Skull in the Wood

by Sandra Greaves

  ‘Maybe that’s true and maybe it isn’t,’ he said.

  I sighed. What did I have to lose? ‘I’m leaving,’ I said. ‘Can you tell Uncle Jack I’m sorry, but I had to go? In fact, you can tell him it’s all Tilda’s fault. She’s been totally vile to me ever since I arrived.’

  Gabe blinked. ‘I’ll tell him, Matt Crimmond,’ he said, ‘or the first part at least. But don’t you go thinking you can get away just like that. They won’t let you.’

  I recoiled sharply. ‘Who won’t let me?’ I asked. ‘Uncle Jack and Tilda aren’t going to stop me. I shouldn’t think they care much anyway.’

  Gabe’s mouth creased up into a sardonic smile and he leant in closer to me. ‘Not them, boy,’ he said. ‘I mean the harbingers. And maybe the gabbleratchet.’

  Though Gabe’s breath was warm on my face, my body suddenly felt cold all over. Could it be true? Would I really never get away from here? I fought for control. Gabe was talking rubbish, and I wasn’t going to listen to it. I stepped back from him, hefted my bag further up my shoulder and started walking as fast as I could. It had no effect. He fell in beside me, wiry as an old whippet.

  ‘Look, just let me go, can’t you?’ I said.

  Gabe stopped dead and pointed. Ahead of us a straggle of round-bellied Dartmoor ponies were cropping the grass at the side of the road. They scattered at our approach. Just two remained, turning in different directions as if they couldn’t decide how to make their escape.

  And then I saw it, sitting on the road close to the ponies, staring at us. It had to be a hare. Long, long ears tipped with black and huge raised eyes. I’d never seen one before, but I knew what it was at once. Only it didn’t move. Just stared at us with those malevolent dark eyes.

  Slowly I raised my camera from round my neck. It would run off, surely. But no. It was still there, still staring. I clicked the shutter. That would be some picture.

  Gabe jabbed my arm sharply. I put the camera down again, and realised the ponies hadn’t found a way out of the road. They were going frantic – twisting and turning, backing away from the hare as if it was the most terrifying thing they’d ever seen. Suddenly one of them reared up on its hind legs, its open mouth flecked with foam. For a moment it towered there, then it brought its hooves down hard against the other one’s belly.

  There was a high, pained, drawn-out whinny that seared through my brain. Then at last both ponies pounded away.

  I looked at the road again. The hare was gone.

  Something boiled over inside me. I flung my bag into the road in the direction of where the hare had been sitting.

  Gabe watched, expressionless, as I picked it up again. ‘You won’t get rid of it like that. It feeds on the anger, see. Hares bring evil luck, often enough. I reckon that one there was a harbinger – you saw what it did to those ponies. And there’s a good chance that mare would have been in foal. She’ll probably miscarry now.’

  I didn’t want to hear any more. I started walking again.

  ‘You think you can go,’ Gabe said, ‘but you’ll be back.’ His voice was softer, almost gentle. ‘I’m sorry, boy. There’s nothing you nor I can do.’

  ‘What is it with you?’ I shouted. ‘You can’t change my mind, whatever you say. Why don’t you go back home to the farm and leave me alone?’

  Gabe laughed. ‘I was at home already when I saw you coming,’ he said. ‘It’s just over there.’

  I glanced ahead and saw a cottage I hadn’t noticed before. Not a pretty one, though. The walls were brown rather than white, and in need of a major scrub-up. A ramshackle fence surrounded a small yard full of rusting bits of metal. Four chickens were foraging for scraps among the debris.

  ‘You can come in and have a bite with me and the missus if you like,’ said Gabe. ‘We’re just about to have our tea.’ He walked up to the gate of the cottage and waited for me.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to go.’ I squared my shoulders. ‘Whether they let me or not.’

  ‘Ah, well,’ he said. ‘You do what you must do.’ He hesitated. ‘You’ll find there’s a bus in Widecombe that takes you off the moor if you hurry. It leaves at ten to four. It’s the only one this afternoon, mind.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  That seemed to be enough for him. Gabe wasn’t like other adults, always fussing about nothing. He just nodded and turned to go through the gate. When I looked back, he was standing at the front door next to an oldish woman with slate-grey hair down to her shoulders. Sort of witchy-looking. Both of them were gazing after me.

  I made the bus by the skin of my teeth. There were only about five other passengers, and I sat on my own near the back. For a while I stared into space, then I got out my camera. I wanted to see that hare again. Only when I looked, there was nothing there.

  I checked further back. All those pictures from Old Scratch Wood had gone, too. And the ones from the tor on my phone. It was weird. There had to be some kind of fault with both cameras. Unless . . . No. I didn’t want to think about it.

  Thank goodness I was getting off the moor. Mum would go mad when she found out what I’d done, but right now I didn’t care. I took a quick look at my phone. Still no signal. Good. I intended to keep it that way for a while, so I turned the thing off, shoved it in the bottom of my bag and shut my eyes. A plan was forming in my mind. Why should I go home at all? It wasn’t like Mum wanted me there. She and Paul the pillock and my pig of a cousin could all stuff themselves. I was going to disappear.

  The bus stopped in Totnes. I asked a couple of people for directions, and waited for another bus that would take me on to Dartmouth and the river. I was in luck. I only had to hang around for another hour or so. And finally I was there.

  I know the river Dart has its source high up on Dartmoor – Dad had told me that often enough – but by the time it reaches Dartmouth, it’s a huge natural harbour with hundreds of fancy yachts tied up all along it. It was a relief to see blue water and shops and people walking around as if they were enjoying themselves – like a burst of sunlight after all the darkness on the moor.

  I’d been here a few times with Dad, and I knew where he kept his boat. Not the big yacht he’d set sail to the Canaries with – just a little wooden one he keeps here for pottering about the coast. I bought a pasty and some water and biscuits, then I walked down to the marina and found her. Dreamcatcher. She’s not much to look at, but two can sleep in her quite comfortably.

  I went into the marina office and asked for the keys, giving Dad’s name and address. The girl didn’t look twice at me, just handed them over.

  Success. I was in.

  For ages I watched the other boats on the river. I ate my pasty on deck, congratulating myself on my brilliant idea. I even tried to read one of the books Dad had left on the boat – Knots and Their Uses – but gave up after I couldn’t work out how to do a bowline. Finally I snuggled up in a sleeping bag on a narrow bunk and felt myself drifting off to the gentle rocking of the boat. It was so peaceful. I wondered what was going on at the farm, and hoped Tilda was in serious trouble.

  I wished I’d sneaked Jez away with me, just for a bit of company. But never mind, I was fine by myself. Everyone would just have to do without me. Including the gabbleratchet.

  12

  Kitty

  Matt’s gone away. He didn’t say goodbye. Daddy’s very cross with Tilda and she keeps on singing ‘It’s a lovely day today’ so he gets even crosser. But I want Matt to come back. I think the chickens do, too. Our cockerel was horrible to me today. He jumped at me with his spurs and I ran away. He’s never done that before – he’s always nice. But it wasn’t his fault. All the animals are scared. They think something bad’s going to happen. And Matt’s all on his own.

  13

  Matt

  When I woke up to the sound of gulls and clinking masts I couldn’t believe I’d stayed out all night by myself. No one had any idea where I was. That would show them – Mum and Paul and Tilda and everyone else
. What’s more, it had been the best night’s sleep I’d had for ages. I stuck my head out of the cabin and inhaled the fresh air. The sun was just coming up, the water was rippling gently and no one was about. I’d got away, despite all Gabe’s predictions. What a load of old rubbish they’d turned out to be. And with luck, Tilda would get a major telling-off for her part in my disappearance. She deserved it.

  The trouble was, I couldn’t help feeling guilty about Mum. She would probably be going spare by now. I hoped she wouldn’t start imagining all sorts of terrible stuff had happened to me. I mean, it wasn’t like I was a kid any more – I could look after myself. But maybe she’d think I’d gone to a friend’s or something. And of course Gabe would have told her I was OK – in fact, knowing him, he’d have said I’d be back on the moor any minute to face the gabbleratchet. Ha ha. Like that was going to happen.

  I knew I should call her to let her know I was safe, but I didn’t want to yet. Let her stew for a while, a dark part of me thought. Maybe she’d think twice about Paul if she started missing me.

  I ducked down below again and my eye fell on the box perched at the top of my holdall, containing the curlew skull. Bringing that had been pure genius – it would really annoy Tilda. But I still didn’t like it. I stuffed it further down in the bag, under my clothes.

  Then an idea occurred to me, swift as a shadow across the water. I was in trouble already, so why not go the whole hog? I could take Dreamcatcher out myself. I’d always wanted to sail her single-handed, but Dad wouldn’t let me – he said I had to get my Yachtmaster exam first. But I knew how to handle her perfectly well – I’d done masses of dinghy sailing over the years, so it wasn’t as if I was a novice or anything. It would be exactly what I needed to get the last few days out of my system – Tilda and the skull and Old Scratch Wood and the way those animals had been acting ever since. But it wasn’t just that. Deep down, I realised, I liked the notion of scaring everyone just a bit.

  Before I could talk myself out of it, I started getting the boat ready. Dad would go ballistic if he knew, but then he was off floating somewhere on the Atlantic – and besides, he’d left me behind with the four-eyed pillock without a second thought. I wasn’t going to worry too much about his feelings right now.

  I took a while checking the sails and unrolling a bit of jib, then got the ropes ready. There wasn’t much wind down here on the river, and the water was hardly moving. The tide must be just at the turning point, which would make it easy to get out of the berth – I wouldn’t have to worry about which way it was going.

  Finally I turned the engine on. Even though Dad hadn’t used it for over a year now, it purred into action straight away. Great. I put it into gear and slipped the ropes, and Dreamcatcher moved slowly out from the pontoon.

  ‘Nice and steady does it,’ I said, and laughed, because I sounded just like Dad.

  With the slightest movement on the helm, Dreamcatcher and I chugged out of our berth and into the river.

  I knew the rules of the road, or at least the most obvious ones. I’m good at that sort of stuff. Keep to the right on the way out. Power gives way to sail. Port gives way to starboard. Windward gives way to leeward. But I was the only one out. It was too late in the season for holidaymakers, and way too chilly.

  I’d only got my jumper and my coat on – totally the wrong kit for sailing, and if it got wet, I’d be cold and miserable. I put the gear lever in neutral and went below to see if there was anything I could find to keep me warm.

  I was in luck. Dad had left a couple of thick woolly fleeces rolled up in one of the lockers, and in a cupboard I found waterproofs and a windproof jacket. I stuck on a fleece and felt the warmth seep into me. It was a bad move, though. Suddenly I really wanted Dad here, not just his fleeces. I wished he hadn’t disappeared right when I needed him. Mum always said that when the going got tough, Dad got going. I’d always stood up for him – but maybe she wasn’t completely wrong. There was no point in dwelling on it, though. I clambered out of the cabin and took the helm again.

  A couple of fishing boats covered in huge pink buoys were heading out to the river mouth far ahead, surrounded by hopeful seagulls. I watched them till they disappeared, then chugged after them, taking care to keep to starboard and follow the contours of the river. I didn’t think there were any nasty rocks, but it was best not to take any chances. It felt weird being in charge on my own. Dad lets me helm a lot of the time, but he’s always there watching me. I wondered if I should maybe go back now. But no – taking the boat didn’t really count unless I got out of the river and into the sea.

  Dreamcatcher passed the castle, and then the church with its walled graveyard. On the other side, high on the hill, was the stone tower that signalled the entrance to Dartmouth Harbour. I was doing pretty well, I reckoned. Normally Dad and I sail on the Solent, but he’d taken me here a year ago and it was all coming back to me. I turned into the wind and climbed on deck to hoist the mainsail. It was heavy, but it went up smoothly. OK, we weren’t sailing properly yet – I was keeping the engine on for a while – but it felt fantastic to be away from all that craziness on the moor.

  Once Dreamcatcher and I got out of the river and into the bay, the motion changed. The wind was stronger, and there was a light swell – a gentle rolling up and down that made me smile. I was beginning to feel at home. When I cleared the red buoy, I turned right and headed for the lighthouse at the end of the headland. It’s the way Dad has taken me before, and it’s a big wide bay with no rocks to worry about, just lovely open sea. I didn’t know much about navigation, but figured that wouldn’t be a problem so long as I could see the coast. It was time to turn the engine off and do a bit of real sailing.

  The first thing you notice is the silence. Then different sounds take over – the slap of the waves, the wind whistling around the sails, the flapping of canvas. I shifted the mainsail round to take the breeze, hauled the jib in tight, and was back in control again. The sails bellied out, taut with the wind. And now we were racing across the waves, free as a bird, and it was the most brilliant feeling in the world. All my worries disappeared into the vast blue-grey of the sea.

  The wind was coming from the south-west, so to follow the coast, I had to keep beating into it. That means doing zigzags – the closest you can go to the wind is forty-five degrees, so you have to keep tacking around to keep your course. Only it’s quite tiring – you don’t gain much ground because you can’t go in a straight line.

  I wasn’t much further on after an hour or so, and I was beginning to get seriously hungry. I wished I’d stocked up on food, but all I had was the biscuits. I shovelled a few down, but they didn’t really do the trick – I just felt hungrier. And now sort of lonely, too.

  I told myself that I’d go as far as the lighthouse and then turn back. But it was taking ages: the wind was strengthening, and further out to sea I could see a few white caps on the waves. I began to wish I’d stayed in the river – or better still, back in the harbour.

  Above the sound of the sea I realised I could hear a high-pitched noise that kept on repeating. My first thought was the sails. I checked them, but they looked OK. The thing is, noises matter at sea. You don’t want your boat going wrong. I felt a bit vulnerable all of a sudden.

  What’s more, the noise was growing louder now – this mournful keening that seemed to spiral higher and higher. I couldn’t work out which way it was coming from – only that it was getting closer.

  Whistling, I thought suddenly. That’s what it was like. A long, melancholy, ghostly whistling, getting louder all the time. My stomach lurched. What if it was curlews? Uncle Jack had said that they were a bad omen for sailors. And here I was, out on the sea on my own. How could I have been so stupid? With rising panic I peered in all directions, searching for the source of the noise, but hoping desperately not to find it.

  Then I spotted them. A group of large brown birds, flying low over the water, and heading straight towards the boat. I glimpsed the shape of the
ir bills – slender and curved and very long. Exactly like the skull at the bottom of my bag.

  The piercing noise grew louder and shriller. It filled my ears and my head and then the entire sky.

  I could make them out more clearly now. They were coming straight for me. Were they curlews? I’d no idea if they flew in groups like this. And surely they weren’t going to attack? I couldn’t believe it. The bills looked like curved swords that could slash through sailcloth – or skin. And I had nothing to defend myself with. I couldn’t leave the helm. My fingers gripped the wheel, white to the knuckle. The birds were almost on me and there was nothing I could do.

  Then, with just seconds to spare, they swerved upwards – so near that I could feel the rush of their wingbeats on my face. Instinctively I ducked my head and shut my eyes. I sensed more of them flying over me, horribly close. And suddenly I felt a deep raking gash on the top of my head, leaving me so full of pain I nearly fell. I gripped the helm and steadied myself. Then cautiously I opened my eyes and put my hand to my hair. It came back red and wet. But the birds were gone.

  I felt dizzy and sweaty, even inside all my layers. They had to be curlews. I couldn’t pretend any more. Gabe had been right all along. They were out to get me.

  I thought of the curlew skull down below. Did it have something to do with the birds that had just flown over? What if it was calling to them in some weird way that only they could hear? I was trembling. I wanted to run into the cabin, dig the skull out from my bag and throw it into the sea. But I had to stay at the helm. The swell was higher now, and it was taking all my concen tration to keep the sails from flapping too hard and maybe even tearing.

  Get a grip, I told myself. Come on, Matt. Just get a grip.

  Another gust and Dreamcatcher heeled over towards the waves. My eyes were full of spray, but in the distance I could see dark clouds building. I clung to the helm and wondered what it would feel like to drown.