‘No,’ said Bill.
‘Oh well,’ said Ottilie. She was trying not to think too hard about it. It was just hair, after all. She had never taken much pride in it. Having long hair wasn’t a skill. It just hung there. No-one had ever paid much attention to her hair before. She could remember Gurt calling it pretty once, and she had some distant memory of Freddie grumbling about the knots, but that was about it. Why did girls always have long hair anyway? She had never thought to ask.
‘Just hack it,’ she said.
It was a painful process, so very different to when Mr Parch trimmed her hair with freshly sharpened scissors. Ottilie could tell Bill was trying to be gentle, but the knife, along with his nervous hands, made things difficult. He had to pull at chunks of her hair and saw into them one after the other. It felt more like a feather-plucking than a haircut.
As Ottilie’s hair fell strand by strand into her lap, she felt the strangest need to cry. Screwing up her face, she focused on Gully. She would do this for him, there was no question, and as her head grew lighter, her courage grew.
Bill released a long, uneven breath. Placing the knife shakily onto the ground, he said, ‘I think that’s the shortest I can do it with a knife.’
Ottilie ran her hands over her skull. Her wild, curly hair was gone and in its place were soft, short strands no longer than two or three inches.
‘Perfect,’ she said.
Hiding the evidence, Ottilie and Bill gathered the severed strands of her hair into the sack before making their next move. They crept around the corner – past the swamp picker, who was lying on the floor with a red scarf over his face, paying absolutely no attention to his captives – and slid into a fracture in the wall just out of the light. It was a comfortable enough place to be, just wide enough for Ottilie to sit with her legs stretched out. Now it was time to wait. She passed the minutes by trying to eat the last of her food as quietly as possible. She wasn’t sure if the captives were being fed or not, and she figured it was important to keep her strength up. As it turned out, she found taking tiny nibbles of brakkernuts oddly calming.
‘You should save some of those. You can put them in your pockets.’
Ottilie nodded, holding the brakkernut up to her bared teeth like a mouse with a crumb. ‘Do you think it’s Laklanders taking them?’ She couldn’t get the idea out of her mind. ‘People are always saying never trust someone with Lakland blood, aren’t they?’
It had been over a century since the war, but whenever there was trouble Laklanders were still the first to be blamed. These days, even people with distinctly fair hair, similar to the rare, almost bluish Lakland hue, were eyed with distrust. Ottilie thought these waves of serial kidnappings could be the work of a secret group of Laklanders. But then again, that guard had been wearing a Wikric uniform …
‘Or do you think that the pickers could be working for the king –’ Ottilie froze. ‘Do you hear that?’
Something had disturbed the drowsy silence. It was far away, but there was definitely movement. She could hear the shuffle and scrape of well-wandered boots.
Ottilie and Bill barely breathed. The northers moved slowly, and it seemed an age had passed when they finally breached the dark. But there they were, three pickers with maybe thirty sleepy-looking boys, all fastened at the waist to a single rope.
Something was wrong with them, and for the first time it clicked with Ottilie. They moved sluggishly, if they bothered to move at all. She had taken it for exhaustion, but the fact was, they looked like Freddie and Gurt after too many bottles of bramblywine. They had all been dosed with something – some draught to keep them quiet.
Ottilie thought of Gully, pictured him being pulled by a rope, drifting along as if asleep. She felt sick. But he had caused trouble, hadn’t he? That was what the swamp picker had said. Some of them had fought back.
‘Well about bleeding time!’ the swamp picker hollered, hauling himself off the ground.
‘Pipe down, Mr Sloch,’ said the oldest-looking picker.
‘I want out of this stinking dungeon,’ said Mr Sloch, gathering his things and pulling a scrappy roll of parchment from his pocket. ‘Here’s the wester list.’
Ottilie grabbed Bill’s wrist. ‘Oh no,’ she breathed.
‘Hang on a minute, there’s twenty-odd names on here,’ said a picker with a fat blond moustache. ‘D’you lose some, Sloch?’
‘Right, I forgot I sent seven in already. Troublemakers. Here, I’ll scratch them off. One was, uh … Murphy Graves … and there was Gulliver Colter –’
Hearing Mr Sloch utter his name, Ottilie felt as if she had been punched in the chest.
‘There you go,’ finished Mr Sloch, handing back the parchment. ‘There’s a record of every kid in that cell.’
‘That’s not good,’ whispered Bill. ‘You can’t go.’
Ottilie ignored him. ‘Bill, we have to get that list.’
Ottilie hated bramblywine. She had held a grudge against the drink for as long as she could remember. Bramblywine made Freddie sick. Worse, bramblywine made Freddie absent. Not just absent from the Colter hollow, absent in general. Whatever creature was walking around wearing Freddie’s skin, it wasn’t her mother anymore.
So Ottilie hadn’t thought she would ever be glad to see a bottle of bramblywine. Not until the moment Mr Sloch pulled a familiar squarish green bottle from his satchel.
‘Here gents, take this to get you through the night,’ he said, tossing it to the young picker. ‘Got it from a fellow up the Brakkerswamp. Nasty stuff. Nearly burned a hole in my tongue.’
‘Generous of you, Sloch,’ said the young picker, narrowing his eyes. He pulled the cork with his teeth, spat it aside, and took a hearty swig.
A fellow up the Brakkerswamp. This was very good. One bottle of Gurt’s noxious brew would have the pickers sleeping in no time. Ottilie watched them gulp it down and thanked her lucky stars for the stupidity of adults.
When the pickers had been snoring for nearly an hour, Ottilie hovered anxiously by the crack in the wall. With barely a sound, Bill crept over, retrieved the list from the nearest picker’s coat pocket, and darted back in a flash.
Ottilie gripped Bill’s damp, furry arm in excitement. Her relief was short-lived, however, when she thought about what needed to be done next. It was up to her now. She had to jump into that holding cell. Bill would be gone, and she would have to do the rest on her own.
‘Are you ready?’ said Bill.
‘Wait,’ she said, her nerves getting the better of her. She took the parchment from Bill and unrolled it. There were two sheets; the northers had brought one with them, and the other was Mr Sloch’s. At the top of Mr Sloch’s page, Wester Pickings was scrawled in black ink, with Gulliver Colter, age 11, right underneath it.
There was something about seeing his name scribbled out that sent a chill down her spine. It was just what she needed – a reminder. This was all for Gully.
She would be all right. There was no record now. Bill would keep the lists with him and burn them when he had the chance. No-one would be able to prove that there was one more boy with the pickings than there should have been. All she had to do was pretend to be a captive until she found Gully and then they would find their way home together.
‘I’m ready,’ she breathed.
To Ottilie’s surprise, climbing the wall was the easy part. Bill had riddled it out in a matter of minutes, and she followed his every instruction. The trick was knowing which stones to grab, and where to slot your foot. Before she knew it she was perched directly above the holding cell. A few of the boys gazed up, staring without really seeing. None of them made a sound.
This was it.
Ottilie looked over at Bill and waved gently. She had been so focused on memorising his instructions and ignoring his doubtful mumblings that she hadn’t remembered to say a proper goodbye. It seemed so little, just a wave, but it was too late for anything grander. It was hard to see, but she was sure he was waving back.
/> Ottilie looked down. The ground seemed very far away. What if she really did break her head? Trembling with fear, she glanced back at Bill one last time.
It was time to jump. Once she was in that cell, her feet wouldn’t belong to her anymore, not for a while. She was to be herded west, into the unknown. Ottilie braced to drop at least four times, but still she did not move. She stared fixedly at her target below.
Gully always knew the way. Gully always came to get her. It was her turn.
She squeezed her eyes shut, bent her knees, and jumped.
7
Off the Edge of the Map
There wasn’t much to remember, but Ottilie would remember it perfectly. Every boy as silent as the grave. The pickers talking, jibing, grumbling and complaining. Tunnel after tunnel after tunnel. Her skin itching and chafing where the belt bound her to the rope. Her legs aching, back stiff, stomach growling, throat dry and heart ticking, ticking, ticking, just a little too fast.
When they stopped for a rest, the pickers made their captives drink more of the sleeping draught. Ottilie felt a wave of hot panic as the man drew near, shoving the bottle into her hand. Would he see that she didn’t belong here? Would he know she was a girl?
It was a horrible, sharp-tasting drink, like a soup of eucalyptus leaves and unripe hagberries. To her great relief, thinking she was dosed like the others, the pickers paid her little attention. Never would they have suspected that she was sneakily dribbling every last vaguely violet drop down her chin.
When the tunnel finally came to an end, they were faced with a wall of rough stone. In the centre was an iron gate, solid, spiked and not at all inviting. A single guard in black and red stood in front of it. Black and red? Ottilie frowned. Those were the king’s colours.
‘You took your time!’ said the guard. ‘List?’ He held out his hand.
The moustached picker reached confidently into his travelling coat. Ottilie felt herself smile as it dawned upon him that the list was not where it should be. He tried every pocket.
‘Ah … either of you remember what we did with the list?’ he said, turning to the other pickers.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me!’ said the guard, smiling widely. ‘A whole day late and you’ve lost the pickings list.’ He laughed. ‘Wouldn’t stick around for that gate to open if I were you. Off with you!’
They didn’t need telling twice. All three pickers turned tail and scurried away.
The guard knocked three times. There was a series of clicks and clunks, and the gate began to slide upwards.
A new guard with a spectacularly thick black beard appeared through the entrance. ‘Up with you boys!’ he hollered. ‘You need to sleep off that draught. No good sleepwalking through the Narroway.’
The Narroway? Ottilie stared at her feet, thinking hard. Had she ever heard of the Narroway before? She was sure she hadn’t.
The black-bearded guard led them up a spiral staircase, down several stony corridors and, finally, through a tall doorway into a long chamber lined with bunk beds.
‘Right,’ said the guard, opening a blue wooden box. Inside, Ottilie caught a glimpse of some strange bronze rings.
One by one, the guard freed the captives from the rope, slipped a flat bronze ring onto their left thumb, and guided them to a bed. Each moved like a ghost, making no eye contact, not saying a word.
It was strange; the ring seemed far too big when it passed over her knuckle, but once settled in place it was as if it shrunk to the perfect size. The metal felt cool on her skin, and a tingling sensation flickered up her arm. Either exhaustion was making her imagine things, or there was something very odd about that ring.
The guard sighed loudly, but didn’t speak again. Ottilie lay on top of her scratchy blanket and tracked him with her eyes. The moment he was gone, she sat bolt upright and pulled off the ring. There was a peculiar swooping sensation in her stomach the moment it left her thumb. She ran her fingers over it. Something was engraved on the inside, but it was too dark to make out the letters. Ottilie glanced at the door. Light shone underneath from the corridor beyond. She crept over to crouch at its base. Holding the ring towards the thin strip of light, Ottilie could just make out the words sleeper comes for none.
Ottilie knew those words. It was the final line to the lightning song. Or at least it was in the version she knew. Gully always insisted it was pay for what you’ve done.
The sleeper was the collector of the dead. She guided the souls of the fallen through the gates to the everafter. So the phrase sleeper comes for none just meant none will die, which had never made much sense in the context of the lightning song.
Why would the guard have passed out rings inscribed with those words?
‘Timing like this … I have half a mind to think you arranged the rain yourself, Leo Darby, but then you always were a fortunate boy,’ said the guard.
Ottilie couldn’t be sure when she had drifted off to sleep. It was just before dawn when the boys had been roused from their slumber by the same black-bearded guard from the night before.
The change in the room was unmistakable. The boys were awake, properly awake. There were whispers, but only a few.
‘What is this place?’
‘What are we doing here?’
‘Who was that man?’
All questions, and no-one offered an answer. Ottilie didn’t know how much they remembered, but it seemed to be enough to keep them quiet. It was wide eyes and short breaths all around, and she spotted more than a few damp cheeks and runny noses.
The guard had told them to keep quiet – quite unnecessarily, as they were all tight-mouthed and shaken. ‘No point in making trouble, lads, and let me warn you now. Whatever you do, don’t take off your ring, worst mistake you’ll ever make –’
Ottilie noticed the guard was wearing a ring identical to the one he had placed on her left thumb.
‘– and it would be a foolish move to make a break for it. You’re safer in our care, believe you me. You don’t want to go out there alone.’
Wherever out there was, nobody was making clear.
The black-bearded guard had led them out to a sheltered courtyard. Heavy rain poured off the roof, forming a wall of water ahead. It was there they met a boy with reddish hair, whose name was apparently Leo Darby. He appeared to be no older than thirteen and had brown eyes and pale skin peppered with freckles. His hair was cropped short at the sides and he wore a uniform of dark green and black. Ottilie noted the two long knives, bow, and quiver of arrows slung across his back, the slingshot and dagger strapped to his torso and the cutlass at his hip. Pressed into the leather strap across his chest was a shiny bronze pin in the shape of a bird of prey.
Standing behind him were three boys who were perhaps a year or two older, and dressed exactly the same but for a slight difference in uniform. One wore green and grey, and another wore green and brown. She noticed that a couple of them also carried short spears. The dark-haired boy nearest to Leo Darby wore an identical uniform of green and black and Ottilie could just make out his pin. It was in the shape of a wolf. None of them wore rings.
‘I’m not expecting any trouble. Not while this weather holds,’ said Leo, raising his voice above the sound of the rain.
‘Hope you boys don’t mind a bit of wet weather,’ said the guard, addressing the captives.
‘Better wet than dead,’ said Leo with a wicked grin.
The boy with dark hair cleared his throat.
Leo didn’t even look around. ‘Got a cough, Ned?’ he said.
‘Nope,’ said Ned, smiling at the ground.
Ottilie had no idea what they were talking about, but a shiver ran down her spine all the same.
‘Rug up, lads,’ barked Leo, waving one of the other uniformed boys forwards.
The boy started handing out grey woollen cloaks, presumably to shield them from the rain. Clearly they were going for another walk. Ottilie’s feet were angry and swollen, and as thrilled as she was to finally feel fresh
air on her face, she thought any more walking might drive her mad. As he passed her the cloak, Ottilie noted that this boy’s pin was in the shape of a horse.
‘Before I forget, now that they’re conscious, we need a new list,’ said the guard. ‘Right, I need names, ages and places of origin, one at a time,’ he said, holding a blank sheet of parchment and a quill at the ready.
Ottilie caught a few of their answers. The majority of the boys were thirteen. The others were twelve. So Gully was younger than all of the pickings present by at least a year. Why had they taken him?
Anxiety stifled her questions. She was going to have to speak. Some of the boys’ voices had deepened already. She had heard it. Hers would be so high in comparison.
Lost in her worries, Ottilie didn’t even hear the guard.
‘Boy … boy!’
‘What? Oh.’ Ottilie looked up. The guard was staring down at her, not unkindly.
‘Name and age?’
She wasn’t thinking straight. ‘Otti– ,’ she coughed, her face reddening. She had been so close to saying Ottilie she could have hit herself. ‘Ott,’ she said quietly.
‘Just Ott?’
‘Ott Colter,’ she mumbled.
‘Unusual name. Where are you from?’
‘The Swamp Hollows, by the Brakkerswamp.’ She heard a couple of boys behind her snicker.
‘That explains it,’ said the guard, patting her roughly on the head. ‘You get all sorts in there. Explains the height too. All that crouching in caves stunts your growth.’
More snickers. Ottilie was surprised they had so much spirit, but she was too scared to be embarrassed. What if they caught her now and sent her back? She had come so far!
‘Pipe down!’ growled the guard. ‘Age?’
Why hadn’t she thought about this? It was too late now. She had practically given her true name and where she was from; they might as well have her age as well.
‘Twelve.’ She used her own voice, hoping it wasn’t high enough to give her away. Gully still sounded just like her, after all.
Ottilie Colter and the Narroway Hunt Page 4