Growned

by Tracey Meredith

  “So, I guess we'd better get a move on,” sighed Liam. “I really could do with something to eat and drink.” He stood up wearily.

  “Me too,” said Cinnabar. “I had a mouthful of woodlouse this morning. Not my favourite. My name is Cinnabar, by the way.”

  Liam responded with a nod. “So what do we do, Cinnabar? This is your territory. Can we get to somewhere safe?”

  “Er, well, strictly speaking, it's not my territory,” replied Cinnabar ruefully. “Us fairies don't often come down to ground level. There are too many things about that could eat us. Unfortunately, I've had a bit of an accident and I can't fly at the moment.”

  Cinnabar surveyed what little of the sky he could see through the long grass and trees. “I'm hopeful friends are out looking for me—and for you if your disappearance has got back to the palace. Ideally, we need either a high place we can climb to—not much chance of that, really—or a wide open space we can be spotted in. We also need to stop my wings getting any wetter than they already are. I had a set-to with a large fish and ended up in the lake,” explained Cinnabar as the question began to form itself on Liam's lips.

  Cinnabar continued. “I think we should stay in sight of the lake and try to walk round it. Home is somewhere not far from it and we will eventually get there if we keep the shore to our left.” He paused. “Charlock will probably work that one out for himself and come looking for us again. But the alternative is, we get so hopelessly lost no one will ever find us. What do you think?”

  Liam shrugged. He was too tired to care. He was glad he now had some company and someone familiar with this strange landscape, but he hadn't felt comforted by Cinnabar's words. He feared another encounter with Charlock.

  *

  CHARLOCK picked himself up. He felt an unusual emotion. He thought it might be annoyance. And that throb on the side of his head might be pain. They were both alien feelings. He suspected, though he didn't want to dwell on it, that he might have lost consciousness, as he had no recollection of his assailant or the human leaving.

  He felt the side of his head with his fingers.

  Sore.

  Sticky.

  He looked at his fingers.

  Blood.

  Familiar territory. He knew about blood. If it was still sticky then he hadn't been unconscious for long. They had a head start, but it wouldn't be enough.

  He began searching for his knife. He carried no other weapon. He didn't need to. The knife was silent, concealable and very, very personal. You had to get really close to your victim to use it properly.

  He spied a glint of white within the leaf debris. His hand found and caressed the handle, his thumb and fingers enjoying the familiar contours.

  He held the knife up to his face. All in one piece. Was this relief he was feeling? He'd never lost his knife before. Anxiety was not a feeling he liked.

  He looked admiringly at his handiwork. He had made the knife from the remains of his first victim, fashioned to meet the shortcomings of the knife he had been given. It had not the durability of metal—used wrongly it would shatter. But it was sharp and it was light, and fitted into his hand like it had grown from him.

  He ran his finger along the edge of the blade, and watched with satisfaction as it sliced through his flesh and drew blood. He watched the blood dribble down his finger and onto his palm.

  Still sharp.

  Still deadly.

  He licked the blood from his finger and then his palm, and grinned.

  Time to go.

  Time to kill.

  He had two victims to hunt now. He would enjoy taking his time with the one who had hit him.

  *

  “YOU know, I don't think this poor child stopped for a rest all night,” said Hornbeam.

  “A very determined chap then,” panted Mezereon, struggling to keep up.

  “No, a very scared chap I think,” replied Hornbeam, scanning the ground ahead of him closely. “Oh.”

  “What? What have you found?”

  “Blood.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Something happened here. Let me look. Now hush. I've got to concentrate. And don't move or you'll mess the signs up.”

  Hornbeam went backwards and forwards, muttering to himself. Finally, he turned to Mezereon. “It doesn't look good either way,” he told his master. “Something was definitely following the boy. I think we can assume it was Charlock. But I think something else joined the party here. Something or someone got hurt or killed. One party went off, followed by a second.”

  “But who?”

  “No idea on all counts. Who or what was the stranger? No idea. Whose blood is it? No idea. Who has the boy? No idea. Is he still alive? No idea.” He paused. “This way, I think.”

  Mezereon sighed―a loud, long suffering sigh. Hornbeam ignored it and strode on ahead. He could hear Mezereon crashing after him. He rolled his eyes in disbelief. The noise his master was making! That came from too many hours in the laboratory and too few outside in the big wide world. He had absolutely no idea how to proceed quietly. At this rate, they would have all the bugs in the area aware of their presence and looking to make a snack of them.

  Hornbeam smiled briefly. Perhaps they would make a meal of Mezereon first and allow himself to proceed after the boy, unhindered. Hornbeam sighed as he remembered Mezereon and the spider. No, he wouldn't be able to proceed, would he? He'd have to go back and rescue Mezereon. Again.

  There was a yell behind him. Hornbeam turned slowly, gritting his teeth. Now what?

  Mezereon had completely disappeared.

  Hornbeam’s sharp eyes searched all the surrounding area quickly and carefully. The canopy above him seemed empty. Nothing moved in the surrounding grasses.

  “Master?” called Hornbeam tentatively. “Master? Where are you?” His ears caught a muffled reply. “Where are you?” he called again.

  Another muffled reply, and yes, it came from beneath his feet somewhere. Hornbeam cursed under his breath. What an idiot! Why didn't the stupid fool look where he was going? He had a good mind to walk off and leave Mezereon in his hole with whatever else lived there. But, of course, he couldn't, could he?

  Hornbeam searched the ground around him carefully and found the hole. He groaned. It was clearly being used by ants. Not much to deal with on their own, but if they acted as a swarm, he and his master were in big, big trouble.

  He took off his backpack, made sure his knife was secured to his belt and picked up his spear.

  *

  LIAM bit into the piece of mushroom Cinnabar had given him. It was like chewing slightly damp cardboard, and had a mild, nutty flavour. After assuring him it wasn't poisonous, Cinnabar had proceeded to inform Liam of the different ways of cooking it. “But we haven't time to make a fire and roast it,” Cinnabar said wryly. “When we get home, I'll get the cook to make you a special dish with it.”

  Liam looked up at the pink gills of the mushroom. It looked enormous from his current point of view. They must have to fell them like great trees, he thought. As it was, he'd had to stand on Cinnabar's shoulders to peel pieces off the stalk.

  “We need to get moving,” Cinnabar informed Liam. “I know you're tired, but we have to keep moving until sun down.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then we have to hope we can find somewhere safe to sleep. It's not just Charlock we have to hide from at night.”

  Now he had eaten, Liam felt terribly thirsty. “What do we do for water?” he asked.

  “Hmm,” mused Cinnabar. “That may be more difficult. We need to collect it early in the morning, while the dew's still on the grass. It doesn't hang around for long at this time of year. Still, we might get lucky. The alternative is that we wait for it to rain, which I'd rather not happen at the moment.”

  Liam nodded and followed Cinnabar. “How are your wings?” he asked.

  “Not sure,” replied Cinnabar. “They got a thorough soaking. Ideally, I need a really hot day and somebody to carefully sp
read them out for me.”

  “You can't do that yourself?”

  “I could, but when they're wet they stick together, and if I try to spread them out, I could end up tearing them.”

  “Bit of a design fault then.”

  “I suppose.” Cinnabar stopped suddenly. “I can hear...” he began.

  But Liam also heard it, a loud buzzing sound. It was very familiar and disconcerting.

  “Wasp!” exclaimed Cinnabar and pulled Liam into the grass. “Not always a hunter,” whispered the fairy, “but they can be quite bad tempered, and if it stings one of us—well, it's all over.”

  The wasp lingered.

  “It's collecting nectar,” sighed Cinnabar. “There are a lot of flowers around here. It could be ages.”

  “They can carry a lot then?” asked Liam, suddenly aware how ignorant he was of the life style of wasps.

  Cinnabar shrugged. “Depends on how much the flowers have got and how much it's already collected.”

  The wasp was getting nearer. Cinnabar pulled Liam further into the grass. Liam looked at the great barb of a sting at the end of the insect's abdomen. He'd been stung by a wasp when he was full size and he remembered how painful it had been. He could only imagine how much it might hurt now he was this size.

  They waited for a good ten minutes, but still the wasp buzzed above them.

  “We're going to have to risk moving in a minute,” whispered Cinnabar. “Every minute we're waiting, Charlock is getting nearer. And frankly, I'd rather take my chances with the wasp than Charlock.”

  The wasp disappeared into a bindweed's trumpet.

  “Now!” hissed Cinnabar, grabbing Liam's arm.

  They crept quickly past the tangle of bindweed. The rhythmic buzz of the wasp passed behind them. Suddenly, the sound of the buzzing changed. It became syncopated and angry.

  “It's seen us!” yelled Cinnabar. “Run!”

  Stumbling forward, Liam chased after the fairy. Before he could catch up with Cinnabar, he collided with something and fell heavily onto his elbow. He groaned as he rolled over, and froze as he looked into the face of Charlock.

  *

  HORNBEAM swore as he slid down into the hole. It was narrower than he thought it would be and he immediately rued bringing his spear. He was going to have trouble getting around bends if it stayed this narrow. He would have to leave it here and hope he wouldn't regret it later.

  The tunnel was dark. His body blocked out what light there was. He toyed with the idea of going back up and making a torch, but decided it would take too much time and effort trying to reverse out of the hole. So, how far had that idiot of a wizard managed to get?

  “Master?” whispered Hornbeam. “Master? Are you there?”

  There was a muffled noise. Evidently, Mezereon had managed to fall some way down, despite the tunnel's narrowness. “Typical,” muttered Hornbeam unsympathetically.

  He groped his way forward, his hands pulling him slowly along the gritty surface. He could feel the walls of the tunnel closing around his shoulders and his wings. The air became hot as his body plugged the hole almost perfectly, preventing the fresh air from flowing. He could see nothing and could feel the walls of the tunnel slowly compressing him.

  He crawled on, the tunnel wrapped around him like a second skin. How on earth had Mezereon fallen down it so far? He stopped, an awful realisation dawning on him. He had come down the wrong hole. He should have realised it immediately. The tunnel narrowed too quickly for anyone to just fall into it.

  Hornbeam groaned. He couldn't turn around. The only options were to go forward and hope he didn't get stuck, or go backwards. He knew there was an exit behind him, so no matter how long it took, he would eventually get out. He rested his head on his arms and sighed. All this effort for nothing. Back it was then.

  Pushing with the palms of his hands, he shoved backwards—and yelled with pain. He might be able to drag his wings forwards, but they weren't co-operating going backwards. They had caught on the roof of the tunnel and sent a jar of agony through his back, along his shoulders and into his arms and hands. He felt sick.

  He lay with his face on the sandy floor of the tunnel, waiting for the pain to subside. Just below the tide of pain rose a little ripple of panic. What if he was stuck here?

  He forced the panic down. He needed to think clearly. He could go forward again, in the hope the tunnel would either widen out sufficiently for him to turn around, or take him to another exit. He dismissed that idea—the tunnel was evidently narrowing. And anyway, the further forward he went, the further he was getting from a known exit. On the other hand, if he carried on going backwards, he risked damaging his wings further and doing irreparable harm to them.

  He knew the tunnel had narrowed as he had come down, so it would widen as he went back. The question was, would it widen quickly enough?

  He had no choice, really. He had to go back and risk losing his ability to fly. Unpalatable as it was, there were better odds of survival that way.

  He closed his eyes and took in a couple of deep breaths of very stale air. Bit by bit, he told himself. Just take it a little at a time. He concentrated on pulling his wings as tight to his body as he could. He pushed himself back slowly, using his fingertips to keep the movement as small as possible.

  There was more pain. He forced himself not to react and jerk forward again. He clenched his teeth and waited for the pain to subside. He took another deep breath, drew in his wings as far as he could and eased himself back a little more.

  The pain was almost unbearable and this time Hornbeam was sick. He lay panting in the dark, the smell of his vomit filling his nostrils. The ripple of panic got a little bigger. You're not going to be able to do this, a quiet voice in his head told him.

  Hornbeam gritted his teeth and pushed himself a finger's length back again. The pain hit him, but this time he thought it wasn't quite so bad. He paused to gather himself and then pushed himself back one more time. The pain was definitely less intense this time.

  Slowly, finger length by finger length, he eased backwards. After ten minutes, he was utterly exhausted. He lay with his face pressed onto his arms, panting and sweating.

  As his breathing grew more regular, he noticed a cooling breeze playing along his sweat soaked sides. He gave a sigh of relief. The tunnel was definitely widening out. Thank goodness. Maybe now he could go a bit faster.

  Buoyed by this, he carefully pushed himself back a full arm's length. There was still pain, but he could bear it. Faster and faster he pushed himself until he suddenly noticed he could see his hands. And there was his spear. He almost cried with relief.

  The tunnel became steeper as it bent upwards in its final climb to the surface. With a great effort, he pushed himself up the last incline, until he felt his legs fall clear of the tunnel and arrive on flat ground. He knelt gratefully as, slowly and carefully, he pulled his head and torso clear of the hole.

  He sighed with relief and filled his lungs with fresh air. He savoured the moment―until a sharp, petulant voice barked in his ear.

  “Where have you been? You left me in that horrible hole! I could have been eaten!”

  Hornbeam's heart sank as he slowly turned his head and beheld a dusty, cobweb covered Mezereon.

  *

  THE Vapourer stood on a stool in front of a mirror, his arms outstretched, laughing a high-pitched maniacal laugh. He practised the laugh first thing every morning and felt he had just about perfected it. He was also working on the Point and Sneer, a look he hoped would render all who faced him fearful and helpless. But not yet. At the moment, the Vapourer suspected, it would render all who faced him into helpless giggles.

  He surveyed himself critically. He looked more like someone who had eaten a bitter walnut than someone who was the possessor of ultimate power, condemning all his enemies to obliteration.

  He tried again. Now he looked like he was constipated. He sighed. No one knew the trials and tribulations of the truly evil.

&nb
sp; He got off the stool and tugged the richly embroidered bell-pull with which he summoned his minions. Or, rather, his minion.

  Bogbean shuffled into the room. “You rang, Master?” The Vapourer decided to try the Sneer on his servant. Bogbean looked back at him, clearly perplexed. “Is it the indigestion again?” he asked his lord tentatively. “I did warn you not to eat those earwig legs.”

  The Vapourer sighed and lowered his pointing finger. Why do I bother? he thought.

  “What news, Bogbean?” he asked in clipped tones.

  Bogbean rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well,” he said slowly, “there's still no word from Charlock, so we don't know what's happening there. The Prince Cinnabar is still missing, though there's no body, which ain't surprising if Lord Pike ate him. But they're still searching for him—at least, his manservant's still looking for him. Mezereon and his servant should have been back with the human child by now, but no one knows where they are. Erm...” He frowned. “That's about it, I think, Master.”

  “So neither heirs can be found! Good, good, good. And the Queen, no doubt, sighing and weeping and throwing her usual high dramatics and being totally useless. Yes, it's all going to plan, though I have to admit, Cinnabar's untimely demise in the jaws of Lord Pike was an unexpected bonus.” He paused. “And what of the assassins? Are they ready to be unleashed on the hysterical subjects of an equally hysterical Queen Demoiselle?”

  “All wound up and ready to go, your Lordship. It's all I can do to hold them in their cages. Been feeding them raw meat and magic mushrooms for weeks. All we're waiting for is the return of Charlock, and then the Frenzy can be released on your unsuspecting enemies, my Lord.”

  “Good,” crooned the Vapourer. “Good. And then—” He flung out his arms “—all this will be mine! All mine!” And then he laughed his maniacal laugh.