered rays of sunlight sprinkling the ground. A small shrew nuzzled at the undergrowth a few paces away, Jack didn’t mention it to Bill, afraid his friend would have the critter do somersaults or some such. Being in the woods made Yang happy, despite the poor light, his shadow expanded itself to twice its size, twisting behind every tree and rock. Jack became fond of Criklow Wood, no matter how hard Yang tried; here, his shadow could not get him into trouble.

‘Your mother is going to kill you,’ said Bill, with little sympathy.

‘I know.’ The glass from the garden had managed to cut through the discarded gloves to nick his finger. Smearing the drop of blood between his fingertips, made him wish his mother would leave the pile of broken glass where he had left them. ‘I shouldn’t have come.’

A disdainful look passed over Bill’s face. ‘You are kidding, right? Sure you’re going to get it bad when you go home,’ he said getting to his feet, ‘but your mother doesn’t hold grudges for long. As soon as Grandma hears I talked you into coming with me, I’ll get it worst. Wait and see if I don’t.’

Jack recognised the truth in Bill’s words, and for the first time that morning, he gave his best friend a genuine smile. ‘Come on, let’s find your wolf.’

This close to the village both knew every gnarled piece of wood, each moss covered rock, and stand of nettles. The remains of an old fort, they had built four years earlier, still stood a dozen paces into the thicket. By craning their necks, the boards crossing the branches came into view.

A small stream cut across their path; a few days earlier rainwater had swelled the water to a torrent, leaving blackened debris along its shore. The murky water brought back images of Mr Hasseltope in the Tristle River. They stepped over the stream, having to go single file to pass the encroaching trees. A small twig snagged Jack’s shirt, tearing a small hole in the white fabric. Bill, hating tight places, cursed, muttering all the way through to the small clearing beyond the line of trees.

‘When you made Gesma kiss Liza,’ said Jack, ‘did you talk to the cat, like Mr Gasthem does with his bugs?’

Looking thoughtful, Bill shook his head. ‘No, at least I couldn’t understand them, I guess they must understand me, otherwise how would they know what I want them to do?’

‘You don’t speak,’ said Jack. ‘With Gesma you flicked your hand and she did a somersault.’

‘I pictured what I wanted her to do in my mind, and she did it. Perhaps I’ll discover more about my Talent with practice. After all, I’ve only tried it twice.’ He paused to brush clinging burs from his jacket; then his expression became sombre. ‘Grandpa knew someone who controlled animals. Hardly lifted a finger and any animal he saw did whole sorts of tricks.’ Bill, wringing his hands, looked at Jack. ‘I don’t know if I like that Yin. Sometimes, when I get mad, and sometimes when I’m not, I think bad thoughts,’ he confided. ‘When Dwayne stares at me with his round eyes I want to give him a bloody nose.’ He threw his hands up. ‘I get angry. What if something picks up on my mood and attacks him - something larger than Miss Mistletoe’s cat.’

Jack could sympathise, Yang had gotten him into enough trouble, and he had often wondered whether his subconscious controlled his shadow. That was until the puppet show last night; now he had no idea where Yang’s actions came from. ‘I guess you won’t know, until you test it.’

‘I suppose.’ Bill shook himself. ‘Yin, you’re right. All I need is practice, and when I find my wolf I can practice all I want.’

Jack could think of other creatures he would prefer Bill to practice with; only a hedgehog had none of a wolf’s awe.

Bill, shrugging off his melancholy with typical aplomb, traipsed ahead, whistling the same tune his grandfather whistled when he took Wolf for a walk.

The larger animals kept to the deeper woods, away from the village. Jack knew of hunting paths leading into the heart of Criklow Wood. The paths were only a few steps wide, and the wood in parts had reclaimed whole sections of the trail. Walking ahead, Bill missed one such path.

Yang threw a small stone, bouncing it off Bill’s shoulder. ‘Hey!’ cried Bill rubbing his hurt shoulder; he cast a baleful glance back at Jack.

‘Yang threw it,’ explained Jack. ‘But look,’ he pointed to where hunters’ boots had depressed the ground into a snaking trail around a hillock. ‘Let’s follow this for a while.’

With the track at their feet, the going became easier. They wound around thick copses of trees and missed deep fissures that split the earth without warning. Huge clumps of granite grew from overhanging banks. Jack noticed hunter marks, a series of dots and lines, cut into the stone, the markings were a mystery; he guessed they pointed the way for other hunting parties to follow. An aged tree lay across their path, its skeletal branches snatching at them like pickpockets at a country fair.

A few times, as they travelled, Bill stopped to make some small critter perform simple tricks, or collect a twig, or nut from off the beaten track. No matter how mundane the task he had the animals perform Bill never tired of repeating the chore. Jack threw his hands up in despair after the fifth time Bill had a rabbit hop around in a circle.

‘Come on; if you stop every time you see something we’ll never make it to your wolf before dark.’

As they roamed deeper into the wood, the spaces among the trees became tighter. A few places appeared like bubbling wooden walls, not separate conifer and spruce. In search of rare shafts of sunlight, smaller plants took odd shapes. Some spread wide across the wood floor, with hundreds of low hanging branches sheltering half-glimpsed eyes. Other trunks were so twisted Jack started, afraid a Wood Giant stood to the side of the path. At the feet of the trees sat brown and grey mushrooms, a few spotted red caps also grew over the humped roots. Mushrooms, needing far less sunlight than flowers, outnumbered the brightly coloured orchids. The Skomuria flower, being the most striking of the hardy flowers, with its white blooms and green tipped sepals, grew on the steep banks.

The trail dipped violently into a dell, where interwoven branches darkened the floor. From the top of the slope, the boys could not see what lay ahead. A few silhouettes of bordering bushes in the darkness gave some insight as to the course the trail took.

‘Have you ever been this far into the woods?’

Although he heard Bill’s question, at that moment the silence around them occupied Jack’s mind. The birdsong that followed them for so long had disappeared, and an hour had passed since the last time Bill had tried his Talent on some unsuspecting creature. Even Yang pulled back from the slope.

‘Come on, the hunters use the trail, they must pass through here all the time,’ said Bill, eager to continue his search for the elusive wolf.

The well-trodden trail gave credence to Bill’s words. Not relishing having to go into the dark, Jack paused. Had the Hatchling brought him here to kill him? A preposterous thought, after all, he, not Bill had led the way through the woods; yet the fear continued to grow. Conscious of wanting to put distance between them, he took the first tentative steps down the slope. The slippery packed earth sent him plunging into the dark. He managed to stay afoot for most of the descent, until a hidden root tripped him. With a cry, he crashed forward, landing hard on his side. Rolling the last few metres, he came to a stop in the gloom.

‘Yin, are you still alive?’

Touching his ribs gingerly, Jack checked his new surroundings. Beneath the enveloping canopy, his eyes adjusted to the dark; he saw individual plants, and moist moss clinging to the near rocks. Satisfied that he had only suffered a few minor cuts and bruises, he got to his feet, brushing the dry earth off his trousers.

‘I’m fine,’ he called up to Bill, who tore at his cap with worry.

Despite thorns having overgrown the boundary into the path, they did not offer much of a challenge to his exploration. Enough light remained to allow Yang by his side.

Bill still stood at the top of the slope, toeing the decline. Jack had time to wonder whether the Hatchling had orchestrated his tumble. Bill could control animals; did that mean he could make people do things? Was the Hatchling responsible for his trip? The absurdity of his own fears made him want to hit his head.

A growl, shed from a mouth filled with sharp teeth, erupted from within the trees. Dense foliage hid the maker of the call. Again, Jack heard a growl, lower than before, and a little closer. Yang retreated from the sound, cringing behind Jack, portraying none of the courage he had shown the previous night.

‘I’m coming down,’ cried Bill, unaware of the danger.

Blue eyes peered through the darkness a few yards from Jack. The beast’s girth, evident in the dim light, was twice Jack’s own; with the shaggy hair, bristling along the creature’s back, making it appear even larger. It no longer growled, instead the silence became ominous, as on padded paws the hunter crept forward, keeping its stare fixed on Jack. A scarred muzzle, pulled back from yellow fangs. Drool slipped from black lips in long silver loops. Two rounded mountains of flesh and muscle worked along its back as it drew closer. Placing one careful leg before the other it got ready to pounce.

The black wolf opened a maw filled with cutting sabres and filleting knives; Jack knew one bite would tear his head off. It sank onto its haunches, its keen eyes surrounded by raised wrinkles of flesh and fur.

Jack, smelling the rank odour of the wolf, stepped back into a protruding branch. The wolf, seeing his retreat, sprang forward, its roar deafening in the tight confines of the forested dell.

Jack screamed, throwing his arms about his face to protect himself as best he could from the ravenous carnivore. The expected impact never came, only the discomfort he felt from the branch pushing into his back. Daring to drop his arms from his face, he looked down and saw Bill scratching the mighty beast under one tufted ear.

‘Well done Yin! I was beginning to think we’d never find one.’

Steam rose from the wolf. Its tongue lolled from its open mouth, two lower pointed teeth creasing the red carpet. The beast stood as high as Bill’s eye line.

‘You stopped him,’ said Jack, his voice weak from fear.

‘Oh yes, as soon as I saw him I got him under control. Isn’t he magnificent!’ exclaimed Bill with delight. ‘Can you imagine Grandpa’s face when I come home with a real wolf?’

Moving closer, Jack reached out; his hand shook as he patted the thick black coat. ‘Next time, you go first.’

Working his fingers deeper into the wolf’s hair, Jack forgot his fear. He began to relax when he saw two sets of golden eyes watching from the edge of the path. Immediately he knew their mistake, the wolf was not a lone hunter; it belonged to a pack.