Soul Splinter (4 page)

Moll and Alfie exchanged looks. Neither said anything, but they knew what the other was thinking: the Dreads from Bootleggers Bay, just up the coast from Little Hollows – a notorious smuggler gang who hauled boatloads of gin and whisky into Inchgrundle and who set upon anyone who stumbled across their path. Every journey made to Inchgrundle for supplies meant a journey past the Dreads. Oak knew how to fight – he could toss a knife blind and still hit a target – but these smugglers were lawless thugs, hungry for violence.

‘Oak always comes back,’ Alfie said quietly. ‘The Dreads are no match for him.’

Moll nodded, but, as she slipped off towards her alcove, she felt her body tense. She stooped beneath the sheet and went inside. A clutter of sea treasures lined every ridge: starfish, shells, pebbles and washed-up glass bottles. And a storm lantern containing a single candle glowed, illuminating the strange symbols of the Oracle Bone script Moll had chalked on to the walls to try and remember them: triangles resting on prongs, eyes inside squares, circles dashed through with lines. The sandy floor below the hammock was strewn with clothes and at the far end, beside a scattering of fish bones, lay Gryff.

His yellow-green eyes flicked open, as if he’d sensed Moll’s presence. ‘
Brrroooooo
.’

Moll loosened the ribbon that tied the sheet back from her alcove and the material hung down over the entrance, shielding them from sight. She smiled at the wildcat’s greeting, then walked over and sat down beside him. ‘We’ll get the Shadowmasks back for hurting Sid.’ She was silent for a moment, then she glanced at her catapult on a ledge and a coil of anger flexed inside her. ‘And for taking Ma and Pa away and forcing us from the forest. They won’t get away with it.’

Gryff curled his tail round Moll’s ankle and purred.

A voice sounded from beyond her alcove – deep and soft – and Moll breathed a sigh of relief. Oak was back from Inchgrundle; he’d made it past the Dreads.

Moll listened as Mooshie told Oak what had happened. The gypsy leader said nothing, as was sometimes his way, but he was taking it all in – planning, assessing, thinking of the next steps. Moll waited quietly, then the sheet covering her alcove lifted and Oak stepped inside. Back in the forest, before Moll had learnt about the Bone Murmur, Oak would have knocked on her wagon door and asked if she wanted to go tracking for animals or climbing the biggest trees. But all that had changed over the summer . . .

Oak took off his wide-brimmed hat, set it against his waistcoat and ran a hand through his dark hair. ‘Moll, we’ve put it off for as long as possible so that Cinderella Bull could teach you how to read the ways of the old magic.’ His eyes glinted in the candlelight, almost as black as the obsidian stone set in his ring. ‘Now it’s time you threw the Oracle Bones.’

Moll’s heart fluttered. She was the Guardian of the Oracle Bones and this was what she had wanted, what she had been practising for every evening since they’d moved to Little Hollows. But, now the time had come to throw the bones, Moll’s stomach was a knot of nerves.

Oak looked her straight in the eye. ‘If we’re going to destroy the Shadowmasks and their Soul Splinter, we need to know where the next amulet is.’

O
utside the cave that night, a ship moved along the horizon, pushing silently through the sea below a sky pricked with stars. But, inside Little Hollows, every candle had been snuffed out and the gypsies gathered round the fire on stools.

In a large circle around them lay the good-luck charms Cinderella Bull had laid out to protect the ceremony from evil: acorns, hedgehog bristles, horseshoes bent into circles, fox teeth and thorns. Water slopped against the tunnel walls and the only other sound in the cave was the
drip drip drip
coming from the drinking-water contraption Mooshie had set up.

Cinderella Bull sat with her eyes closed, beside a battered chest she’d hauled out of her alcove with Hard-Times Bob. She bent her head low and from her cracked lips there came a murmuring. The fire flickered into the darkness and, moments later, Mooshie began to hum, her head dipped, her mouth shaping sounds that seemed to swell and soften, like the ebb and flow of a faraway tide.

Moll felt the magic of the ancient ritual stir deep inside her. She was following in the footsteps of her beloved parents who had thrown the Oracle Bones ten years earlier. Something old and precious began to flow through her veins – a sense of belonging that went back far beyond her understanding, as if the presence of her ancestors was stirring in the shadows of the cave. Moll wrapped the patchwork quilt closer round her nightdress.

Oak and Hard-Times Bob let their palms drop on to the small wooden drums between their knees, their fingers rippling over the leather surface, lending an unknown rhythm to Mooshie’s and Cinderella Bull’s murmurs.

And then Cinderella Bull stood up, crossed the fire to where Moll was sitting and unfurled her palm. Moll knew what to do – they’d gone over it again and again – but it hadn’t felt real until tonight. Her body tingling, Moll took the objects from the fortune-teller’s hands: seven tiny pieces of coal, seven finger-pinches of oatmeal and seven cloves of garlic.

She glanced towards her alcove and saw Gryff watching her from the shadows – silent, still, like something carved from stone and sent to protect.

‘Come,’ Cinderella Bull whispered.

Moll approached the fire. A pan of water was now bubbling on a sheet of metal gauze above the flames. Cinderella Bull nodded and Moll dropped the coal, oatmeal and garlic into it, then she picked up the three-pronged stick, the one her ancestors had carved from a tree struck by lightning back in the forest, and began to stir. Mooshie’s song grew louder and, though Moll’s voice was quivering with nerves, she spoke the words Cinderella Bull had taught her:

The liquid in the pan bubbled blue for a moment, then it returned to normal as if nothing had happened. But Moll knew the significance of that: the burning blue was the same colour as the first amulet – the jewel they’d found in the forest that contained her pa’s soul, trapped by the damage the Shadowmasks’ Soul Splinter had done to it. In freeing it, Moll had heard her pa’s voice, she’d felt him with her and he’d promised her the second amulet would hold her ma’s soul.

Cinderella Bull smiled. ‘The old magic has heard you, Moll.’

Moll took a deep breath as the fortune-teller hobbled to the old chest, drew out three fragments of animal bone and pressed them into Moll’s hand. ‘Just as I taught you, remember?’

Moll sat back down between Alfie and Siddy.

‘You can do it,’ Siddy urged.

Alfie nodded. ‘I know you can.’

Moll’s insides clenched as she remembered her pa’s words to Alfie back in the forest. ‘
And in finding the amulets you
will
learn the truth about your past
.’ She gulped. Alfie needed to find this amulet as much as she did.

She looked down at the bones, smooth and white, waiting to be inscribed. Then she reached for the penknife beside her and carved a circle dashed through with a double-ended arrow into the first bone, a star enclosed inside a circle on the second, then a cross on the last bone – the symbols for the question that burned inside her:

WHERE IS THE SECOND AMULET OF TRUTH?

Mooshie stopped her song, Oak and Hard-Times Bob set the drums down by their feet and Cinderella Bull sat back down and closed her eyes. And into the silence Moll threw the bones. They clattered against the logs in the fire, then settled in the heart of the flames. Everyone watched, their breath stilled in their throats. But nobody could have predicted what happened next.

There was a bang, loud and sharp, like a gunshot – and the bones burst up into the air in tiny fragments, like flutters of puffed-up ash. Gryff shot across the cave towards Moll, was by her side in a flash, then his eyes fell on what all of the gypsies were looking at.

The fragments had fallen at Moll’s feet, but they were no longer broken pieces of bone. Somehow the fragments had welded together as they fell, presenting themselves as a tablet of bone in front of Moll. Hermit retreated several steps beneath Siddy’s stool and shook violently inside his shell.

Moll looked up at Cinderella Bull. ‘But – but it’s not like you taught me. The old magic was meant to replace my carvings with other Oracle Bone symbols – ones that spelt out a message for me to interpret. But the tablet is covered in scribbles, not proper Oracle Bone script! It’s—’ she bit her lip, panic rising inside her, ‘—
nonsense
.’

The gypsies gathered round. Letters and strange pictures had been inscribed into the bone, their grooves lined with black ash. But they weren’t the symbols Moll had carved; this was something else entirely.

Cinderella Bull looked at Oak. ‘This isn’t how it’s supposed to be . . . Moll’s ancestors read Oracle Bone script, not letters and scribbles.’

Oak ran a hand over his stubbled jaw, then he reached for his talisman, a lump of coal kept in a leather pouch in the pocket of his waistcoat. He squeezed it hard.

Moll felt her cheeks redden. She was meant to be the Guardian of the Oracle Bones – and she knew full well that each Guardian only got one chance to throw the bones in their lifetime. She glanced at Alfie beside her; he was picking at the cuff of his nightshirt, trying not to show his disappointment. Gryff pressed his body into Moll’s legs in sympathy, but it didn’t change her thoughts: she’d failed when everyone had placed their hopes in her. This was the one thing that she’d wanted to do to show the camp she really fitted in. She might not have parents, but she’d had this legacy – and now it lay as a pile of nonsense in front of her.

Oak stood up and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘It’s OK, Moll.’

He enveloped her in his large arms and Moll breathed in the familiar smell of freshly-struck matches and tobacco. How she wished they could be back in the forest together, carving catapults or tickling trout from the river. But the Shadowmasks and their dark magic were somewhere out there and the only thing she could use to beat them would now never be found. Moll stared at the meaningless jumble of letters and scribbles.

‘Maybe it’s a code,’ Siddy volunteered. ‘Something we’ve got to work out for ourselves.’ He turned to Moll. ‘Like you and Alfie did on the heath with the other amulet.’

Alfie blew through his lips. ‘It’s not like any code I’ve ever seen.’

Moll looked at the tablet in front of her, shame rising hard, then she got up and, without turning, made for the rocks lining the tunnel entrance. Gryff followed.

Cinderella Bull started after her, but Oak held her arm. ‘Leave her be.’

From a ledge of rock, Moll lifted one of the spears she’d carved with Oak, then she stood, poised, before the tunnel. She needed a distraction – anything to get away from the thoughts crushing down on her. Through the cracks in the rock above, moonlight filtered and shimmered on the water. But it was enough to reflect off the silver eels that swam in the tunnel every full moon. Moll watched an anemone fold in its tentacles. She turned to Gryff. ‘It’d help if someone could fold me up and hide me away. I’m no good for anything now.’