Soul Splinter (6 page)

Moll tugged one down, slipped it across to Gryff, who was curled inside a scoop in the rock, then casually took a sip from her mug of nettle tea as if nothing had happened. She looked across at Oak who was tightening the straps on her catapult a few metres away. She smiled to herself. Oak always offered to mend anything she broke – which was most things. He’d even built the wheels of her wagon, back in the forest, extra thick so that, no matter how much she crashed around inside, it wouldn’t topple over. She jumped as Alfie and Siddy turned into the corridor of rock from the cave.

Alfie nodded to Oak. ‘We’ve sharpened the knives like you said.’

‘And we put them in sheaths outside your alcove,’ Siddy added, ‘because the blades were really starting to frighten Hermit – and the last thing I want right now is to knock his confidence. He’s been doing so well at confronting his fears recently.’

Oak smiled. ‘Well done, boys.’ He looked at Siddy’s bandaged arm. ‘Healing OK?’

Siddy nodded. ‘Much better, thanks to Mooshie’s herbs.’

Oak turned the catapult over in his hands, then, satisfied, tossed it back to Moll.

‘Thanks.’ She budged up so that Siddy and Alfie could sit beside her. ‘Why did Mooshie seem so scared of the message Alfie and me read in the tablet?’ She frowned. ‘Where are the Oracle Bones telling us to go?’

Oak put his hat back on and began to roll a cigarette. ‘The Crumpled Way is a road,’ he said quietly. ‘Up in Inchgrundle.’

Alfie flinched but said nothing.

Moll shrugged. ‘So we need to go up the track to the cliff tops, grab the cobs, ride into the village and snatch the amulet. Right?’

Hermit retreated nervously down Siddy’s leg. ‘If you’re going to say reckless stuff like that, please whisper,’ Siddy muttered. ‘Hermit’s only been awake for a few hours today and he’s already terrified.’

Oak shook his head. ‘The Crumpled Way isn’t just any old street, Moll. It’s the worst road in Inchgrundle.’ He lit his cigarette and sucked in the tobacco. ‘The one that runs from the harbour up through the far of side the village – the one the Dreads from Bootleggers Bay use to smuggle barrels of brandy and kegs of gin up before carting them off to bigger towns to sell.’

Hermit was frantically digging a hole in the ground now, specks of sand spraying up over Siddy’s toes.

Moll swallowed. Whenever Oak came back from Inchgrundle, he had tales of Barbarous Grudge and his gang of bloodthirsty smugglers. Rumour had it the Dreads had killed an entire family in their sleep because the father had leaked their names to the police. And villagers claimed the Dreads had drowned two dogs because they’d blown their cover on a raid in the harbour. And then there were the stories about Barbarous Grudge himself, tales that sent shivers rippling beneath Moll’s skin: that he’d fended off eight tax officials in a smuggling raid, then stolen their money and melted the coins down to cap eight of his teeth in gold. And the bone he chewed on – the finger of another tax official who’d locked him in jail several years before . . .

‘The Dreads control Inchgrundle now,’ Oak said, ‘and no one dares speak out against them and their smuggling. Word about town is that you’ll be dead before sunset if you do.’

Siddy took his flat cap off and fiddled with it nervously. ‘And the bones say the amulet is hidden
there
?’

Alfie shifted uneasily, plucking at the sand with his fingertips.

Oak nodded. ‘Seems so.’

‘Maybe we should look at the clues again . . .’ Siddy mumbled. ‘Spend a bit more time working out if The Crumpled Way is
really
where the old magic wants us to go.’

Beside him, Alfie was looking more and more uncomfortable. But still he stayed quiet.

Moll drained the last of her tea, pushed down her fear and looked at Siddy. ‘I’m not letting some gin-swigging smuggler stop me from righting what the Shadowmasks did to my parents.’ The thought of her ma’s soul trapped by their evil brought her to her feet. ‘No one faces problems sitting down,’ she said. ‘When can we leave?’

Oak adjusted his necktie. ‘Tonight; we’ll need the cover of darkness to get away before the Shadowmasks come looking for you and Gryff.’

Alfie started to say something, then decided against it and fiddled with his rings.

Moll set off towards the entrance to the cave. ‘I’m going to pack.’

Siddy frowned. ‘Pack what? All you own is a bunch of catapults.’

Moll glanced over her shoulder at him. ‘Exactly. And it sounds like I’m going to need them all.’

Oak, Siddy and Gryff followed her until it was just Alfie left. He let his head rest back against the rock, then he shut his eyes. A journey to Inchgrundle – that would change
everything
. It would mean telling Moll and Oak what Skull had told him – things so dark and strange not even Alfie wanted to remember them. He sat alone in silence for several minutes, then he picked himself up and walked back into the cave.

After an early supper, Mooshie ushered everyone, including Hard-Times Bob, to bed. Although he wasn’t going to Inchgrundle, his latest dislocation (through the handles of a wicker basket to ‘lighten the mood’) had left him with stomach cramps, and a lie-down in his hammock had seemed advisable.

But, only a few hours later, Cinderella Bull had woken. There were sounds in the cove again – sounds that made her throat turn dry. She was used to the sea spirits murmuring at night, lapping against the tunnel walls and crashing against the furthest point. But the sea was different tonight, full of unfamiliar whispers.

‘The thresholds are opening,’ she sighed to herself. ‘There’ll be dark magic waiting for Moll and Gryff outside the cove.’

Hard-Times Bob let out a muffled snore, then rolled over in his hammock, but Cinderella Bull crept out of bed and hastened towards the supplies Mooshie kept before the tunnel. She took a handful of ragwort from a sack and three iron nails from a jar. Then she climbed up on to the rocks lining the tunnel and dropped them into the sea. After a few minutes, she shuffled back to bed, drifted off to sleep and the night was once more still.

But, in the alcove next to Cinderella Bull’s, someone else was awake. Alfie swung his rucksack over his shoulders and lifted back the sheet that hung down over the entrance to his alcove. The cave was almost completely dark, but Alfie knew it by heart now, knew every crevice and crack, every good-luck omen placed round the walls. He bent down by the last embers of the fire and, using a small stick, he traced a pattern in the sand. He bit his lip and tried not to think about what Moll would say when she read it.

Then he tiptoed from the cave and vanished into the night.

M
oll’s sleep had been troubled, her dreams twisted into nightmares of Shadowmasks advancing towards her and Gryff, their Soul Splinter held high. So, when Oak placed a hand on her shoulder to wake her up, Moll was glad to be shaken from the darkness.

Oak bent low by her hammock, his face lit only by the candle he was holding. ‘It’s Alfie,’ he whispered.

Gryff sat up in the furthest point of the alcove, ears twitching. Moll’s heart scrunched tight. ‘What’s happened?’

‘He’s gone, Moll. Alfie’s gone.’

She sat bolt upright. ‘They’ve taken him – the Shadowmasks – somehow they’ve got him, haven’t they?’ She leapt out of her hammock, but Oak held her still.

‘He left Little Hollows, Moll. Of his own accord.’

Moll heard the words, but they sounded strange, as if they were falling apart at the edges. ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘No.’ But when Oak didn’t reply her shoulders slumped and her eyes grew large and sad. ‘He – he left?’ she said quietly.

Oak nodded.

‘But Alfie wouldn’t just leave like that. We were in this together . . .’ Moll’s voice collapsed and she felt hot tears welling behind her eyes. She shook them back. ‘Alfie wouldn’t leave without . . . without . . .’

She found herself thinking back to how they’d first met – how Alfie had kidnapped her from Oak’s camp in Tanglefern Forest to hand her over to Skull. Only Alfie hadn’t been what she’d expected. He hadn’t wanted to be at Skull’s camp any more than her . . . Alfie had secrets, yes, but Moll had learnt to trust him and together they’d escaped Skull’s lair and found the first amulet. He was her friend. How could he desert her now when she needed him most?

Oak tried to draw her close, but Moll stood, rooted to the ground in disbelief.

‘We found his patteran, Moll – he marked it into the sand by the fire.’

Moll’s ears snagged on Oak’s words and she felt a hollowness grow inside her. She hadn’t wanted to believe Oak, but a patteran – the sign every gypsy carves to show they’ve been here and settled – there was no arguing with that. She stormed past Oak, out into the cave. And there, before the embers of the fire, was Alfie’s patteran, dark shadows resting in the grooves: KUSHTI BOK. The old gypsy words for ‘Good Luck’.

The truth slid uncomfortably before Moll. She’d never have abandoned Alfie, no matter how bad things might have got. Never. A knot tightened inside her, half of it angry, the other half confused. She closed her eyes. Why had Alfie left when he’d been so desperate to find the amulet too? Something about his disappearance just didn’t make sense. She’d known he was keeping secrets from her about his past. But what secret was so big it had meant he had to leave Little Hollows without her? She forced the hurt down. Alfie had left her in the middle of their quest, after the camp had let him in and she had given him her trust. Moll pushed his face and his name and everything about him out of her mind.

‘We need to get moving if we’re going to make it to Inchgrundle in darkness,’ she said, trying to suppress the quiver in her voice.

Oak nodded. ‘I can’t understand what would’ve made Alfie leave. I’m so sorry, Moll.’

Moll turned to him as she walked back to her alcove, her eyes hard. ‘For what? He was never one of us – not really.’

She disappeared inside her alcove, drawing the sheet across it so that the entrance was covered. Then, once she was alone, the tears spilled down her cheeks.

Moll crouched inside the corridor of rocks by the entrance to the cave, her catapult and two small stones tucked into the pocket of her dress, then a cardigan and a duffle coat, the toggle fastenings buttoned up all wrong, hastily flung on top. Although not the comfiest of clothing, the coat was warm and would guard against the increasingly cold autumn nights.

Gryff waited beside her, his ears pricked to the slightest sound. Moll looked down, squinting through the dark, half wondering whether she’d be able to make out Alfie’s footprints pressed into the sand. She knew his and Sid’s tracks by heart now, but the night was dark, giving no clues as to which way he’d gone, and Moll knew that that kind of thinking wouldn’t get her anywhere. She clenched her teeth.

Siddy hung behind her, his duffle-coat hood pulled up against the night, his arm out of the bandage now – a large plaster covering what was left of the cut. Mooshie had tried to dissuade Siddy from going to Inchgrundle, but when Moll was out of earshot Siddy had pointed out: ‘
Alfie’s left – I’m not leaving her too.
’ And, after a prolonged goodbye to Hermit, Siddy had crept out into the corridor of rocks after Moll and Oak.

In front of Moll, Oak peered out at the beach. A wind rose up, stirring the surface of the sea, as if it could sense the gypsies huddled inside the rocks, and large clouds shifted across the moon. The darkness thickened.

‘Now,’ Oak whispered.

Moll followed Oak out on to the beach and the sea sucked back, leaving the sand a polished black beneath the glimpses of moonlight. Moll shrank deeper inside her coat. It was one thing crouching between the corridors of rocks, but out here in the open, where the owls had been just the day before, things felt very different . . . Even the sand seemed to close round her feet as she ran, warning her to stay inside the cove.

Moll stuck close to Oak, darting after him as he ran past the washed-up timber to where the path up the cliffs began. Thighs burning, Moll ploughed up the incline with Gryff beside her. She glanced back at Siddy whose eyes were flitting about the path.

‘Good job I didn’t bring Hermit,’ he panted. ‘This climb would’ve killed him.’

Moll kept running through the bracken and gorse, sweat beading on her forehead, but she was glad of Siddy’s voice, his jokes a mask for the fear she knew he felt deep down. At last, the path met the top of the cliffs and they stood on the grass, hands on knees, breathing hard. But Gryff remained alert, eyes scanning the heath that spread out before them into several miles of scrubland, heather and gorse.

Moll looked wistfully towards the dark shape of the forest beyond the heath and briefly wondered if Alfie had gone back there now Skull was gone.

The clouds withdrew for a moment and, as the moonlight shone down on to the heath, Moll gasped. It was a wasteland – giant bogs spilling out over peat, dead gorse and tree stumps. ‘When we were up here last, the heath was full of heather and trees . . .’ She clutched her talisman.

‘The thresholds,’ Oak told her. ‘The Shadowmasks’ magic is seeping in fast.’ He straightened up and whistled through his teeth. Moments later, Patch, Oak’s piebald cob, cantered through the night towards them. The cob slowed before Oak and nuzzled into his overcoat. Oak lifted the halter from his shoulder and slipped it on, then he handed another halter to Moll. ‘To tie up the cobs at the other end.’