Thorn Ogres of Hagwood Read online

  A duet of pain erupted from their victims, but the tokens had been won and the Doolans set the mice free, waving their trophies proudly and bursting into a boastful song.

  “Well done!” Finnen called. “Now bind the fur tightly and put it inside your pouches.”

  While the brothers obeyed, Finnen scanned the glade for Liffidia. The werling girl had still made no effort to capture a mouse, and seeing her capering joyously amid the teeming rodents, he knew that she was never going to.

  Rolling up his sleeves, Finnen Lufkin jumped from the bank and hastened through the grass until he was standing at Liffidia’s side.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded. “You’ve had plenty of chances.”

  Liffidia smiled at him gravely. “Do you really want me to trap one of these lovely creatures?” she asked.

  “That’s what old Gibble’s told you to do!” he replied. “That’s why we’re here!”

  The girl shrugged and glanced briefly about her. “Very well,” she said, and springing forward, Liffidia wrapped her arms about a fleeing mouse’s neck. With consummate ease she landed the animal and patted its head to quell its fear.

  “Excellent!” Finnen exclaimed in admiration. “Now pull a clump of fur out.”

  Liffidia stared at him with her large gray eyes. “I’ll do no such thing,” she retorted. “It’s cruel.”

  “But you have to!” Finnen insisted. “It doesn’t do the mouse any harm.”

  “How would you like it if I pulled your hair out?” she demanded.

  “That’s different.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “All right, all right. So it’ll hurt a bit, but think of what old Gibble will say.”

  Liffidia laughed. “I don’t care about that,” she said. Then, kissing the mouse’s nose, she let it go, and the creature sped away.

  The older boy looked at her in astonishment. “You really don’t care, do you?” he muttered.

  “Did you on your first day?” she asked.

  Finnen nodded. “More than anything.”

  Liffidia thought she heard a profound sadness in his voice, but she was not able to ponder the reason for long.

  Poised for action, with the dead stalk as his weapon, Tollychook finally got his chance. From the grass in front of him a mouse’s head appeared. For several moments they stared at each other, frozen with alarm—surprise registering upon both their faces.

  “Got you!” Tollychook finally cried, but before he could bring the broken stem crashing down, the mouse turned tail.

  “No you don’t!” Tollychook shouted, lumbering after it and waving the stalk before him.

  Frantically he struck out, bashing the ground and missing the mouse, until at last he managed to whack it sideways and the creature was sent spinning across the glade.

  Gleefully Tollychook threw his stem away and scooped up the mouse before it could recover.

  “Got you, I got you!” he cried, hugging the struggling prize to his chest and almost suffocating it, “Oh, my pretty squeaker, don’t fight so. I only wants a snippet of your coat now.”

  Capturing a mouse was one thing, but Tollychook discovered that holding on to it was even more troublesome. The wretched beast would not keep still. Every time he tried to grab a handful of fur, a leg would kick or the tail would lash across his face. Wrestling with it, he at last seized hold of a fair-sized fistful of soft, sleek hair and pulled.

  The mouse squealed, but then so did Tollychook, for even as the fur tore free, the rodent twisted about and bit his nose. Howling, the boy dropped both his attacker and his trophy.

  When Finnen arrived to see what had happened, Tollychook was hopping about and holding his nose.

  Finnen groaned. The hunt had not turned out the way he had hoped. Only Gamaliel was left now, and Finnen went in search of him.

  Kernella’s brother was exhausted. He had chased every mouse he had seen but had not touched so much as a tail tip, and was now far too tired to go running after them.

  Doubled over, he puffed and wheezed—his face almost beetroot in color.

  Viewing him from the bank, Mufus and Bufus heckled and scoffed.

  “Gammy can’t even catch his breath!” they hooted.

  Doing his best to ignore them, Gamaliel was determined to try again. Yet the number of mice scurrying through the clearing was dwindling. Most of those driven out by the beaters already had passed into the wood in search of safer havens, and when he realized this, Gamaliel was afraid that he would never catch one.

  Anxiously he hurried to and fro as the last stragglers skittered into the glade, but it was no use. He was far too slow and kept tripping.

  The Doolan brothers considered this to be the best part of the day so far and threw themselves onto the moss in tearful hysterics.

  “I can’t bear it no more!” Mufus wept. “I’ll bust.”

  “There’s another one!” Bufus commentated. “Gammy’s lurchin’—no, he missed it. He’s fell down again. He’s not getting up—he’s conked out!”

  For the umpteenth time that day, Gamaliel Tumpin lay facedown on the ground. It was finally too much, and he burst into tears.

  “I can’t do it!” he sobbed. “I’m no good for anything. I’m useless.”

  Coming to kneel beside him, Finnen waited for the anguish to ebb a little before saying anything.

  “Wipe your eyes,” he said gently. “I’ll help you. Follow me.”

  Sniffling into the neck of his snookulhood, Gamaliel rose. “W-where we going?” he asked.

  Finnen smiled but said nothing, and waving to the others to remain where they were, he led Gamaliel from the clearing.

  Ascending the opposite bank, the two of them pressed into the wide woodland beyond. Drying his tears, Gamaliel could not begin to guess where he was being taken. But he did not have to wonder for very much longer. A fallen tree stretched across their path, and the older boy halted.

  Hesitantly, Gamaliel stared up at the massive obstacle. The tree was overgrown with ivy, and bright orange fungi ballooned from the sweet-smelling wood.

  Stepping up to the rotting giant, Finnen held out his hand and ran his fingers over the ivy’s dark leaves.

  “In here,” he muttered.

  Pulling the trailing growth aside, he peered into the shade, and Gamaliel did the same.

  Revealed beneath the evergreen curtain was an opening in the fallen trunk, large enough for a werling to clamber inside. Before they entered, Finnen put a finger to his lips and whispered.

  “Don’t make a sound and say nothing.”

  With that he ducked under the leaves, and Gamaliel followed him in.

  To his surprise it was not completely dark within the dead tree. A dim gray light filtered from the opening they had just crawled through, and the sloped ceiling was pricked with many beetle-chewed holes. Nevertheless, it took a little while before Gamaliel’s eyes became accustomed to the sudden change.

  Directly in front of him, Finnen was treading carefully forward, moving gradually deeper into the tree, and remembering his command, Gamaliel held back his questions and stole after him in silence.

  “Gently now,” Finnen murmured. “You know me. Peace, old one.”

  Puzzled, for the older boy was not addressing him, Gamaliel stood on tiptoe and peered over Finnen’s shoulder.

  He gasped sharply. At the far end of the hollow space a pair of eyes was shining at them.

  There came an agitated rustling, and Finnen spoke soothingly.

  “Hush, now,” he said, approaching those glittering points. “No reason to be afraid. ’Tis only Finnen, your friend.”

  The nervous movements continued, and Gamaliel finally saw the creature’s shape emerge from the shadows that gathered about its nest of dead leaves.

  It was a mouse, but the oldest mouse that he had ever seen. The fur was gray, brindled with white, and the whiskers had fallen from its face. One of the papery ears was torn, and as he drew closer, Gamaliel saw that the eyes were
almost blind.

  “There we are,” Finnen breathed as he held out his hand and the wrinkled nose gave a fearful sniff. “Now you know, don’t you?”

  Reaching up, he caressed the aged animal’s head and it nuzzled into his palm.

  Enthralled, Gamaliel held his breath to prevent himself from making any noise. It was obvious that the mouse’s trust in Finnen was absolute, but he could not imagine how this unusual friendship had developed. Resting its head against the older boy’s chest, the mouse murmured a low rumble of content.

  “Too old to run with the others, weren’t you?” Finnen murmured. “Same as you were back then, when I first found you.”

  A shriveled paw dabbed at the air, and the boy chuckled warmly.

  “Not much today,” he admitted, opening a leather bag attached to his belt. “Just some dried apple pieces.”

  They seemed more than acceptable, and chattering quietly to itself, the mouse waited until the preserves were offered before taking them in its paws. Yet it did not eat them. Instead, the mouse gazed up at Finnen with its milky eyes, and the werling smiled lovingly.

  At that moment, Gamaliel found that he could hold his breath no longer and exhaled with a loud “Paaahhhh!”

  The mouse shuddered and blinked at him, suddenly aware of his presence.

  “It’s all right,” Finnen assured it “This is another friend of mine.”

  The half-blind eyes turned back to Finnen, and a look of understanding passed between them.

  Placing the morsels of food on the floor, the old creature eased itself wearily down on its side and rolled over. It knew what was needed, and it settled itself into the nest, closed its eyes, and waited.

  Finnen beckoned to Gamaliel. “Here,” he said. “Take a handful of fur from its back. It won’t struggle or run away.”

  Gamaliel shambled forward. Why was the creature allowing him to do this?

  Stretching out his hand, he reached for the hoary gray back, but hesitated when he noticed something that intrigued him. Just below the mouse’s shoulders was a bare patch of mottled skin. A few of the hairs had grown back, but the rodent was so ancient that most of the area had remained bald. What had happened? Had someone else removed a scrap of fur? Is that why the animal knew what was required of it?

  Gamaliel glanced at Finnen, but the boy avoided his gaze. “Quickly,” he told him.

  Twining his fingers in the white fur, Gamaliel pulled as gently as he was able.

  The mouse trembled beneath him and gave a forlorn whimper when the hairs were extracted.

  “There now,” Finnen crooned, falling to his knees and cupping the creature’s face in his hands. “It’s over. You have been so brave. Bless you.”

  Staring at the clump of snowy fur in his grasp, Gamaliel shifted awkwardly. “Yes,” he began, not knowing what else to say. “Thank you.”

  He was not sure if the mouse heard him, for Finnen was stroking its nose and whispering into the ragged ear.

  “Rest now,” he told it. “I’ll come back, you know that.”

  Into a dark corner of its nest the mouse retreated, its milky eyes fixed devotedly upon Finnen.

  The hero of the werling children raised his hand in farewell and led Gamaliel from the fallen tree.

  “We must return to the others,” he said. “It’s getting late; time we got back to the hazel.”

  As they made their way to the clearing, Gamaliel reflected on all that had happened. He had failed the first lesson, but at least he would not have to face Master Gibble with an empty wergle pouch. That was solely because of Finnen, and Gamaliel was extremely grateful. There was much more to Master Lufkin than he had suspected, but such ponderings would have to wait, for he was already worrying about what would happen when they reached the hazel tree. The next step in the training would be the most difficult of all—Gamaliel would have to wergle for the very first time.

  What if I’m no good at that, either? he thought unhappily.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Rules of Wergling

  MIDDAY HAD COME AND gone by the time Finnen’s group rejoined the other werlings upon the platform. They were the last ones back, but the rest were too busy telling one another of their exploits to notice.

  Kernella, however, had been keeping a special vigil for their return, and when she saw Finnen arrive she pushed her way through the excited throng to greet him.

  “Ooh, Finnen!” she exclaimed teasingly. “Where you been all this time? Gettin’ fair worried I was, nearly sent out a search party. Not like you, it ain’t.”

  Finnen gave her a half smile but offered no explanation; it was Mufus Doolan who did that.

  “We would’ve been back ages ago!” he shouted. “If it hadn’t been for Gammy—great stupid lump he is. Wasted hours waitin’ for him.”

  The pleasure died on Kernella’s face, and she pulled such a grisly expression that both Doolans scurried quickly away.

  Miserable, Gamaliel was about to shuffle off into a corner when Finnen stopped him.

  “I know exactly how you feel,” he said. “You’re terrified that you’ll make more mistakes and that everyone will laugh.”

  “ ’Course I am,” Gamaliel answered.

  “It’s only the first day,” Finnen continued, trying to restore the boy’s confidence. “When I started wergling I was absolutely terrible at it. I wanted to die—I really did.”

  “You?” Gamaliel asked in amazement, “But you’re the best. Kernella’s always saying so.”

  Finnen sighed. “Not at the beginning I wasn’t. Nobody remembers that now, but I do.”

  Before he could say any more, Terser Gibble waded into the assembly, waving his twiggy arms and calling for attention.

  “I see that we are all returned,” his clipped voice cried. “I trust there were no mishaps. No one’s head has been bitten off and no gizzards are pecked out? Good, then what is the reason for this inane yikkering? Stop it at once.”

  The talk ceased immediately.

  Master Gibble pressed his lips together and roved his black gleaming eyes across their expectant faces.

  “So,” he announced. “You now know what it is to run with a mouse in the wood.”

  Every young head nodded vigorously.

  “That is as it should be,” he said in solemn tones. “You have run and you have hunted. The first step upon the path of wisdom has been taken. Each of you has accomplished the task I set. You have plucked out enough fur to serve as a token so that your experience will not be forgotten.”

  Again the heads wagged—except for Liffidia’s.

  The eyes of Master Gibble arrested their roaming, and a sharp glint stabbed out at her.

  “You, child!” he snapped abruptly. “What’s your name?”

  “Liffidia Nefyn,” she replied, raising her head and returning his stare as squarely as she was able.

  A corner of the tutor’s mouth twitched, and his dark brows knitted tightly together. “The daughter of Miwalen and Aikin,” he muttered, considering her with distaste. “Your mother was a willful and headstrong pupil; is it so with you? Tell me, child, did you obey my instruction and bring a token of mouse fur back with you?”

  An ominous silence fell as he waited for the answer.

  “She’s in for it now,” Finnen whispered to Gamaliel. “I tried to warn her.”

  Clearing her throat, Liffidia took a deep breath and in a clear, level voice said, “No, I did not.”

  The effect on Master Gibble was alarming. With every nostril flaring, he strode through the ranks and seized the girl by the shoulders.

  “Explain!” he demanded.

  Liffidia frowned back at him. “It’s cruel!” she cried. “I won’t pull the fur out of any riving creature. If that’s what it takes to wergle, then I don’t want to be trained at all!”

  A shocked murmur sprang from the children around her, and Master Gibble’s face trembled with rage.

  “You don’t want to be trained,” he repeated, his voice straining
to remain calm. “She doesn’t want to be trained!”

  Twirling about so that his black gown flowed wildly around him like a sloshing puddle of ink, he gave a snort of exasperation, then rounded on her again.

  “Just how do you imagine you will survive?” he spat with a hiss. “Without this most vital of skills, you will be vulnerable to all predators. Do you wish to be carried off by a hawk? Is that not what happened to Aikin, your father? Was he not snatched from the wood two summers since?”

  Liffidia lowered her eyes. “Why can’t I just learn to become a butterfly or a dragonfly, instead?” she asked unhappily.

  At those words a gasp of horror issued from the mouths of the others, and the youngsters closest to her moved away.

  “Oh, no,” Finnen breathed. “How can she not know?”

  Gamaliel bit his lip nervously. Even he realized the dreadful mistake she had just made, and his heart went out to the poor, ignorant werling girl.

  “A butterfly!” Terser Gibble shrieked, throwing his hands in the air and gesticulating madly. “A butterfly! A dragonfly!”

  Dragging his knobbly fingers over his barklike scalp, then down his long nose, he struggled to control himself.

  “How dare you harbor such desires, child!” he rasped. “Did your mother never tell you?”

  Staring at the floor in great discomfort, Liffidia slowly shook her head. “I don’t understand,” she replied in a small voice. “What’s so wrong in that?”

  The tutor’s nostrils quivered and began to make a fizzing sound. “One of the most important and basic rules of wergling,” he cried, holding his head in his hands as if it were close to bursting, “is to know what is and is not permitted. Liffidia Nefyn, if you have been deaf these seven years, then unclog your ears this very moment and hearken to me. The insect world is denied to us. It is strictly forbidden! We must never, under any circumstance, be tempted to assume their form. Do you understand? Surely you have heard of Frighty Aggie?”

  “I thought that was just a cradle story,” she mumbled. “A make-believe monster to frighten the young.”