Dark Waters of Hagwood Read online

  The rabbit had been looking around them, and to his dismay he saw that the other graves were now waking, roused by the presence of the golden key.

  Grimditch’s jubilation at the reemergence of the werlings quickly turned to panic and distress, and he hastily pulled up his ragged breeches.

  The grass that covered the mounds was moving as though an army of serpents was slithering through it, and the three travelers knew that under the surface of the soil the roots of the trees were stretching toward them.

  “We’d best run,” Yoori said, quickly shrugging off the rabbit shape. “While we still can.”

  The others needed no persuading and they sprang away.

  Suddenly the earth exploded. Great branching roots punched from the ground and thrashed the air like whips.

  Grimditch squealed and covered his face, not knowing which way to dart. A knobbled, lashing stem cracked him on the shoulder, and he howled even louder.

  “Keep down, you stupid bogle!” Yoori yelled at him. “And watch where you’re going. This way.”

  Through the valleys between the burial mounds they hurried, dodging and ducking the flailing roots.

  Holding tight to Yoori’s hand, Gamaliel was barely aware of their treacherous path through the frenzy of those savage roots. The horror of his time in the mound was still too fresh. The brooch he had taken was now a piece of broken twig on his jerkin, and he ripped it off in disgust.

  Every malevolent force was bent upon him and the wergle pouch he carried. Without warning, roots would thrust up through the grass close by and flick across to seize him, but every time Yoori was there to pull the boy clear.

  On they went until at last they saw the end of the burial site was just a small distance away.

  “This is it!” Yoori yelled. “The final dash.”

  Only two large graves lay between them and the end of their ordeal, and they rushed forward, leaping from side to side as the last of the fearsome roots beat the air.

  “We did it!” Gamaliel cried when the roots were left behind.

  Grimditch whooped with relief; only Mr. Mattock was silent. They were still not quite clear of the burial mounds that reared up on either side. A few more strides would see them safe, and then he would rejoice.

  And then it happened.

  With a mighty roar, the slopes on both sides ruptured and split. An avalanche of soil and stones gushed out, sweeping along the age-blackened bones of the elfin dead in a violent landslide.

  Onto the path the gruesome rubble spilled and surged, blocking it utterly. Projecting from that sudden wall were splintered ribs and massive shinbones, a shoulder blade jutted out like a huge stone fin, and, here and there, still glued to those hideous fragments, were tattered threads of moldy cloth. Gamaliel wailed when he saw an immense skull leering down at him.

  He was so afraid that he almost fled back the way they had come—straight into the midst of the flailing tree roots.

  It was Grimditch who stopped him.

  “No no no!” he jabbered. “You must climb. Up over grisly scree, up then down and we escape the terrors of lordly boneyard.”

  The boy stared up at the skull’s blank eyes—they were filled with dirt—and he turned away hastily, looking to Yoori to see what they should do.

  But Yoori Mattock was lying on the ground. A great rock had hit his head, and his whiskers were stained with blood.

  “Mr. Mattock!” Gamaliel cried. “Mr. Mattock, get up!”

  The elder did not move. Gamaliel knelt at his side and touched his forehead. It was already growing cold.

  Grimditch sucked the air through his teeth. “Wake him,” he urged. “Slap his chops. Be quick, be quick!”

  “I can’t,” Gamaliel said in a hollow, desolate voice. “He’s dead.”

  CHAPTER 12 *

  TO THE CRONE'S MAW

  GRIMDITCH STUMBLED BACKWARD AND SAT down with a bump.

  “The old skin swapper is slain?” he sniveled. “Deaded? Proper killed?”

  Gamaliel could only nod in answer. He had never imagined anything could happen to Yoori Mattock.

  What was he to do? He was too stunned to take it in.

  All the malice and the horror of the elfin graves were forgotten, and the young werling boy shook his head slowly.

  “Mr. Mattock,” he called softly. “Yoori.” And he closed his eyes to blot out the awful sight.

  Grimditch’s matted beard was dripping with tears, and his bogle’s heart felt a loss as great as when the farmer and his wife were killed all those years ago.

  But they could delay no longer.

  The evil forces dwelling in that place had not been placated—they still ached for the golden key in Gamaliel’s wergle pouch. The roots of the trees that had tried to catch them withdrew back into the ground, and a hush more ominous and menacing than their frenzied clamor descended.

  The hackles rose on the barn bogle’s neck, and then the sound of ripping turf and crashing soil broke into his grief.

  Fearfully, he turned to see that the other mounds were splitting open, but his rolling eyes could not believe what happened next.

  Rising from the rubble were shapes—horrific figures of death. From the disgorged earth they freed themselves, skeletal hands clawing away the clods and clay of the tomb as they stole forward.

  Grimditch jumped up and hopped in front of Gamaliel so that the boy should not see.

  “Must go! Must go!” he cried. “Quick, quick!”

  Gamaliel looked up at him as one in a dream. “How can I?” he asked.

  The bogle’s eyes rolled more feverishly than usual. Behind the boy a breath of stale tomb air was blowing across the high wall of rubble. The tattered cloth that clung to the bones fluttered, and the barn bogle thought he saw one of the exposed ribs tremble and quiver.

  “You must!” Grimditch insisted in a shrill voice. And he hauled Gamaliel to his feet. “Do not forget your other friends; to cave and grot we must race—before candle sprite gnashes them to mince and breakfast dainties.”

  “But Mr. Mattock!” the werling protested. “I’m not leaving him here in this foul place!”

  The bogle tore at his beard and danced up and down. The advancing horrors were surely closing upon them. Grimditch was beside himself with despair at the sight of those terrifying figures, but Gamaliel had not seen them yet.

  Seizing hold of Gamaliel’s jerkin, Grimditch spun him around and pushed him toward the mound of rubble that blocked the way.

  “Climb!” he squealed. “Up and up, do not look back, not never. Use your eyes for finding sure footing. Go! Grimditch will carry the old one. He no lie in haunted hated spot.”

  Gamaliel did as the bogle bid him. Scrambling up the slope, he avoided the elfin bones embedded in the dirt and, by refusing to even look at them, did not see the slight movements the ancient remains were making.

  Grimditch, however, was fully aware of everything. Glancing back, he saw a crowd of the most hideous-looking nightmares imaginable stalking purposefully toward them.

  Yelping in fright, he picked up Yoori Mattock’s body, put it over his shoulder, then hastened up the mound after Gamaliel.

  From the soil beneath his feet, a bony finger came scratching, followed by another then another until an entire hand was free and it swiped at the barn bogle as he lumbered by.

  Grimditch gibbered, kicked out in a panic, and hurried upward even faster.

  His heart aching, Gamaliel trudged higher—he was almost at the top now and would soon be running down the other side and into the forest beyond, leaving this terrible fear-filled place far behind.

  The skull he had glimpsed from the ground was lodged in the summit of the rubble, and every clambering step brought him closer. The boy knew that he would have to draw uncomfortably near to it in order to escape. He felt sick with horror at the prospect, but he screwed up his face and stared fixedly at the dark expanse of trees that came into view as he reached the top of the ridge.

  He did not no
tice the impacted clay dislodge itself from the skull’s eye sockets and go tumbling down the slope for Grimditch to squeal at and hop over.

  Standing upon the crest of that high bank of grave earth, Gamaliel heaved an enormous sigh of anguish and relief. Hagwood stretched before him, quietly awaiting the dawn. In the distance, rearing above the forest roof, he saw the seven tall pines that grew on the great crag of the Witch’s Leap. That was where Grimditch had told them the entrance to the underground caverns lay. It did not look too much farther; they would reach it sometime after sunrise.

  And then what, Tumpin? he asked himself. Go down to face that candle sprite monster on your own? There’s no one to help you now. You’re probably too late anyway.

  He closed his eyes and tried to summon what meager strength and resolve remained to him.

  As he searched and struggled within himself, he did not see the blackened skull nearby twist upon its spine to glare at him; and if he had chanced to turn around, he would have seen the spectral dwellers of the other mounds come prowling close. Their grotesque faces were blank masks of death, and they stole toward the unsuspecting werling with open jaws and outstretched arms.

  Suddenly there was a fierce crack, and Gamaliel saw the skull go tumbling down the slope. But he did not have time to wonder at it for, an instant later, he felt a thrust in his back, lost his balance, and was pushed over the edge.

  Too surprised to cry out, he went rolling down the other side of the rubble and came to rest in the grass below.

  Standing on the ridge in his place, with Yoori’s body slung over one shoulder, Grimditch shrugged apologetically. There had been no time to explain—the wall of earth was becoming perilous. The skull had pushed itself forward and was about to snap at the boy, so the bogle had rushed at it and butted it with his head. Then, he had given Gamaliel a great shove over the edge.

  Rubbing his forehead, the hairy bogle wasted no more time. Down the wall of rubble he scampered, just as skeletal hands came grasping for him.

  Agile as a goat, he bounded down, and even when he reached the bottom, he continued running, scooting past Gamaliel and dashing into the trees across the path.

  “Hurry, hurry!” he called back. “Don’t lag, don’t lag!”

  Sitting in the grass, slightly winded from his fall, Gamaliel watched the barn bogle disappear into the forest.

  “Wait!” he shouted. But Grimditch had no intention of doing anything of the kind, and so the boy lumbered to his feet and hurried after him.

  He never saw the terrifying figures climb on the heap of tomb soil behind him. Silhouetted starkly against the sky, they stared and raised their arms. The enchanted gold the werling carried had escaped them. They could feel its delicious presence moving away, beyond the borders of their burial site and out of their influence. For a while the hideous cadavers remained where they stood, with bowed and crooked legs, then a cold breath of wind swirled through their bones, summoning them back. In melancholy silence they returned to their mounds and crept once more into the chill soil of their sleeping.

  WHEN GAMALIEL CAUGHT UP WITH Grimditch, the barn bogle was slumped against a mossy rock and panting for breath. He had laid Yoori Mattock’s body beside him, and when the young werling came running up, it looked as if the leader of the werling council were merely sleeping.

  “Why … why did you run so far?” the boy asked, catching his own breath. “I almost lost you back there.”

  Grimditch peered behind him and gave the air a cautious sniff. When he was certain they had not been followed, he flopped back again and covered his face with his hands.

  “Me no like that place,” was his mumbled reply.

  Gamaliel knelt at Yoori’s side and whispered, “That’s what he said. I should’ve listened. This is my fault.”

  The barn bogle peeped at him through his fingers. “No no no no no,” he protested. “Boneyard had to be crossed. No short way ’round. You must reach the Crone’s Maw. Not far now.”

  “But it’s all so useless,” the boy said. “How can I go down there on my own and what are we to do with Mr. Mattock?”

  Grimditch reached out a hairy hand and gripped the boy’s shoulder.

  “Old one must be left here,” he told him. “Can’t take him to grots, not to where the slobbery, slithery sluglungs live. You not save your friends lugging the dead with you.”

  “Leave him here?” Gamaliel repeated in disbelief. “I can’t leave him here, in the middle of nowhere. He must be taken back, back to the Silent Grove and be given to the beeches.”

  The barn bogle scowled. “So you leave others to candle sprite then?” he asked.

  “No, I can’t do that, either,” Gamaliel cried. “I mean …”

  He looked up into the bogle’s eyes. They were not rolling but focused squarely upon him, and he knew what he had to do.

  “I can’t do any more for Mr. Mattock now,” he said in a soft but determined voice. “There are others who still need me. They might be alive and in need. If, by some miracle, I return from whatever fate awaits me down in the caves beneath Hagwood, then I will come back here and take Yoori safely home.”

  Grimditch nodded gently. “No other choice for you, small skin swapper,” he murmured.

  And so they covered Yoori’s face with his cloak, gathered stones and pebbles, and gently placed them over him. Then Gamaliel bowed his head and said his good-byes, thanking the elder for everything he had done.

  Presently, Grimditch led the boy away, filling the sorrowful silence with a stream of inane chatter while, overhead, an owl swept through the sky.

  “Nearly there,” the barn bogle yapped. “Nearly there. Can you hear the water rushing? Can you hear it falling? Gush gush gush it goes, from the mouth, down into stream.”

  Gamaliel lifted his head. He could hear the noise of water in the distance. “And that’s the Crone’s Maw?” he asked.

  “Yes yes yes!” Grimditch answered. “Behind her teeth is where you seek.”

  The boy halted and caught hold of the bogle’s arm. Grimditch turned and stared at him questioningly.

  “I’d never have made it without your help,” Gamaliel said. “If I can save Finnen and my sister, then it’ll be due to you. I never got a chance to thank Mr. Mattock. I want to thank you now, in case I don’t manage to … after.”

  The barn bogle blinked and opened his mouth but could find no words. No one had ever cared enough about him to thank him for anything before, only the farmer’s wife, who had made him the suit of clothes, which were now nothing more than rags. A peculiar squeak sounded in his throat, and he hastily turned it into a cough.

  “Ha!” he eventually blurted. “You no leave Grimditch alone in forest! Him go with you, deep down into cavey grots!”

  “But you said you’d never venture down there again!”

  Grimditch shook his head. “No me never did!” he denied. “Cruel shape changer wants to abandon his bogle and him so helpful. Skin swapper not kind, skin swapper mean.”

  The boy smiled. He could have hugged him. He had been dreading descending to that subterranean world alone.

  “Then we go together!” he declared.

  Grimditch grinned back at him. Nothing could separate him from his only friend now.

  “Grimditch will lead you to mouth of cave and beyond,” he promised. “He will guide you, down to dark places, down past the world of the sluglungs. He not leave you, not never.”

  “To fight the candle sprite!” Gamaliel said fiercely.

  The barn bogle wagged his head. “To the Crone’s Maw!” he yelled.

  “For Finnen Lufkin and Kernella Tumpin,” Gamaliel added.

  “Yes!” Grimditch hollered. “Finnen Lufkin, Finnen Lufkin, Finnen Lufkin! We go—we go! To the Crone’s Maw!”

  The owl that had been flying out of sight above them suddenly changed course and flew northward toward the Pool of the Dead. He thought he had learned the identity of the wer-rat below, and his mistress, the High Lady, must be told.
Finnen Lufkin was journeying to the waterfall that flowed from the Witch’s Leap with a barn bogle. She would have to ride upon the rays of the rising dawn if she were to catch him there.

  CAPTAIN GRITTLE HAD AWOKEN WITH a start, bitten his thumb, and swished his sword around his head five times before he realized where he was.

  “Get up!” he bellowed at Wumpit and Bogrinkle. “What you a-doin’ of, snoring on duty? I’ll snip off yer eyelids so you won’t be able to sleep no more, not ever! You lazy, idle wasters!”

  The spriggans who had been lying peacefully in the trackway had the slumber kicked from them, and several minutes of angry confusion ensued. Knives were drawn and oaths and curses bawled as they argued with one another and issued threats. Then Wumpit spied the jam jar of earthworms that had rolled into the grass. He snatched it up greedily, then swung his ugly head left and right.

  “’Ere,” he growled. “Where’s that old crone got to then?”

  Only then did they recall the encounter with Nanna Zingara. Captain Grittle’s face flushed beetroot with outrage.

  “She’m were a witch!” he snapped. “An uppity, snotty witch. Spelled us, she did, threw a drowse hex in our eyes and made ’er escape!”

  “Dirty old hag!” spat Bogrinkle. “How long we bin a-dozin’ then?”

  Captain Grittle tasted the air and ran his large hands over the dewy grass. “Long enough for ’er to be well gone,” he said sourly while wiping the hated water from his palm. “I knewed there was enemies abroad this night. Didn’t I say so, lads?”

  The others nodded vigorously.

  “Summat’s up,” he continued. “Summat downright rotten and plotty.”

  Wumpit scratched himself and suppressed a yawn. “Nowt we can do ’bout it now,” he said. “Can us go back and get a proper kip?”