“Then what?”
“When I get into your finger, I’ll be away from my gravestone. The gravestone stops us dying for a while, even without anyone remembering us. It’s like an anchor. But I won’t have it any more. So you’ll have to be my gravestone.”
“You’ll be inside me?”
“Something like that.”
“Will I be able to talk to you?”
“Yes. Just think about me and I’ll come from the Merry-Go-Round. Sometimes I’ll come without being asked, and sometimes I might not hear you.”
“Why won’t you be able to hear me?”
“It’s the Merry-Go-Round. Sometimes it’s like I can’t look away or hear anything else. When that happens you’ll have to call me as loudly as you can, with all your strength. I’ll even be able to appear outside you like I am now—but only at night.”
“How do I be a gravestone though?”
“You have to do what gravestones do. Think of me. Remember I’m here.”
“What happens if I forget?”
“Then I won’t be here any more. Or anywhere.”
Max looked at the knife. The tip was sharp and slightly oily. He wiped it against the blanket, then slowly slid the cool metal under his fingernail. He felt a bit sorry for his finger—it had never done anything to him.
“It doesn’t have to be a big hole, does it?”
She tossed her head back. “Are you afraid, my Knight?”
He looked into her eyes and made a movement. There was a stab of pain, and she gasped. The knife fell onto the bed—red blood sprang up in a crescent.
“I’m yours for ever!” Martha whispered. She seized his finger and pulled it into her mouth—her other hand touched his cheek.
Immediately the pain was gone.
And so was she.
He quickly knelt up and examined his finger under the lantern light.
“Are you in there?” he whispered. “What’s it like?”
She didn’t reply.
How would she reply anyway?
He tried calling to her with his thoughts instead.
Did it work?
It felt wrong, as if he was only on the surface, when he was meant to go deep. He needed to concentrate. So he took the bone-handled knife back to the bag, then snuggled up under the covers and closed his eyes.
Are you there?
Can you hear me?
He dived down into his own mind, seeking her out, passing memories and random thoughts. The deeper he went, the more he became those broken pieces, his mind falling apart into scattered fragments that took advantage of their new freedom, and began to flit about, reforming into surprising patterns…
In short—he fell asleep.
ASLEEP IN THE WOODS
Hello.
Hello.
I’m dreaming aren’t I?
No! I’m not one of your weird dreams! I had to shove them out of the way! That’s how we can talk.
It feels like a dream. I mean, we’re underwater for starters. That’s pretty like a dream.
This is the bottom of the millpond. This is where I spend most of my time.
It’s nice you have these armchairs.
They’re yours. You brought them.
Oh. So this is what it’s like under the gravestone?
I’m afraid so.
It’s murky.
I know.
It’s quite hard to reach you.
I think it’ll be easier next time now we know how.
What are those lights over there? Is there a car driving about?
That’s the Merry-Go-Round.
Can we go and take a look?
No! Maybe some other time…
Why’s the water so dirty?
It’s not dirty! Don’t be so rude! It’s just silt from the bottom of the pond.
I can hardly see a thing.
The silt gets all churned up as the river goes through the Boggy Clump.
The Boggy Clump?
Sorry. I mean the mill wheel. My thoughts keep getting mixed up with yours. You’re more complicated than a gravestone.
How do you know about the Boggy Clump?
I know all about you now. That’s why I need to speak to you. Actually I need you to wake up only I haven’t figured out how to SCREAM at you yet.
You want to scream at me?
I’ll save it up for later. You need to leave the Dormitory.
Why?
I know why you’re entering Eisteddfod. Your friends think you’ll learn about yourself in the Dragon Fire. They think they’ll be able to find out why you Appeared. And stop the Vanishings.
You saw all that?
I didn’t really “see” it exactly. It’s all in pieces and sudden glimpses. Like being in a tornado and seeing things go whizzing past. I’ve been busy making sense of it all.
Is it true?
Which bit?
They told me the first story you hear in the Dragon Fire is your own. You learn the truth about yourself.
Yes, that’s what you have to do in the competition. A Dragon Hunter takes you into the Deep Woods to find a Dragon, and makes it breathe fire over you. You only survive if you can accept the truth about yourself. Then you become a Dragon Hunter.
It doesn’t sound so difficult.
Hardly anyone can accept the truth about themselves. That’s why I want to speak to you. You have another idea. Don’t you?
You saw that too? About my Forever Parents?
Yes. I can help you find them, Max. I think they’re here somewhere, in the Woods.
Why do you think that?
They flew in a Balloon, didn’t they?
In my dreams they did. Why would I dream they did, if they didn’t?
Balloons go all over the Beginning Woods. That’s how people get about when they have a long journey. It’s safer than the Paths. Maybe they work on the Balloons.
Can you show me?
Yes. But first, you have to take me home.
What? Now?
It’s only about a day’s journey. It’s easy to find.
I don’t know. I should speak to Boris and Mrs Jeffers.
What if they don’t believe you? Then you’ll never find out about your Forever Parents. Not if you get roasted in the Dragon Fire. You should try all the other things first.
They said Eisteddfod was in Paris in a few days. Will we have time to get there if I take you home?
Yes! But if you do Eisteddfod before taking me home, it’ll be too late for me.
Because I might die in the Dragon Fire, right?
Well. Yes.
I suppose it does make sense. To do you first, I mean…
So come on! We have to go now! The sun will be up soon.
I’ve only just got into bed!
We’re not all lazy sleepy-heads like you are in the World. We get up at dawn.
Why?
Because there’s so much to do! Milking the cows. Lighting the fire. Chopping the wood. Cleaning the floor. That’s all before breakfast!
We just brush our teeth and go.
Well it’s not like that here!
I’m not sure this is a good idea.
I’m ordering you then!
Ordering me?
Yes. I’m the Queen. You’re the Knight. Let’s go.
I didn’t know we were still playing that game…
It doesn’t stop. Move it!
OK OK.
What are you waiting for?
I’m still sleeping! How do I wake up?
I don’t know! Try swimming up to the surface.
OK.
Call me when you do. I’ll come out and help.
I tried that before and it didn’t work.
I was finding my way around in here. I think it will be easier now.
All right. I’m going.
Max—wait.
What?
It’s nice of you, being my gravestone I mean. You’re a bit strange. But it’s nice.
What do you mea
n I’m strange?
I’ve never been inside a person before. I don’t know. Maybe we’re all like this deep down.
Like what?
Confused.
He opened his eyes.
The dream hung in his head, every detail clear and sharp.
So it hadn’t been a dream.
He sat up. The Dormitory was filled with the sounds of sleep, with snores, lip-smacking and dream-filled muttering. Most of the lanterns and candles had burnt low. The Dream Harvesters had finished their work and dispersed up the chimney.
He looked at his finger and gave it a shake.
COME OUT THEN! I’M UP! IT’S REALLY EARLY!
He felt a draining sensation in his mind, and a tingle in his finger, and then she was there, cross-legged on the end of the bed just as before.
“Stop shouting!” she whispered. “Next time make it quieter!”
“I thought you wouldn’t hear me.” He shivered as his breath puffed in the air. “Are we really going outside? It’s so cold!”
“You’ll feel better when you’re moving.”
“What about breakfast? I’m starving.”
“I’ll find you something. Get changed!”
Her light, grey body darted off, bending down now and again to pillage the bundles tucked under the beds. He threw back the covers and swung his legs out of the bed, wincing as his toes brushed the icy flagstones. By the time she returned, he had struggled into the clothes Father Furthingale had left—a leather jerkin lined with wool, a woollen undershirt and leggings, trousers of thick wool, knitted socks and short leather boots.
“We have to hurry,” Martha said. “We should get into the trees before they all wake up. What are you looking for?”
Max was rummaging in the pockets of his World clothes.
“I can’t just disappear. Do you have any paper or anything?”
“What do you need paper for?”
“I’m going to write them a letter.”
“Not about me! You can’t tell them where we’re going. They might send someone after us.”
“I won’t. I’ll just tell them I’m going to… try something else before the Dragon Fire.”
“There’s a guestbook,” she said, after a quick think. “It’s at the door. Wait a moment.”
Off she went again, her bare feet pattering quietly on the flagstones. When she came back she handed him a torn sheet of paper, an ink pot and a peacock feather.
“What am I supposed to do with that?”
“With what?”
“The giant feather.”
“It’s a pen! Don’t you have pens in the World?”
“Not like that. I’ll need a surface.”
“A surface? Why?”
“I need something to lean on.”
“Knights don’t go around looking for surfaces! Just use the floor!”
“OK. Hold the lantern near so I can see.”
He knelt by the bed and began writing, the peacock feather jiggling while Martha held the lantern over his head.
Hello it’s me I’m NOT running away because I’m scared of the Dragon I’m going to find my Forever Parents they’re called the Panthalassas and they work on the Balloons it’s a much better idea than trying to hear a story in the Dragon Fire
“Look at your handwriting. It’s so awful.”
“I’ve not used one of these things before.”
“Can’t you write any faster?”
“Neat or fast? What do you want? You can’t have both.”
“I can’t have either by the look of it.”
“Stop distracting me!”
and my Forever Parents are bound to know about the Appearance and how it all got started so then I’ll come back here and tell you all about it and we can stop the Vanishings just like you want.
MAX
PS and if that doesn’t work then of course we can do the Dragon thing.
“What’s that stupid squiggle under your name?”
“That’s a flourish. It’s how people sign when they write with feathers.”
“Oh good grief! Can we go please? Father Furthingale will be up any minute.”
He folded the message and stuck it in one of his trainers under the bed.
It occurred to him that there was no escape from the Dark Man, that someone who had always been there would manage to continue being there. But he shook the worry off. The Dark Man had turned out to be a scientist called Boris Peshkov. He didn’t have any strange powers. He was just a man.
“I’m ready,” he muttered, slinging the bag of food over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
They stopped a moment on the Dormitory steps. To the east the sky was beginning to brighten, giving just enough light to make out the curve of the road.
“I’ll have to go back under your fingernail in a moment,” Martha said, her eyes on the horizon. “Come on!”
Holding hands, they ran across the forecourt. They had only gone a short distance up the road when the Dormitory bell rang out behind them. Max felt a tingle rush up his arm, then a surge of emotion as Martha was back inside him.
Don’t stop. The road takes us straight into the Woods, then it becomes a Path. Just keep going after that, there’s a bit to go before the first turning.
OK.
The road continued parallel to the forest’s edge at first, then slowly drifted inwards. In the dim light of dawn it seemed to Max that the Woods were inching closer to the road, creeping up on it a moment at a time. And then they were under the eaves of the forest. The road was squeezed into a narrow Path, and the air came alive with sounds—crackles of movement, shivering sighs and groans. Trees lined the Path in haphazard order, hunched and wizened as trolls, old and unmoving. He slowed to a walk, then stopped.
What are you doing? Keep going!
I need to have breakfast even if you don’t!
He sat on a fallen trunk that lay mossy and cold beside the Path.
Sausage. Bread. Cheese.
No cereal?
No what?
Kidding. This is nice. Thanks.
Just hurry.
As he ate he glanced round, uneasily at first, then with curiosity and interest. In the wintery stillness the movements that came were magnified and startling. A batter of wings overhead as a crow settled on a branch. A scuttle of movement as a woodland creature darted across the Path. Now and again he glanced up at the strange web of branches that formed the canopy, but this time there were no words or images to be seen. Instead, his ear became attuned to the rustle of the branches as they scraped against each other.
He stopped chewing so he could hear it better.
Something was being said.
Max, be careful!
I’m trying to listen.
But—
Shhh!
The trees weren’t sleeping at all.
Stories…
They were telling stories.
They circled teasingly around his head, inches beyond understanding. He stood up, his head cocked to one side. The sound crystallized into a voice whispering clear and close, and the story carried him away in its currents. It was a soft story, a gentle story, a slumbery story—a story about a boy falling asleep in the Woods, filled with the scents of pine and sleep, filled with the scent and sound of dreams, dreams of being a boy asleep in the Woods, of being a boy asleep in the dreams, dreams of being dreams and nothing else but dreams… a dream in the dream in the dream…
And then—pain. Sharp. The dreams fled. Something had him. He screamed. Something huge and powerful and hairy had him in its teeth, biting down on his neck.
Something all fur and snarls. It shook him, hard. Then let go.
He fell forwards, gasping at the shock of it. Face down on the Path, he looked up just in time to see a huge shape bounding into the trees.
He lay there a moment, stunned. Felt his neck. It was wet with saliva. He hadn’t been hurt. But some animal had attacked him and then fled.
What WAS that?
Did you see?
He got to his feet, looking round warily. Realized she hadn’t answered.
He tried again.
Did you see it? It was like… a monster!
No response, no voice, not even the flare of her emotions. All he sensed was himself. His own feelings, his own thoughts.
She just hadn’t heard him, that was all. The water was deep. She was distracted by the Merry-Go-Round.
Martha?
His voice was nothing more than a hollow echo in his mind.
MARTHA! ARE YOU THERE!
Nothing.
He couldn’t feel her inside him any more. And suddenly he wondered: how long had he been under the spell of the trees? He glanced up at the sky. With a cold shock, he saw the sun had changed position. Completely.
It must have been hours!
He squeezed his eyes shut and imagined himself standing on the edge of the millpond. Took a deep breath. Dived in. Directed his whole being downwards.
Martha! Wait! I’m coming!
Kicking hard, he swam into the darkness, past where the shafts of sunlight weakened and broke apart, into the murk and the cold. And there he found her, drifting among the weeds and the frogs, her body a curl in an underwater current.
Max…
I’m here!
Reaching out, he caught hold of her limp hand and pulled her towards him. She rose and was with him once more, her voice a freezing whisper as he fell to his knees on the Path.
Don’t let me go, my Knight. Don’t let me die.
And he promised he would not.
And swore he would not.
And gave his oath to his Queen he would not.
THE WILDNESS
So where now?
We need to be going north. There should be a Northmark somewhere near. Use it to check the direction.
The Path had faded to a smudge on the forest floor, barely a foot wide. Another Path had appeared out of the undergrowth, melting into the first, then splitting off again.
What’s it look like, this thing?
A small boulder, about the size of your head. It should be painted white, but the Woods might have sent some moss to cover it up. It doesn’t like Northmarks.
After hunting about and pulling at twists of bramble he found the Northmark at the foot of a tree. An arrow had been chiselled into the surface, pointing along one of the Paths.
The Beginning Woods Page 15