Midnight Over Sanctaphrax (31 page)

‘Deepwoods,’ Cowlquape muttered. ‘Danger …’ He stumbled on. Beneath his feet, there was greatgrass once again. He double over and gasped for breath. ‘That … was … close,’ he panted. ‘I …’

‘Too
close,’ he heard Twig saying. He looked up. Twig was kneeling next to Spooler's body, Goom by his side.

‘Is he …?’ Cowlquape said.

Twig nodded. ‘Dead,’ he said. ‘The fangs of the reed-eels have spread their venom through him.’

Cowlquape stared down in horror at the petal-shaped
marks all over the oakelf s exposed skin; at his discoloured face, his swollen body. ‘Blast you!’ he howled, and threw back his head. ‘Blast you, Deepwoods!’

Twig pulled his young apprentice to his feet. He spoke softly and urgently. ‘Take care, Cowlquape. The Deepwoods have ears. Believe me, I know.’

Cowlquape looked into Twig's eyes and fell silent. He had, indeed, so much to learn about the Deepwoods.

Having buried Spooler deep within the roots of a lulla-bee tree as oakelf tradition demanded, Twig, Cowlquape and Goom set off once again. Their spirits were lower than ever. Twig cursed himself for not insisting that the oakelf return with the
Skyraider.
All round them, the forest seemed deeper and darker than before.

On and on they tramped. Up steep, grassy banks, through marshy flats, over hillocks and hummocks and rocky outcrops. Cowlquape was overwhelmed with an aching tiredness that made every step an effort. Brambles scratched his legs, branches slapped his face. His legs ached. His stomach churned.

Overhead, the sun set on yet another day. The sky darkened and the moon rose. Suddenly Twig stopped. He stood stock-still, a look of wonder on his face.

‘Shall I get some firewood?’ said Cowlquape.

Twig shook his head. ‘I don't believe it,’ he murmured.

‘Wh … what?’ said Cowlquape, his eyes darting round nervously.

Twig pointed to the ground at their feet. ‘Look! There!’ he said.

‘I can't see anything,’ said Cowlquape. Twig, are you all right?
⁷

It's a path, Cowlquape,’ said Twig. ‘A
woodtroll
path.’

Cowlquape frowned. ‘A woodtroll path?’

‘Yes,’ said Twig. ‘I'd know it anywhere. The path has been flattened by generations of passing woodtrolls. See there, baked into the mud: it's a footprint. Look at the broad heel, the low arch, the stubby toes. Unmistakable. This is definitely a woodtroll path!’ He looked up at Cowlquape, tears in his eyes. ‘Once, long ago, I strayed from a path just like this. It was a mistake yet, as I came to learn, my destiny lay beyond the Deepwoods.’ He sighed. ‘Now I seem to have come full circle.’

‘You think
this
is the path you strayed from?’ said Cowlquape incredulously.

‘All woodtroll paths join up,’ said Twig. ‘They form a network through the Deepwoods - to the lufwood
groves, to the market clearings. They connect village to woodtroll village. If we stick to this path -
the
path - we will come to a woodtroll settlement. And woodtrolls trade with sky pirates! We're saved, Cowlquape! We're saved!’

‘Well, what are we waiting for?’ said Cowlquape, turning away. ‘Let's follow the path!’

‘I just can't believe it,’ Twig whispered. ‘After so many years, I've found the path again!’ He looked up. ‘Hey, wait for me, you two!’ He stepped onto the path and hurried after Cowlquape and Goom.

The path wound and twisted, but never disappeared. With the moon shining down, it glistened brightly like the slimy trail of a barkslug. Often they came to forks in the path, sometimes to junctions where several paths met. At each one, Twig always chose which way to go without the least hesitation.

‘All paths lead to other paths that lead to woodtroll villages,’ he assured them. ‘We can't go wrong.’

Cowlquape nodded. Yet the further they went, the more it seemed to him that the young captain was taking them in a specific direction.

Suddenly Twig stopped. ‘Smell the air,’ he said. ‘That aromatic smoke is from scentwood. It's what woodtrolls burn in their stoves when they want to dream, and when…’ He paused and cocked his head to one side. ‘And can you hear that?’ he whispered.

Cowlquape listened, and yes - there, behind the sounds of the night-creatures, was something else. ‘Music,’ he said, surprised.

‘We must be very near a village,’ said Twig.

They walked on a little further. The sound of sad singing voices filtered through the trees. Then the wind changed, and the lament faded away - only to return, louder than ever, a moment later. Deep voices, high voices, singing their own tunes yet all bound together by the sad underlying melody.

‘Wuh-wuh!’ said Goom.

‘I know this music,’ said Twig, a strange, haunted look on his face. ‘Someone has died.’ He turned to Cowlquape. ‘They are performing their Ceremony for the Dead.’

Drawn on by the mournful song, the three of them continued along the path. Left, they went. Then left again. Then right. Abruptly, through the dense undergrowth, the flickering yellow of torchlight appeared. Twig stopped in his tracks and trembled.

Cowlquape had never seen him like this before. Young. Uncertain. The years seemed to have fallen away, leaving the inexperienced woodtroll-lad within, exposed. His eyes glistened with tears and there was a sad smile on his face.

‘Twig,’ said Cowlquape, concerned. ‘Is there something the matter? Do you want to turn back?’

Twig shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. Til be all right. It's just that I'd forgotten so much. I grew up in a village like this one, Cowlquape.’ He peered ahead at the familiar woodtroll cabins secured high up in the trees. ‘I lived in a lufwood cabin just like those … Still, enough!’ Twig seemed to pull himself together. ‘Keep close to me. And
if anyone stops us, I'll do the talking. Woodtrolls can be very suspicious about uninvited arrivals - especially on so solemn an occasion.’

They were on the edge of a clearing dominated by a huge lullabee tree from which hung a caterbird cocoon. It was in such cocoons, hatching places of the great eater-birds, that the wise ones of the village - oakelves normally - took up residence. Sleeping in the warm, aromatic cocoons enabled them to share the dreams of the widely-travelled birds.

It seemed as if every single woodtroll villager was out there in the clearing, flaming torch in hand, as they gathered round the tree. The music was coming from the midst of the crowd directly beneath the cocoon.

As Twig and the others stepped forwards, the ceremonial song reached its climax - a discordant howl of grief that rose higher and higher. Twig hesitated. Row after row of woodtrolls stood before him, their backs turned, their heads bowed. The song came to an abrupt end. The silence which followed was broken by a voice. It came from the caterbird cocoon.

Twig gasped. He'd know that rich, cracked voice anywhere. ‘No,’ he murmured. ‘No, it can't be.’ He strained to get a better look over the bowed heads in front. An ancient oakelf was sitting in the suspended caterbird cocoon, high up in the great, spreading lullabee tree.

‘Taghair!’ he breathed.

‘You know him?’ Cowlquape said.

‘I … I can hardly believe it,’ said Twig. ‘It's like a
dream, Cowlquape. I have indeed come full circle. This isn't any old woodtroll village. This …’ He swallowed away the painful lump in his throat. This is
my
village, Cowlquape. Fve come home.’

‘From the sky we come and to the sky we go,’
the oakelf was reciting.
‘Descending and ascending. This night we are here to commend to open sky, that his unencumbered spirit might once again fly free, the body of our beloved Tuntum, husband, father, friend …’

Tuntum? Did he say, Tuntum? No, it can't be true!’ Twig wailed.

The woodtrolls spun round to see a tall, gangly individual with matted hair and a furry waistcoat hurtling
towards them. Outraged by the intrusion, yet too timid to confront the wild-eyed stranger in their midst, the crowd parted to let him pass.

Twig stopped in front of the lullabee tree, beneath the cocoon. Before him stood the bereaved family. Huddled together in their grief, they turned angrily as one to face the unwanted intruder. Twig hardly dared believe it but, yes, he knew them all - Snodpill, Henchweed, Poohsniff - the half-brothers and sisters he never imagined he would ever meet again. And there, looking smaller than he remembered, was Spelda, the kindly woodtroll who had taken him as a foundling-infant into her home and raised him as her own.

‘Mother-Mine!’ he sobbed and ran towards her, arms open wide.

Spelda's jaw dropped. Her eyes grew wide. Twig?’ she said. She gaped at his longcoat and parawings, the accoutrements of a sky pirate. ‘Can it truly be you?’

Twig nodded, tearfully, bending to clasp her hands between his own.

‘You came back,’ Spelda whispered.

They stayed silent for a long time: the tall, young sky pirate and the little old woodtroll. At last Spelda drew back.

‘I know you and he didn't always see eye to eye,’ she said, ‘but he never stopped loving you, Twig.’ She sniffed and wiped her rubbery button-nose. ‘Right to the very end.’

Twig looked down at the platform of bound scent-wood logs by his feet; the sky raft of buoyant lufwood which, when lit, would rise up into the sky. He looked at the shrouded bundle which was tethered to it.

‘Can I see him?’ he asked.

Spelda nodded. Twig stepped forwards and pulled aside the shroud of woodspider silk at Tuntum's head.

‘He looks so peaceful,’ said Twig quietly. ‘How did he die?’

‘In his sleep,’ said Spelda. ‘He'd been ill for several moons.’ She smiled bravely. ‘He was a good husband, and father …’

‘The time is upon us,’ came the oakelf's voice from above them.

Twig bent over and kissed Tuntum's forehead lightly, then fastened the shroud.

‘Who will touch the pyre with the celestial flame?’ asked the oakelf.

Snodpill stepped forwards and handed a burning torch to Spelda. She looked at it for a moment then, with a soft sigh turned to Twig. ‘Can you still remember the words?’ she said.

Twig nodded. He took the torch from Spelda's hand and raised it to the sky. Behind him the woodtrolls pressed their hands together in prayer.

‘From the first lightning bolt you came, O, Sky flame!’
Twig said.

‘O, Sky flame!’
the others murmured.

‘Sky fire, light the pyre, return to open sky again, O, Sky flame!’

‘O, Sky flame!’

Twig stooped and touched the burning torch to the base of the sky raft. There was a crackle and hiss; the next instant the entire construction was engulfed in sheets of purple flame.

‘Return to open sky,’ he murmured, as the blazing platform rose and hovered in front of them. The flames blazed all the more fiercely and the buoyant sky-raft with its precious cargo soared up towards the forest
canopy and away into the endlessness of open sky Twig watched it become a ball, a dot, a speck, unable to tear his eyes away as it flew like a shooting star - across the sky and away