‘That was close!’ Twig said, and sighed with relief. He wiped the sweat from his brow. ‘Too close!’
The moon had turned milky, and the shadows had deepened. As Twig wandered miserably on, the gloom clung to him like a damp blanket. The halitoad might be gone but that was the least of his worries. The fact remained that he had strayed from the path. Now, he was lost.
Often Twig stumbled, sometimes he fell. His hair became wet with sweat, though his bones were chilled to the marrow. He didn't know where he was going, he didn't know where he'd been; he hoped he wasn't simply going round in circles. He was also tired, yet each time he paused to rest a growl or snarl or a ferocious roar would set him trotting off again.
At last, unable to go any farther, Twig stopped. He sank to his knees and lifted his head to the sky.
‘Oh, Gloamglozer!’ he cursed. ‘Gloamglozer! Gloamglozer!’ His voice rang out in the frosty night air. ‘Please. Please. Please,’ he cried. ‘Let me find the path again. If only I hadn't left the path! Help me! Help me! Help…’
‘HELP!’
The cry of distress cut through the air like a knife. Twig jumped to his feet and looked round.
‘HELP ME!’ It wasn't an echo.
The voice was coming from Twig's left. Instinctively, he ran to see what he could do. The next moment he stopped again. What if it was a trap? He remembered Tuntum's bloodcurdling tales of woodtrolls who had been lured to their death by the false calls of the daggerslash, a monstrous creature with forty razor-sharp claws. It looked like a fallen log – until you stepped on it. Then its paws would snap shut, and so they would remain until the body of the victim had started to decay. For the daggerslash ate only carrion.
‘For pity's sake, help me, someone,’ came the voice again, but weaker now.
Twig could not ignore the desperate plea a moment longer. He drew his knife – just in case – and set off towards the voice. He hadn't gone more than twenty paces when he tripped over something sticking out from the bottom of a humming combbush.
‘Ouch!’ cried the voice.
Twig spun round. He'd tripped on a pair of legs. Their owner sat up and glared at him angrily.
‘You oaf!’ he exclaimed.
‘I'm sorry, I…’ Twig began.
‘And don't stare,’ he interrupted. ‘It's very rude.’
‘I'm sorry, I…’ Twig said again. It was true; he was staring. A shaft of moonlight was shining down through the forest onto a boy, and the sight of his red-raw face, crimson hair waxed into flame-like points, and necklaces of animal teeth, had startled Twig. ‘You're a slaughterer, aren't you?’ he said.
With their bloodied appearance, the slaughterers looked – and sounded – ferocious. It was said that the generations of spilt blood had seeped through their pores and down into the follicles of their hair. Yet, although their business was indeed the butchery of the tilder they hunted and the hammelhorns they reared, the slaughterers were a peaceable folk.
Nevertheless, Twig could not hide his revulsion. Apart from the occasional Deepwood traveller, the slaughterers were the woodtrolls’ nearest neighbours. They traded together – carved wooden items and basketware, for meat and leather goods. However, the woodtrolls, like everyone else in the Deepwoods, despised the slaughterers. They were, as Spelda put it, the bottom of the pot. No-one wanted to associate with the folk who had blood, not only on their hands, but all over their bodies.
‘Well?’ said Twig. ‘Are you a slaughterer?’
‘What if I am?’ said the boy defensively.
‘Nothing, I…’ Lost in the Deepwoods, you couldn't afford to be too choosy about your companions. ‘I'm Twig,’ he said.
The boy touched his forehead lightly and nodded. ‘My name's Gristle,’ he said. ‘Please take me back to my village. I can't walk. Look,’ he said, and pointed to his right foot.
Twig saw the six or seven angry purple marks at the back of his heel. Already the whole foot had swollen to twice its normal size. Even as Twig watched, the swelling spread up his leg.
‘What's happening?’ gasped Twig.
‘It's … it's…’
Twig realized the boy was staring at something behind him. He heard something hiss, and spun round. And there, hovering just above the ground, was the vilest creature Twig had ever seen.
It was long and lumpy, with luminous slime-green skin that glistened moistly in the milky moonlight. Along the length of its body were bulging yellow spots that oozed a clear liquid. Wriggling and squirming, the creature fixed Twig with its huge cold eyes.
‘What is it?’ he whispered to Gristle.
‘A hover worm,’ came the reply. ‘Whatever you do, don't let it get you.’
‘No chance,’ said Twig bravely, and reached for his knife. It wasn't there. ‘My knife,’ he cried. ‘My naming knife. I…’ And then Twig remembered. He had been carrying it when he tripped over Gristle's legs. It must be on the ground somewhere.
Twig stared ahead, too terrified to take his eyes off the hover worm for so much as a second. The creature continued to writhe. The hissing sound was coming not from its mouth, but from rows of ducts along its underbelly. These expelled the air which kept the worm hovering aloft.
It moved nearer, and Twig found himself staring at the creature's mouth. It had rubbery lips and floppy feelers, and gulped constantly at the air. Suddenly the lips parted.
Twig gasped. The hover worm's mouth was full of tentacles, each one with a dripping sucker at the end. As the jaws widened, the tentacles sprang out and wriggled like maggots.
‘The knife,’ Twig muttered to Gristle. ‘Find my knife.’
He heard Gristle rummaging through the dry leaves. ‘I'm trying,’ he said. ‘I can't … Yes,’ he cried. ‘I've got it!’
‘Quick!’ said Twig desperately. The hover worm was quivering, ready to attack. He reached behind his back for the knife. ‘Hurry UP!’
‘Here!’ said Gristle, and Twig felt the familiar bone handle in his palm. He closed his hand around it, and gritted his teeth.
The hover worm swayed in the air, backwards and forwards, and trembling all the while. Twig waited. Then suddenly, and with no warning, the hover worm struck. It flew at Twig's neck, mouth agape and tentacles taut. It stank of rancid grease.
Terrified, Twig leapt back. The hover worm abruptly switched direction in mid-air and came at him from the other side. Twig ducked.
The creature shot over his head, hissed to a halt, coiled itself round, and attacked again.
This time it came from the front – just as Twig had hoped. As the creature's tentacles were about to suction themselves onto his exposed neck, Twig twisted round and lunged forwards. The knife plunged into the soft underbelly of the worm, and ripped along the row of air ducts.
The effect was instant. Like a balloon that has been inflated and released, the creature spun wildly through the air with a loud thpthpthpthppppp. Then it exploded, and a mass of small, slimy scraps of yellow and green skin fluttered down to the ground.
‘YEAH!’ Twig roared and punched the air. ‘I've actually been and gone and done it! The hover worm is dead.’
As he spoke, dragon's smoke billowed from his mouth. The night had become bitter with an icy north wind. Yet Twig was not cold. Far from it. A glow of pride and excitement warmed his whole body.
‘Hel’ me,’ came a voice from behind him. It sounded strange – as though Gristle was talking while eating.
‘It's OK,’ said Twig as he pulled himself to his feet. I … GRISTLE!’ he screamed.
The slaughterer was all but unrecognizable. Before Twig's battle with the hover worm, Gristle's leg had been swollen. Now his entire body had swelled up. He looked like a huge dark red ball.
‘Ta’ me home,’ he mumbled unhappily.
‘But I don't know where your home is,’ said Twig.
‘I'll ta’ you,’ said Gristle. ‘Lif’ me u’. I'll give you birectio's.’
Twig bent down and gathered the slaughterer up in his arms.
He was surprisingly light.
Twig started walking. ‘Le’,’ said Gristle a while later, followed by, ‘Le’ agai’. Ri’. Strai’ o’.’ As Gristle continued to swell, even the simplest words became impossible. In the end, he had to press his podgy hands against Twig's shoulders to indicate which way to go.
If Twig had been going in circles before, he certainly wasn't now. He was being steered towards somewhere new.
‘WOBBLOB!’ Gristle shouted. ‘BLOBBERWOBBER!’
‘What?’ said Twig sharply. But, even as he spoke, he realized what was happening. Gristle's body, which had been light when he'd picked it up, was now less than weightless. The massive, bulging mass was on the point of floating up and away.
He tried his best to hold on round Gristle's waist – at least, the place where his waist had once been – but it was impossible. It was like holding a sackful of water; the difference being that this particular sack was trying to fall upwards. If he let go, Gristle would disappear into the sky.
Twig wiped the sweat from his brow. Then he wedged the inflated boy between two branches, taking care to choose a tree without thorns. He didn't want Gristle to burst. He pulled the rope Spelda had given him from his shoulder, tied one end to Gristle's leg, and the other round his own waist – and set off once more.
It wasn't long before Twig was in difficulty again. With each step, the upward pull grew stronger. It became more and more difficult to remain on the ground. He clutched hold of the branches of bushes he passed, to keep himself anchored. But it was no good. The slaughterer was simply too buoyant.
All at once, Twig's legs were dragged off the ground, his hands lost their grip on the branches, and he and Gristle floated up into the air.
Up and up, they went, into the icy night and towards open sky. Twig tore in vain at the knotted rope around his waist. It wouldn't budge. He stared down at the fast receding ground and, as he did so, something occurred to him – something awful.
Gristle would be missed. His family and friends would come looking for him when he didn't return. Twig, on the other hand, had done what woodtrolls never did. He had strayed from the path. No-one would come looking for him.
· CHAPTER THREE ·
THE SLAUGHTERERS
As Twig continued to rise up through the cold, dark air, the rope dug painfully into the bottom of his ribs. He gasped for breath and, as he did so, a curious whiff of acrid smoke filled his head. It was a mixture of wood smoke, leather and a pungent smell that Twig couldn't identify. Above him, Gristle grunted urgently.
‘Are we near your village?’ Twig asked.
Gristle grunted again, more insistently this time. Suddenly, between the leaves, Twig caught sight of flickering flames and blood-red smoke. There was a fire, not twenty paces away.
‘Help!’ Twig bellowed. ‘HELP US!’
Almost at once, the ground below him was swarming with the blood-red slaughterers, each carrying a flaming torch.
‘UP HERE!’ Twig shrieked.
The slaughterers raised their heads. One of them pointed. Then, without a word being spoken, they slipped into action. Calm and methodical, they removed ropes which had been hanging round their shoulders, and made slipknots at one end. Then, with the same unhurried sense of purpose, they began tossing the makeshift lassos up into the air.
Twig moaned as the ropes tumbled back through the air beneath him. He spread his legs wide and held his feet out, hooked and rigid. The slaughterers tried again, but with Gristle pulling him still higher, their task was getting more difficult by the second.
‘Come on,’ Twig muttered impatiently, as the slaughterers tried again and again to lasso one of his feet. Above him, he heard muffled cries as Gristle's inflated body crashed through the uppermost branches. The next instant, Twig's own head plunged into the dense green canopy. The bruised leaves gave off a lush earthy smell.
What will it look like? Twig found himself wondering. Above the Deepwoods. In the realm of the sky pirates.
Before he had a chance to find out, he felt something land on his hooked foot and tighten around his ankle. One of the slaughterers’ ropes had found its target at last. There was a strong tug on his leg, then another and another. The leaves slapped back into his face, and the earthy smell grew stronger.
All at once, he saw the ground way down below him – and his foot with the loop of rope around his ankle. Twenty or so of the slaughterers had a hold of the other end. Slowly, jerkily, they were pulling the rope in.
When Twig's feet finally touched the ground, the slaughterers immediately turned their attention to Gristle. Working in utter silence, they slipped their ropes around his arms and legs, and took the strain. Then, one of them pulled out his knife and sliced through the rope which was still tied round Twig's chest. And Twig was free. He bent double and breathed in deeply, gratefully.
‘Thank you,’ he wheezed. ‘I don't think I could have lasted much longer. I…’ He looked up. With the immense bulk of Gristle tethered above them, the whole group of slaughterers was trotting back to the village. Twig had been left on his own. What was more, it was beginning to snow.
‘Thanks a lot,’ he snorted.
‘They're worried, is all,’ came a voice from behind him. Twig looked round. A slaughterer girl was standing there, her face lit up by the flickering light of her flaming torch. She touched her forehead, and smiled. Twig smiled back.
‘I'm Sinew,’ she said. ‘Gristle's my brother. He's been missing for three nights.’
‘Do you think he'll be all right?’ asked Twig.
‘As long as they get an antidote inside him before he explodes,’ she said.
‘Explodes!’ cried Twig, trying not to imagine what would have happened if they had soared up into the sky.
Sinew nodded. ‘The venom turns to hot air. And there's only so much hot air a person can take,’ she added grimly. Behind her, came the sound of a gong being banged. ‘Come,’ she said. ‘You look hungry. Lunch is about to be served.’
‘Lunch?’ said Twig. ‘But it's the middle of the night.’
‘Of course,’ said Sinew, puzzled. ‘I suppose you eat lunch in the middle of the day,’ she said, and laughed.
‘Well, yes,’ said Twig. ‘Actually, we do.’
Sinew shook her head. ‘You're strange!’ she said.
‘No,’ Twig chuckled as he followed her through the trees. ‘I'm Twig!’
As the village opened up in front of him, Twig stopped and stared. It was all so very different from his own village. The slaughterers lived in squat huts, rather than tree cabins. And whereas the woodtroll cabins were all tiled with lufwood for buoyancy, the slaughterers had constructed their huts with dense leadwood which anchored them firmly to the ground. There were no doors to their dwellings, only thick hammelhornskin curtains, designed to keep out draughts, not neighbours.
Sinew led Twig towards the fire he had first glimpsed through the overhead branches. It was huge and hot, burning on a raised circular stone platform in the very centre of the village. Twig looked behind him in amazement. Although, beyond the village, the snow was falling thicker than ever, none fell inside. The dome of warmth from the blazing fire was so intense that it melted the snow away to nothing before it could ever land.
Four long trestle tables, set for lunch, formed a square around the fire. ‘Sit anywhere,’ said Sinew, as she plonked herself down.
Twig sat beside her and stared ahead at the roaring flames. Although the fire was burning fiercely, each and every log remained on the ground.
‘What are you thinking?’ he heard Sinew say.
Twig sighed. ‘Where I come from,’ he said, ‘we burn buoyant wood – lufwood, lullabee, you know. It's all right, but you have to use a stove. I've … I've never seen a fire outside like this.’
Sinew looked concerned. ‘Would you rather go in?’
‘No!’ said Twig. ‘That's not what I meant. This is nice. At home – well, where I was brought up – everyone disappears inside their cabins
when it's cold. It can be very lonely when the weather's bad.’ Twig didn't add that it was pretty lonely for him the rest of the time, too.
By now all the benches were full and, at the far end, the first course was already being served. As a delicious fragrance wafted across, Twig realized just how hungry he was.
‘I recognize that smell,’ he said. ‘What is it?’
‘Tilder sausage soup, I think,’ said Sinew.
Twig smiled to himself. Of course. The soup was a delicacy the grown-up woodtrolls got to eat on Wodgiss Night. Every year he'd wondered what it tasted like. Now he was about to find out.
‘Move your elbow, love,’ came a voice from behind him. Twig looked round. An old woman was standing there with a ladle in her right hand, and a round pot in her left. When she saw Twig, she drew back sharply, her smile disappeared and she gave a little shriek. ‘A ghost!’ she gasped.
‘It's all right, Gram-Tatum,’ said Sinew, leaning over. ‘This is Twig. He's from Outside. It's him we have to thank for saving Gristle's life.’
The old woman stared at Twig. ‘It was you who brought Gristle back to us?’ she said.
Twig nodded. The old woman touched her forehead and bowed. ‘Welcome,’ she said. Then she lifted both her arms high in the air and beat the soup-pot loudly with the ladle. ‘Hush up!’ she cried. She climbed onto the bench and looked at the square of expectant faces. ‘We have in our midst a brave young man by the name of Twig. He rescued our Gristle and brought him back to us. I want you all to raise your glasses and bid him welcome.’
All round the table, the slaughterers – young and old – stood up, touched their foreheads, raised their glasses and cried out, ‘Welcome, Twig!’