As he got closer, the light spilled out onto the leafy forest floor. Twig looked down at his feet, awash with turquoise-green. The music – a swirl of voices and strings – grew louder.
Twig paused. What should he do? He was too frightened to go on. But he couldn't go back. He had to go on.
Chewing on the edge of his scarf, Twig took a step forwards. Then another. And another … The turquoise light washed all over him, so dazzling he had to shield his eyes. The music, loud and sad, filled his ears. Slowly, he lowered his hands and looked around.
Twig was standing in a clearing. Although the turquoise light was bright, it was also misty. Nothing was clear. Shadowy shapes floated before his eyes, crossed one another, and disappeared. The music grew louder still. All at once, a figure stepped out of the mist and stood before him.
It was a woman, short and stocky, with beaded tufts of hair. Twig couldn't see her face.
‘Who are you?’ he asked. And yet, as the music rose to a slushy crescendo, Twig knew the answer to his question. The short stumpy legs, the powerful shoulders and, when she moved her head to one side, the profile of that rubbery nose. Apart from the strange clothes she was wearing, there was no doubt.
‘Mother-Mine,’ said Twig softly.
But Spelda turned away, and began to walk off into the turquoise mist. The unfamiliar blue fur gown she was wearing trailed along the ground behind her.
‘DON'T GO!’ Twig bellowed after her. ‘MOTHER! SPELDA!’
The music grew increasingly frantic. The singing voices became discordant.
‘COME BACK!’ Twig cried, and he sprinted off after her. ‘DON'T LEAVE ME!’
He ran and ran through the dazzling mist. Sometimes he knocked into branches and stumps he hadn't seen, sometimes he tripped and fell sprawling to the ground. Each time, he picked himself up, brushed himself down and set off once more.
Spelda had come looking for him; that much was clear. She must have known I was in trouble, he thought; that I strayed from the path. She's come to take me home after all. I can't lose her now!
Then Twig saw her again. She was standing some way ahead, with her back to him. The music had become soft and gentle, and the voices sang a soothing lullaby. Twig approached the figure, his whole body tingling with expectation. He ran up to her, calling out her name. But Spelda didn't move.
‘Mother,’ Twig cried. ‘It's me.’
Spelda nodded and turned slowly. Twig was shaking from head to toe. Why was she acting so strangely?
The music was low. Spelda was standing in front of Twig, head bowed, and with the hood of the fur gown hanging down over her face. Slowly, she opened her arms to him, to wrap him up in her warm embrace. Twig stepped forwards.
At that moment, Spelda let out a terrible scream and staggered back, flapping wildly at her head. The music became loud again. It beat, urgent and rhythmical, like a pounding heart. She screamed a second time – a savage cry that chilled Twig to the bone – and struck out frantically at the air around her.
‘Mother-Mine!’ Twig cried. ‘What's happening?’
He saw blood trickling down from a gash on her scalp. Another cut appeared on her shoulder, and yet another on her back. The blue gown turned to violet as the blood spread. And still she writhed and screamed and lashed out at her unseen assailant.
Twig stared aghast. He would have helped if he could. But there was nothing – absolutely nothing at all – that he could do. He had never felt so useless in his life.
Suddenly, he saw Spelda clutching at her neck. Blood gushed out between her fingers. She whimpered softly, collapsed, and lay on the ground twitching horribly.
Then she fell still.
‘NOOOOO!’ Twig wailed. He dropped to his knees and shook the body by the shoulders. There was no sign of life. ‘She's dead,’ he sobbed. ‘And it's all my fault. Why?’ he howled. ‘Why? Why? Why?’
Burning tears ran down his face and splashed onto the bloodstained gown as Twig hugged his mother's lifeless body.
‘That's it,’ came a voice from above his head. ‘Let it all out. Wash the lies away.’
Twig looked up. ‘Who's there?’ he said, and wiped his eyes. He saw nothing, no-one. The tears continued to come.
‘It's me, and I'm here,’ said the voice.
Twig stared up at the place the voice was coming from, but still couldn't see anything. He jumped to his feet. ‘Come on, then!’ he screamed, and pulled the knife from his belt. ‘Try having a go at me!’ He stabbed at the air wildly. ‘COME ON!’ he roared. ‘SHOW YOURSELF, YOU COWARD!’
But it was no good. The invisible assassin remained invisible. Revenge would have to wait. Tears of sorrow, of frustration, of rage streamed down Twig's cheeks. He couldn't stop.
Then something strange began to happen. At first Twig thought he was imagining it. But no. Everything around him was slowly changing. The mist thinned, the turquoise light began to dim – even the music faded away. Twig discovered he was still in the forest after all. More alarmingly, as he looked round, he saw what it was that had spoken to him.
‘You!’ Twig gasped. He recognized the creature from the tales that Taghair had told him. It was a caterbird, or rather the caterbird, for each of their number considered themselves to be one and the same. The pain of loss rose in his throat. ‘Why did you do it?’ he blurted out. ‘Why did you kill Spelda? My own mother!’
The great caterbird cocked its head to one side. A shaft of sunlight glinted off the massive horned bill, and a purple eye swivelled round to inspect the boy.
‘It wasn't your mother, Twig,’ it said.
‘But I saw her,’ said Twig. ‘I heard her voice. She said she was my mother. Why would she…’
‘Take a look,’ it said.
‘I…’
‘Look at her fingers. Look at her toes. Pull back her hair and look at her face,’ the caterbird insisted. ‘Then tell me it's your mother.’
Twig returned to the body and crouched down. Already, it looked different. The coat now looked less like an item of clothing, more like real fur. He ran his gaze along the outstretched arm, and realized that no sleeve could ever be so tight fitting. He moved around the body, and suddenly caught sight of a hand: three scaly fingers tipped with orange claws. And the feet were the same. Twig gasped and looked back at the caterbird. ‘But…’
‘The face,’ the bird said firmly. ‘Look at the face, and see what I saved you from.’
With trembling fingers, Twig reached forwards and pulled back the crumpled fur. He yelped with horror. Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw.
Taut scaly skin, like brown oilpaper wrapped around a skull; bulging yellow eyes, glaring blindly back at him; and the mouth with its rows of hooked teeth, contorted by rage and pain.
‘What is it?’ he asked quietly. ‘The gloamglozer?’
‘Oh, no, not the gloamglozer,’ replied the bird. ‘There are some who call it a skullpelt,’ it said. ‘A hunter of dreamers who lose their way in the lullabee groves.’
Twig looked up. There were lullabee trees all around, humming softly in the dappled light. He touched the scarf round his neck.
‘When among the lullabee trees,’ the bird went on, ‘you see only what the trees want you to see – until it is too late. It was lucky for you that I hatched when I did.’
Above the caterbird a giant cocoon dangled like a discarded sock.
‘You hatched from that?’ said Twig.
‘Naturally,’ said the caterbird. ‘Where else? Aah, little one, you have so much to learn. Taghair was right.’
‘You know Taghair?’ Twig gasped. ‘But I don't understand.’
The caterbird tutted impatiently. ‘Taghair sleeps in our cocoons and dreams our dreams,’ it explained. ‘Yes, I know Taghair, as I know all other caterbirds. We share the same dreams.’
‘I wish Taghair was here now,’ said Twig sadly. ‘He'd know what I ought to do.’ His head was throbbing from the hum of the trees. ‘I'm useless,’ he sighed. ‘A mi
serable excuse for a woodtroll. I strayed from the path. I'm lost for ever and I've nobody to blame but myself. I wish that … that the skullpelt had torn me limb from limb. At least that would have been an end to it!’
‘Now, now,’ said the caterbird gently, and hopped down beside him. ‘You know what Taghair would say, don't you?’
‘I don't know anything,’ Twig wailed. ‘I'm a failure.’
‘He would say,’ the caterbird went on, ‘if you stray from the well-trodden path, then tread your own path for others to follow. Your destiny lies beyond the Deepwoods.’
‘Beyond the Deepwoods?’ Twig looked up into the caterbird's purple eyes. ‘But there is no beyond to the Deepwoods. The Deepwoods go on for ever and ever. There is up and there is down. The sky is up and the woods are down, and that is that. Every woodtroll knows that this is so.’
‘Every woodtroll sticks to the path,’ said the caterbird softly. ‘Maybe there is no beyond for a woodtroll. But there is for you.’
Suddenly, with a loud clap of its jet-black wings, the caterbird leaped from the branch and soared up into the air.
‘STOP!’ Twig yelled. But it was already too late. The great caterbird was flapping away over the trees. Twig stared miserably ahead of him. He wanted to shout, he wanted to scream, but the fear of attracting the attention of one of the fiercer Deepwoods’ creatures kept his mouth clamped firmly shut.
‘You were at my hatching and I shall watch over you always,’ came the caterbird's distant call. ‘When you truly need me, I shall be there.’
‘I truly need you now,’ Twig muttered sulkily.
He kicked the dead skullpelt. It gave a long, low groan. Or was it just the sound of the lullabee trees? Twig didn't wait to find out. He left the lullabee grove and ran headlong off into the endless, pathless depths of the dark and sombre Deepwoods.
The forest was dark with night once more when Twig stopped running. He stood, hands on hips and head bowed, gasping for breath. ‘I ca … can't go another st … step,’ he panted. ‘I just can't.’
There was nothing else for it. Twig would have to find a safe place to spend the night. The tree nearest to him had a massive trunk and a thick covering of broad green leaves which would protect him if the weather worsened. More importantly, it looked harmless. Twig collected together a pile of dry fallen leaves and pushed them into a dip between the roots of the tree. Then he crawled onto his makeshift mattress in his makeshift cot, curled himself into a ball and closed his eyes.
All around him the night sounds whined, wailed and screamed. Twig folded his arm over his head to cut out the unnerving din. ‘You'll be all right,’ he said to himself. ‘The caterbird promised to watch over you.’
And with that he drifted off to sleep, unaware that at that moment, the caterbird was otherwise engaged with a family of bushnymphs, many many miles away.
· CHAPTER FIVE ·
THE BLOODOAK
At first it was just a tickle, which Twig swatted away in his sleep. He smacked his lips drowsily and rolled over onto his side. Nestling in his cot of leaves beneath the ancient spreading tree, Twig looked so young and small and vulnerable.
A long, thin squirmy creature it was doing the tickling. As Twig's breathing grew more regular once again, it wriggled around in mid-air directly in front of his face. It flexed and writhed in the warm air each time Twig breathed out. All at once, it darted forwards and began probing the skin around the boy's mouth.
Twig grumbled sleepily, and his hand brushed at his lips. The squirmy creature dodged the slender fingers, and scurried up into the dark tunnel of warmth above.
Twig sat bolt upright, instantly wide awake. His heart pounded. There was something up his left nostril!
He grabbed his nose and squeezed it till his eyes watered. Abruptly, the whatever-it-was scraped down over the soft membrane inside his nose, and was out. Twig winced, and his eyes screwed shut with pain. His heart pounded all the more furiously. What was there? What could it possibly be? Fear and hunger wrestled with one another in the pit of Twig's stomach.
Scarcely daring to look, Twig peered out through the crack in one eye. Catching sight of a flash of emerald-green, Twig feared the worst, and scuttled back on his hands and feet. The next moment, he slipped, his legs shot out in front of him and he came crashing down on his elbows. He stared back into the gloomy half-light of the new morning. The wriggly green creature had not moved.
‘I'm being silly,’ Twig muttered. ‘It's just a caterpillar.’
Leaning back, he squinted up into the dark canopy. Behind black leaves, the sky had turned from brown to red. The air was warm, but the backs of his legs were damp with the early morning moisture of the Deepwoods. It was time to make a move.
Twig climbed to his feet and was brushing the twigs and leaves out of the hammelhornskin waistcoat when – WHOOOOSH – the air hissed with a sound like a lashing whip. Twig gasped, and stared in frozen horror as the emerald green caterpillar lunged at him and flew round his outstretched wrist once, twice, three times.
‘Aaaargh!’ he screamed as sharp thorns dug into his skin – and he cursed himself for letting his guard slip.
For the wriggly green creature wasn't a caterpillar at all. It was a creeper, a tendril, the emerald tip of a long and viciously barbed vine that writhed and swayed through the shadowy forest like a serpent, seeking out warm-blooded prey. Twig had been lassoed by the terrible tarry vine.
‘Let me go!’ he cried, tugging frantically at the stout vine. ‘LET ME GO!’
As he pulled, so the claw-like thorns punctured his skin and sank deep into the softness of his inner arm. Twig yelped with pain and watched, terrified, as tiny crimson beads of blood grew and burst and trickled down over his hand.
A thick, sickly wind stirred his hair and ruffled the fur of his hammelhornskin waistcoat. It carried the scent of his blood into the shadows. From out of the darkness came the soft clattering noise of a thousand razor-sharp teeth gnashing impatiently. Then the wind changed, and Twig gagged on the metallic stench of death.
He scratched and scraped at the vine. He bit into it, only to spit out the vile bitterness a moment later. He pulled, he prised, he tugged and tore at the vine, but it was too tough. He couldn't break its ferocious grip. He could not get free.
Suddenly the vine gave a tremendous yank, and Twig was wrenched forwards.
‘Mfffllbluchh!’ he spluttered as he landed with a thud on the forest floor, and his mouth was filled with the rich brown loamy soil. It tasted of … of tildermeat sausages. But rancid, sour. He retched emptily and spat again. ‘Stop!’ Twig screamed.
But the tarry vine paid him no heed. Over rocks and tree stumps, it dragged its victim; through wood-nettles and tripweed. Bumping, banging, crashing.
Twig knew, however, that no matter how badly he was knocked and battered and stung, the worst was still to come. Passing a combbush, he clutched desperately at a branch and clung on for dear life. Where was the caterbird now that he needed him?
For a moment the vine snagged on some roots. A squeal of sudden fury echoed from the shadows, and the tarry vine sent a wave of whiplash rippling along its length. Twig gripped as tightly as he could onto the branches, but the vine was too strong. The bush sprang out of the ground, roots and all, and Twig found himself being bumped over the forest floor faster than ever.
Below him now were hard, white, knobbly objects which dug into him as the tarry vine dragged him on. The further he went, the more there were. Twig gasped with sudden terror. They were bones: thigh bones, backbones, ribs and empty grinning skulls.
‘No, NO, NO!’ Twig screamed. But the air was dead, and his cries were snuffed out by the blood-red light.
Jerking his head round, Twig peered into the shadows in front of him. He saw a tree trunk, thick and rubbery, that grew out of the white mound where the bones lay thickest.
It pulsed and squealed; it glistened with sticky saliva which oozed from countless gaping suckers. From high above him, where the
branches divided, Twig heard the gnashing of a thousand mandible-like teeth, as each one opened and shut noisily, greedily – louder, and louder and LOUDER! It was the sound of the terrible flesh-eating bloodoak.
‘My knife,’ thought Twig feverishly as the clattering grew faster, the stench fouler, the squealing increasingly agitated.
He fumbled around on his belt feverishly and gripped the smooth handle of his naming knife. Then, with one swift movement, he pulled it from its sheath, swung his arm over his head and brought the blade down with all his strength.
There was a sound of soggy splintering, and a spurt of glistening green slime squirted into his face. Yet, as his arm suddenly jerked back, Twig knew he'd done it. He wiped the slime from his eyes.
Yes! There it was, the vine, swaying hypnotically to and fro above him. Back and forwards it went, back and forwards, to and fro. Twig was rooted to the spot. He watched, transfixed, as the severed end stopped dripping and the liquid congealed to form a knobbly green blob at the end of the vine, the size of his fist.
Abruptly, the rubbery skin split, the blob burst open and, with a rasping slurp, a long tentacle tipped with emerald-green sprang out. It sensed the air and quivered.
Then a second tentacle appeared, and a third. Twig stared, unable to move. Where one vine had been, now there were three. They reared up, ready to strike and – S-S-S-SWOOOOOSH – all three of them lunged.
Twig screamed with pain and terror as the tentacles lashed themselves tightly round his ankles. Then, before he could do anything about it, the tarry vine tugged his feet out from under him and hoisted him, upside down, high up into the air.
The whole forest blurred before Twig's eyes as the blood rushed to his head. It was all he could do to keep hold of the knife. Wriggling and squirming and grunting with effort, he heaved himself up, clung hold of the vine, and began jabbing and stabbing.
‘FOR SKY'S SAKE, LET ME GO!’ he cried.