Midnight Over Sanctaphrax: Third Book of Twig

by Paul Stewart

  As Twig and the others stepped forwards, the ceremonial song reached its climax - a discordant howl of grief that rose higher and higher. Twig hesitated. Row after row of woodtrolls stood before him, their backs turned, their heads bowed. The song came to an abrupt end. The silence which followed was broken by a voice. It came from the caterbird cocoon.

  Twig gasped. He'd know that rich, cracked voice anywhere. ‘No,’ he murmured. ‘No, it can't be.’ He strained to get a better look over the bowed heads in front. An ancient oakelf was sitting in the suspended caterbird cocoon, high up in the great, spreading lullabee tree.

  ‘Taghair!’ he breathed.

  ‘You know him?’ Cowlquape said.

  ‘I … I can hardly believe it,’ said Twig. ‘It's like a dream, Cowlquape. I have indeed come full circle. This isn't any old woodtroll village. This …’ He swallowed away the painful lump in his throat. This is my village, Cowlquape. Fve come home.’

  ‘From the sky we come and to the sky we go,’ the oakelf was reciting. ‘Descending and ascending. This night we are here to commend to open sky, that his unencumbered spirit might once again fly free, the body of our beloved Tuntum, husband, father, friend …’

  Tuntum? Did he say, Tuntum? No, it can't be true!’ Twig wailed.

  The woodtrolls spun round to see a tall, gangly individual with matted hair and a furry waistcoat hurtling towards them. Outraged by the intrusion, yet too timid to confront the wild-eyed stranger in their midst, the crowd parted to let him pass.

  Twig stopped in front of the lullabee tree, beneath the cocoon. Before him stood the bereaved family. Huddled together in their grief, they turned angrily as one to face the unwanted intruder. Twig hardly dared believe it but, yes, he knew them all - Snodpill, Henchweed, Poohsniff - the half-brothers and sisters he never imagined he would ever meet again. And there, looking smaller than he remembered, was Spelda, the kindly woodtroll who had taken him as a foundling-infant into her home and raised him as her own.

  ‘Mother-Mine!’ he sobbed and ran towards her, arms open wide.

  Spelda's jaw dropped. Her eyes grew wide. Twig?’ she said. She gaped at his longcoat and parawings, the accoutrements of a sky pirate. ‘Can it truly be you?’

  Twig nodded, tearfully, bending to clasp her hands between his own.

  ‘You came back,’ Spelda whispered.

  They stayed silent for a long time: the tall, young sky pirate and the little old woodtroll. At last Spelda drew back.

  ‘I know you and he didn't always see eye to eye,’ she said, ‘but he never stopped loving you, Twig.’ She sniffed and wiped her rubbery button-nose. ‘Right to the very end.’

  Twig looked down at the platform of bound scent-wood logs by his feet; the sky raft of buoyant lufwood which, when lit, would rise up into the sky. He looked at the shrouded bundle which was tethered to it.

  ‘Can I see him?’ he asked.

  Spelda nodded. Twig stepped forwards and pulled aside the shroud of woodspider silk at Tuntum's head.

  ‘He looks so peaceful,’ said Twig quietly. ‘How did he die?’

  ‘In his sleep,’ said Spelda. ‘He'd been ill for several moons.’ She smiled bravely. ‘He was a good husband, and father …’

  ‘The time is upon us,’ came the oakelf's voice from above them.

  Twig bent over and kissed Tuntum's forehead lightly, then fastened the shroud.

  ‘Who will touch the pyre with the celestial flame?’ asked the oakelf.

  Snodpill stepped forwards and handed a burning torch to Spelda. She looked at it for a moment then, with a soft sigh turned to Twig. ‘Can you still remember the words?’ she said.

  Twig nodded. He took the torch from Spelda's hand and raised it to the sky. Behind him the woodtrolls pressed their hands together in prayer.

  ‘From the first lightning bolt you came, O, Sky flame!’ Twig said.

  ‘O, Sky flame!’ the others murmured.

  ‘Sky fire, light the pyre, return to open sky again, O, Sky flame!’

  ‘O, Sky flame!’

  Twig stooped and touched the burning torch to the base of the sky raft. There was a crackle and hiss; the next instant the entire construction was engulfed in sheets of purple flame.

  ‘Return to open sky,’ he murmured, as the blazing platform rose and hovered in front of them. The flames blazed all the more fiercely and the buoyant sky-raft with its precious cargo soared up towards the forest canopy and away into the endlessness of open sky Twig watched it become a ball, a dot, a speck, unable to tear his eyes away as it flew like a shooting star - across the sky and away

  Twig, lad,’ came a voice. ‘Come over here. And close your mouth if you don't wish to swallow a woodmidge.’

  Twig looked up. The ancient oakelf's wise and kindly face was smiling down at him. He turned to Spelda, who nodded. ‘Go to him, Twig,’ she whispered.

  ‘Greetings to you, Taghair,’ Twig called back, and bowed low.

  ‘Oh, such polite phrases and pretty graces,’ Taghair replied. ‘Let me get a closer look at you, lad.’

  Twig stepped forwards.

  ‘Come, we must talk,’ he said, and nodded towards the suspended sling-chair. ‘I take it you still remember how to use it.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Twig. He'd done it a hundred times or more as a youngster. He fastened himself into the hanging seat, pulled the rope and raised himself up into the air until he was high above the ground and face to face with the ancient oakelf himself, peering out of his caterbird cocoon.

  ‘So,’ said Taghair, slowly. ‘You have come a long way, Twig. I've been expecting you.’

  Twig's eyes lit up. ‘You dream caterbird dreams, don't you?’ he said. ‘Was it the caterbird who told you to expect me?’

  ‘No, Twig,’ said Taghair. ‘It was not your caterbird who informed me that you were on your way,’ He leant down and touched Twig's glowing hand. His eyes twinkled. ‘It was another who has been calling you - ever since his return from open sky.’

  Taghair shifted across to one side of the opening. As he did so, an eerie luminous light streamed out from the depths of the cocoon.

  ‘Captain Twig,’ said a voice.

  Twig peered in. His jaw dropped. ‘Woodfish!’ he cried out. ‘It's you! But how …? When …? Where …?’

  Taghair chuckled. ‘Always were a one for questions, weren't you?’ he said.

  Woodfish the waterwaif leant forwards. His fan-like ears fluttered. ‘At your service, captain,’ he said. ‘I knew you'd make it!’

  ‘B … b … but how is this possible?’ Twig spluttered. He looked from one to the other.

  Taghair breathed in noisily. ‘I believe it was no accident that Woodfish's shooting star fell so close to the woodtroll village where his beloved captain grew up. He was drawn to it, you might say,’ he explained. ‘The woodtrolls found him and brought him to me. He has been here ever since. Waiting.’

  ‘Waiting?’ said Twig.

  ‘Waiting for you,’ said Taghair.

  ‘I can read thoughts, as you know,’ Woodfish broke in. ‘All waifs can. But Taghair, here, taught me how to dream.’

  ‘And he proved an excellent pupil,’ said Taghair solemnly. ‘He dreamt of you lying, broken, in the Stone Gardens below faraway Sanctaphrax.’

  ‘You did?’ said Twig.

  Woodfish smiled. ‘Yes, Captain Twig,’ he said. ‘And I dreamt of the others, too: Tarp in the taverns, Wingnut Sleet and Bogwitt in the sewers, poor Spooler on the slave ship, and Goom in the hands of the shrykes. My dreams touched all of them.’

  ‘He guided you to them, Twig,’ said Taghair. ‘With a whisper here and a word there, he told you which way to go. And then he guided you here.’

  Twig's jaw dropped. ‘You!’ he said to Woodfish. He remembered the little sibilant whisper he'd heard so many times - urging him into the Lullabee Inn, drawing him away from the cloddertrogs, helping him to select the Skyraider from the numerous sky ships on offer at the posting-pole, guiding him along the woodtr
oll path. ‘It was you all the time!’

  Woodfish nodded. ‘Every step of the way, captain,’ he said. ‘Though I couldn't have done it by dreaming alone. I needed your courage, your stubbornness and most of all, your loyalty. We all needed that.’ His rubbery mouth broke into a smile. ‘And we still do.’

  Twig stared back. ‘You discovered all the crew?’

  ‘I did,’ Woodfish confirmed.

  ‘So the last crew-member,’ said Twig excitedly. ‘The Stone Pilot. Is the Stone Pilot alive?’

  ‘Yes,’ Woodfish said simply.

  ‘Where?’ said Twig. ‘Tell me where, Woodfish. We must set forth at once.’ His head was in a spin. ‘And do you remember what happened out there in open sky?’ he pressed. ‘What happened to the Edgedancer? And my father - Woodfish, did we find my father?’

  ‘I don't know,’ said Woodfish, the barbels at the corners of his mouth quivering as he shook his head. ‘I remember nothing of what happened after we entered the weather vortex. But I know what lies ahead.’

  ‘What does lie ahead, Woodfish? Tell me,’ said Twig urgently.

  ‘When I dream of it,’ said Woodfish, ‘my dreams go dark. We must go into the darkness, Captain, and beyond that. At the very edge of my dreams, the Stone Pilot is waiting.’

  ‘But where, Woodfish? Where?’ Twig was almost shouting now.

  Woodfish looked at Taghair, then back at Twig. ‘On the other side of the deepest, blackest part of the Deepwoods,’ he said, ‘where all creation began … RiverriseV

  • CHAPTER SEVENTEEN •

  THE DEEPWOODS’

  DARK HEART

  Despite Spelda's best endeavours, Twig could not be persuaded to stay in the woodtroll village a moment longer than necessary. He was packed up and ready to leave long before sunrise.

  ‘I shall come back, Mother-Mine,’ he said. ‘Now that I've found you, I won't lose you again.’

  ‘You promise?’ said Spelda.

  ‘I promise,’ said Twig.

  Spelda nodded sadly, and wiped away a tear. ‘Take these,’ she said. ‘Some extra provisions for your long journey. Food and drink. Warm cloaks.’ She sniffed. ‘Your father's axe.’

  Twig held the familiar axe in his hands. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  Spelda smiled bravely. ‘Tuntum always hoped that you might one day have it.’ She rummaged in the pockets of her dress, and pulled out a talisman on a leather thong. ‘And this is from me,’ she said tearfully. ‘A charm.’ She reached up and tied it around his neck. ‘It will protect you in those dark places you must go …’ She shivered. ‘And guide you safely back to me.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, captain, but we must go,’ said Woodfish. ‘We have a long journey ahead.’

  Twig bent down and kissed Spelda on her forehead. ‘Bid farewell to Taghair for me,’ he said. ‘And don't worry!’

  Spelda nodded. ‘And don't you go forgetting your promise,’ she said. She wiped her tears away. ‘Go now,’ she said. ‘And Sky protect you.’

  Twig turned away. The others were already heading out of the village back towards the path. He walked steadily after them. He didn't look back.

  ‘She loves you very much,’ said Cowlquape, when he caught up. The glow from the village lanterns and the babble of woodtroll voices faded away behind them.

  ‘Spelda?’ said Twig. ‘She was the finest mother anyone could hope for. And, looking back, Tuntum loved me also - he just found it harder to show it.’

  Cowlquape smiled weakly. He thought of his own bully of a father, Ulbus Pentephraxis, who would beat him as soon as look at him. Yet here was Twig, with two fathers - Tuntum and Cloud Wolf - and he was about to tell Twig how much he envied him his memories when Woodfish came to an abrupt halt. They were standing in front of a gnarled tree, festooned with hooks and rings.

  ‘The Anchor Tree,’ said Twig. ‘This marks the woodtroll village boundary.’

  Woodfish nodded. ‘We must strike out on our own from here.’

  A single bolt of lightning darted across the sky, followed by an ominous rumble of thunder. Rain - heavy and warm - began to fall. Twig fingered the amulet Spelda had just given him.

  ‘Time for me to stray from the path once again,’ he said softly.

  The forest grew denser as they went further from the woodtroll path into the Deepwoods. The rain eased off and high up above their heads the sun rose on another day. And another. And another -until they seemed to have been walking for ever. Beneath the forest canopy, it remained dark and gloomy. Cowlquape hated it. The air was close, windless, and he was continually panting to keep up with Twig and the others.

  The Deepwoods were as menacing as ever. Flesh-eating pods snapped at him greedily as he scurried past. Scaly tree-creatures bared their teeth at him from the branches overhead, the spikes down their back quivering menacingly. A bulging, yellow wood-python - basking in a shaft of sunlight after a recent meal - slithered into the undergrowth as he stumbled close. And all the time, the forest itself grew more and more impenetrable as the days passed. Cowlquape gritted his teeth and struggled on, deeper and deeper.

  Now, up ahead, Goom began having problems hacking through the undergrowth. The thorny brambles which had been dogging their way for an hour or more were becoming thicker, more tangled; their barbs, the size of daggers. One of the banderbear's shoulders was already matted with blood.

  ‘Ease off, old friend,’ said Twig. Those thorns are sharp,’ He pulled Tuntum's axe from his belt. ‘Let Woodfish and me go first.’

  Woodfish drew his cutlass. ‘And keep your wits about you,’ he warned. ‘Even this inhospitable forest of thorns is home to dangerous predators.’

  Cowlquape shivered, and glanced round nervously. He followed Twig and Woodfish into the tunnel they were hacking out. His senses were on fire - ears listening for any suspicious sound, nose twitching, eyes peeled. Progress was painfully slow. Every step they advanced was a struggle. They rested up increasingly often, and for longer periods of time.

  ‘This is hopeless,’ Cowlquape complained as, for the third time in as many minutes, Twig let his axe fall limp at his side. ‘We're lost in this terrible thorny place. We'll never find our way out.’

  Twig turned to him, his face shiny with sweat. ‘Woodfish is our guide, Cowlquape, and we must trust him. We are in his world now.’

  The waterwaif shook his head. ‘This is merely the beginning of the Nightwoods,’ he said. ‘True waif country lies beyond the great thorn forests.’ He sighed. ‘I thought I'd escaped it for good. It is an evil place.’

  Cowlquape frowned. ‘You speak harshly of the place you were born and raised,’ he said.

  Woodfish returned his puzzled gaze. ‘Life in waif country is a short and brutal affair,’ he explained. ‘A hand-to-mouth existence with none of the things you take for granted, Cowlquape. Hot meals, comfortable beds …’ He smiled. ‘Ancient barkscrolls. Besides,’ he went on, ‘I daresay I am not the only one to take little pride in his origins.’

  Cowlquape nodded sadly. ‘And beyond the waif country?’ he said.

  ‘The Dark Heart of the Deepwoods,’ said Woodfish. ‘And perhaps Riverrise.’

  ‘Perhaps Riverrise?’ said Cowlquape. ‘You mean you don't know.’

  ‘I have never been to Riverrise,’ said Woodfish. ‘Nor has any soul I've ever heard of. But you know that, Cowlquape. It is written in those barkscrolls you treasure. Riverrise has been lost, forgotten since the passing of Kobold the Wise. Yet it is said that it lies at the very heart of the Deepwoods.’

  ‘But you can't know that for sure, for all your dreaming and waif ways,’ wailed Cowlquape.

  Twig smiled and lifted his axe over his head. ‘Don't let your courage fail you now, Cowlquape,’ he said. The axe came crashing down, slicing through half a dozen of the thick woody brambles. ‘After all, we can't abandon our search here. Woodfish did dream that the final member of the crew is at Riverrise waiting for us. It must exist -and now we must find it.’ The axe crashed down again. ‘And
wouldn't you love to actually see Riverrise - to walk where Kobold the Wise once walked?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cowlquape meekly. ‘Yes, I would.’

  They went on. The sun passed unseen across the sky and set. Later, the moon rose. It was only when the splinters of moonlight pierced through the thorn-bushes that Twig realized how much time had passed. He laid his axe aside, heavy with fatigue, dripping with sweat.

  ‘We'll rest up here,’ he panted.

  Cowlquape looked round. With the thorn-bush surrounding them and the uneven boulders beneath their feet, it didn't look too promising. But once Twig and Goom had hacked out a larger clearing, and they'd all removed the rocks and laid out their cloaks on the sand below, it wasn't too bad. Of course, a hot, bright fire would have been nice, but with the bushes all round them so dry, they dared not light one. One spark and the whole lot was likely to go up. Thankfully, it was a warm enough night, and the glowing sky pirates themselves provided enough light to see by. Cowlquape wondered once again what it was that made Twig and his crew shine so brightly. Something must have happened to them all out there in open sky. But what?

  Woodfish heard his thoughts. ‘It is a question I have asked myself a thousand times,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it is to remind us of something important that happened,’ He shrugged. ‘Sadly, as I told the captain, I have no memory of what took place after we entered the weather vortex,’ He nodded at Goom and Twig. ‘And unfortunately, neither have they.’

  ‘We can worry about the past later,’ said Twig. ‘For now, we must get some sleep,’ He laid himself down on the soft sand and wrapped about him the thick cloak, which abruptly extinguished the glow from his body.

  Cowlquape turned to Woodfish. ‘When will we get to waif country?’

  ‘Sleep, Cowlquape!’ said Twig, without looking up. ‘The more tired you are, the longer it'll take.’

  All round them the thorns clicked as a chilly breeze blew through the surrounding bushes. Cowlquape lay down between Twig and Goom, and pulled his cloak up around his shoulders. Woodfish settled himself last. Awake or asleep, the waterwaif would hear any intruders. As he wrapped his cloak around him, the whole clearing was plunged into darkness.