The Flight of the Griffin (21 page)

‘Are you still resting?’

Quint glared up at her then at Pardigan, who murmured an apology.

‘Sorry, Quint, I didn’t mean to make you jump this time.’ He slumped to the ground exhausted and Quint’s anger turned to concern for his friend. Helping him up, he half carried him down the path until they rounded a bend and were able to rest without being seen from the gate.

After taking a drink and receiving a little healing energy from Loras, Pardigan began to feel better and was soon able to walk unaided. The forest was dense and oppressive, but the path in comparison, was wide and clear of obstructions making it easy to follow in the moonlight. Night birds sang and an occasional monkey chattered at them, unseen in the trees.

Quint led while Mahra remained at the back, padding along silently as a Panther, a low growl sounding from her every now and then as she sensed something watching from the gloom. The camp came into view fairly quickly and one of the helpers who had been keeping watch rose warily to greet them. He was a small man even by Minsten standards, coming not much higher than Quint’s waist. His lank hair almost covered his eyes and he was smiling, or leering, at them through a mask of dirt. His clothing was little more than animal skins crudely stitched together. He was absently pulling at what passed for a shirt as if it itched. Rubbing his hands together, he licked his lips and readied himself to greet them.

‘Greetings…visitors, come in come in,’ his said in a voice that was thin and whining. His teeth were crooked and pointed, and his pink tongue flicked nervously between thin lips as he gestured for them to enter the camp. ‘I’ve been anticipating your arrival,’ he simpered. ‘You’re the first travellers that have…requested to visit my people in many years, interesting, yes very interesting. You weren’t scared by the stories? We know all about the stories.’ He began mumbling as he assessed the crew with critical beady eyes. ‘Nasty stories…not true…poor Hidden,’
he wiped his nose with the back of his hand then reached out and squeezed Loras’s arm, only to scuttle back as Loras pulled away.

‘Oh where are my manners, I am Groober, partner of Trader Jack.’ Thin bony hands darted out to clasp Quint’s in an attempt at welcome, then quickly moved back to Loras. ‘I like you,’ he smiled, his tongue squeezing between his teeth.

‘You’re one of the Hidden! You keep away from me!’ said Loras stepping back, amazed that he hadn’t noticed the helpers were Hidden when the caravan was camped outside the Acorn. Now that he realised, the differences were more than apparent. The Hidden were much thinner than the Minstens who were almost as short, but more stocky in comparison. Groober was beardless, very dirty, and had a longer narrow nose; his lips were thinner than the Minstens as well. The little creature’s eyes were darting nervously about him and he was shuffling his feet uncomfortably as if worried that they might attack him at any moment.

‘I won’t harm you! The Hidden are good people, not like the stories, nasty stories. For some reason Trader Jack makes us wash and change clothes before we enter the town,’ whined Groober unhappily as he tried to explain the difference in his appearance. ‘We do not like to bathe because the trees do not bathe, nor do the animals. This we know appears strange to outsiders, so Trader Jack makes us wash.’ His nose crinkled in distaste. ‘But it’s perfectly natural and is the way the Source intended us to be, but you’re right, I am indeed proud to be one of the Hidden. Come into our camp and be seated.’ He ushered them towards the fire area. 

‘We’ve been waiting for you and now that you’re here we can leave at first light. Trader Jack is sleeping and I wouldn’t wish to wake him. We Hidden need only a little sleep and can go days without the need to rest,’ he explained. ‘He is human and not as young as he used to be so needs his sleep. My friends Serik and Char are about here somewhere looking for food.’ He tried to smile at the group before him, but it appeared to make them even more uncomfortable, so he stopped and decided to try a little bow. ‘We are the Hidden, do not fear us, we simply remain…a little different perhaps than others you have met. We are an ancient race, both noble and peaceful. Do not judge us until you know us…please.’

‘Now, are you in need of sleep or maybe refreshment of some kind?’ He pounced upon a bag and started to dig around, bobbing up a moment later to offer a hunk of something brown and greasy wrapped in a large leaf. All eyes fell on the offering as Groober held it out, his hand shaking as he saw they weren’t going to take it. ‘Woodcake…it’s made of all the very best things in the forest…it’s very good.’ He bit into it and tried the smile again, which was a mistake.    

‘Er, thank you…but no,’ said Pardigan tearing his eyes away. He untied his bedroll as the others dropped their bags around the fire. ‘I’m going to sleep but I’m sure Loras will stay up and chat with you, and I bet he would like to try woodcake.’

Loras tried to decline but Quint whispered in his ear.  ‘Someone has to stay up and keep an eye on these…people. I’ll relieve you in a turn or two.’ Loras nodded unhappily but waved away the proffered woodcake with an apologetic look. ‘I am not eating that...stuff,’ he whispered. ‘It looks like there might be worms in it! ’

Pardigan lay down and Quint and Tarent began unrolling bedrolls close by. Loras and Mahra both stayed with Groober by the fire as the little man glanced about him nervously. He appeared sad and was pitifully shy, but brightened a little when two other Hidden, supposedly Serik and Char, appeared out of the forest without any warning clutching armloads of roots and fungus. They skirted around the seated figures keeping their eyes downcast, only glancing over timidly as they stored their finds in the back of a wagon. When Groober finally plucked up courage and asked Loras about life outside of Minster, the two other Hidden quietly crept over and all three cuddled up together to listen.

Loras began by telling them of Freya and
Sterling, of the bustling cities made of stone and Sterling’s great colourful Dhurbar caravans. When he told them of The Isle of Skulls with its perpetual storms and the cold solemn Academy, the little Hidden held each other closely. Seeing their reaction he refrained from any mention of demons, skulls or skeletons.

Mahra listened and watched. She wasn’t sure what to make of the Hidden, they were strange creatures, with their toothy grins, greasy dirty hair and dark beady eyes, but the more she observed them, the more she felt they couldn’t be the monsters that legends described. They were behaving like three small children, not three small monsters.

Loras finished his tale, and the three Hidden reluctantly told stories of Minster Island and their people who had lived in hiding since time began. They told of how, many generations ago, the Hidden were charged with the sacred duty of remaining in seclusion, cut off from the outside world, never to mix with the world of man. With pride they told of how their little caravan was the only exception as it travelled around the island.

‘The humans live in
Minster Port and we trade with them for goods from the outside world. We make or grow all the things we really need and don’t crave many things that we can’t produce ourselves, except certain…exceptional items, but those can usually be found in Minster,’ said Char smiling.

At least Mahra
thought
it was a smile.

They explained how they were ruled over by a king and that they would take
The Griffin
’s
crew to meet him. ‘Anyone who comes into the lands of the Hidden has to meet the king,’ said Groober rubbing his hands together happily. ‘You’ll be the first outsiders to meet him since he met Trader Jack many, many years ago.
He
wasn’t scared by the nasty stories of us, and now neither are you.’ He appeared delighted by this.

‘Which stories?’ asked Loras in a worried tone.

‘Oh you know…stories…there are many. They are horrible…horrible. We Hidden are a noble race, we eat only roots and what the forest provides; we don’t eat birds or squirrels or…or…babies and cats!’

Char reached an arm around her friend to comfort him. ‘Just stupid nasty stories to scare little children; they will see the truth of it.’ Groober nodded, then his face lit up and he jammed more greasy woodcake into his mouth, offering some to Loras again. He appeared disappointed when Loras shook his head again.

‘But they don’t believe the stories, do you?’ Bits of brown, half-chewed woodcake dropped from his mouth as he started to giggle. ‘You visit the Hidden, the Hidden will like you.’

‘Oh they will,’ confirmed Serik, pouring some brew for them, he patted Char’s arm.

‘We were told something happened at the Acorn?’ asked Loras.

‘Loras!’ hissed Mahra. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t be talking about that.’

‘No, it’s all right,’ replied Char, ‘we can speak of what happened. Many years ago, Cahlrik our King travelled in with us, posing as a helper on the caravan. He wished to see for himself these people that spoke evil of us. Unfortunately, he didn’t understand the nature of the humans as we do and there was an argument. Cahlrik was ridiculed and insulted, which would have been a terrible crime to any of the Hidden, but to the King it almost meant war. Fortunately we’re not a war like race as I have said, it was just one more cruelty that the Hidden have had to endure.’

They chatted happily for some time until Loras felt a hand on his shoulder and Quint sat down to relieve him.

‘You are keeping a guard?’ said Groober sadly. ‘But you are safe now in the lands of the Hidden, you will find the monsters are all on the other side of the gate.’

Loras undid his bedroll and lay by the fire, as confused as Mahra. The monsters he had been expecting certainly looked the part, but they didn’t act like monsters, far from it. They were shy, intelligent and in a funny way, really rather sweet. As he lay staring up at the stars, it took him a long time to fall asleep while he tried to make sense of his first meeting with the Hidden.

****

Bartholomew Bask beat repeatedly upon the door of his agent’s house. His mood was foul; having had to convince every official he’d met since entering Minsten waters that he should be allowed in, despite the fact that he carried no contract of Trade.

‘It’s been bloody stolen, you imbecile,’ he’d bellowed at the poor fool on the boat that had come out to meet them
.
‘Do you have
any
idea who I am? Are yer deaf, man? Maybe Mr ‘awk here can wash yer ears out so you can hear me better!’ He had cuffed the petty official around the back of the head sending him flying into the spectral figure of Matheus Hawk. The terrified man had taken one look at the hunter’s leering face and scurried back over the side and into his own small craft.

‘I’ll take that as permission to enter the harbour, shall I?’ Bartholomew had bellowed over the side at the retreating boat, his face flustered and red. 

Similar problems had happened on two further occasions before arriving at the small house by the great gate of the island; so at this point, Bartholomew was feeling less than pleasant.

‘
Wakey, wakey
...Yer lazy slob…knock, by the Source,
knock!
’ he barked, pacing outside and glaring up at the windows above. ‘ Shift yer bones and let me in!’

The sounds of a flustered panic were heard from inside and the white sleepy face of the Customs agent peered around the door.

‘Merchant Bask…is…is that truly you?’

‘Yes, it is I,’ Bartholomew peered at the face behind the door trying to remember what his agent looked like. ‘Now are you going to invite me in? Or do I have to push the damn door in?’

The agent shrank back, his face at once pleading and pained. ‘Please, please come in, Merchant Bask. It is indeed an honour to have you visit our humble island and indeed my very humble home.’

He ushered Bartholomew into a small sitting room where Bartholomew plumped down heavily into the only comfortable chair. Peering around with some distaste Bartholomew picked up a small vase from the table by the chair and, appraising its value as very little, set it down again with a bang.

‘I’m searching for a boatload of brats.’ He scowled across at the grimacing official who was still trying to make some sense from this visit.

‘A scruffy lot that stole something from me, got a cat with ’em…have yer seen ’em?’ Bartholomew leant forward.

The agent drew up a chair and offered Bartholomew an oily smile and a plate of biscuits. Bartholomew snatched the plate and started feeding his face with biscuits one after another, still staring at the agent.

‘As it happens, I have seen a boatload of young hooligans who could possibly be the ones you seek, milord; they did have a contract but…now let me see…’

Bartholomew listened as he heard a description of
The Griffin
and its hateful crew and how they were still one step ahead of him. He stuffed biscuits into his mouth, snarling and spitting crumbs, the plate shaking in his hand.

****

The woodland city was incredible. Minster town had been a wonder of tamed nature but the city of the Hidden was nature in harmony with its inhabitants. The city existed inside, beneath and on top of the trees and was very hard to see. When
The Griffin’s
crew first arrived, they had seen the Hidden scurrying amongst the huge trees along dark woodland paths that were touched by little of the sunlight that shone through the canopy of green and gold high above. A mist still clung to the base of the trees and a strong musky smell of decomposing leaves and moss filled the air. It was only when they saw one of the Hidden vanish into a tree, that they realised something was a little different about this particular part of the forest.