by Chris Mould
They had more space here for their basket weaving and they would be close to the market square where they plied their trade. Now, while the revelers drank at the inn, they were wheeling their small cart across the city to the new place. Sure, it needed work done. But it was better than the cramped hovel they had previously been in and so they had packed up their things and begun to move.
They wheeled their cart nervously through the streets, knowing that should they be caught in the act, they would suffer at the hands of the authorities. A suspicious Mister Jarvis leaving the tavern was not helpful.
“Mrs. McCreedy, you seem to be struggling there. Perhaps I can help.”
Jarvis tipped the cart onto its side and rifled through their belongings.
“No, please, Mister Jarvis, I can manage, thank you,” Mrs. McCreedy insisted, knowing that he was eager to uncover her secret.
“You’re lucky this time,” he said. “But in the end, I’ll have them all. I’m not stupid, Mrs. McCreedy. I know a maternal woman when I see one. I can see it in your face. As sure as eggs is eggs, you got kiddies hidden away somewhere, I know it.” He grinned.
“Excuse us,” said Mister McCreedy, shoving his weedy frame past Jarvis and picking up the spilled belongings before heading indoors.
“No one likes a mess,” said Mrs. McCreedy. “But at least we have space for our little treasure. You can come out now,” she said. “We’re home and dry.”
And then, like a surprise from a jack-in-a-box, out popped the youngest of the McCreedys, revealing that the bottom of the wheeled cart, which now sat in front of the fire, was a false one.
Young Edgar must have been no more than four years old but already he was aware of his status in the hollow. He knew when to keep his head down and stay quiet.
A pile of discarded rubbish was pulled out from the fireplace. A couple of boxes, a dust-covered sack, and a heap of odds and ends. Dry wood took its place in the hearth and a spark of life sent the twigs and branches glowing and blistering. Candles were lit around the parlor and a pan of water was hung over the warming fire.
Edgar climbed up on to the chair and retrieved what had until now been perched on the mantelpiece. An old wooden soldier, smart as could be in his little red coat and shiny black boots. He stared hard at the little fellow until a feeling of horror came over him. The eyes stared back at him and they seemed to hold his gaze until his own eyes watered. They shone like tiny moons and he found that he was unable to let go of the little wooden man.
And then Edgar could have sworn that the soldier spoke his name. “Master McCreedy, first-born son of the wickerwork man. His mother carries a sibling, yet she doesn’t know just yet. Time will tell. Let’s hope she is careful, down in the hollow.”
Edgar stared, unsure about what had just been said. Then, without knowing why, he tucked the captain into his jerkin. When he finally went to sleep at the end of the day, the small wooden figure sat perched on the end of his bed.
The cellar was dark and dingy. It was no place for a young boy. But there was to be no choice. In the darkness of the room while Edgar slept, the eyes of the wooden soldier still glowed.
Before Frankie’s family had been taken by the authorities, they had supplied the inn with bread. For some time now Sam had been struggling by on his own. But since Frankie had arrived she was making her mark on the place and showing him just how it was done.
When Pip and Toad were still sleeping through sunrise Frankie would be up and about in the scullery, mixing the dough and warming up the clay oven. She was not afraid to work and Sam was now used to coming downstairs to the smell of freshly baked bread and the sight of little Frankie covered in flour from head to toe. She would sing quietly to herself in the back kitchen and Sam would watch her sadly, knowing she longed for her family.
A crashing sound came at the door. Thud, thud, thud. Angry voices came through the air. Hooves could be heard clattering in the street outside. Sam panicked, and in trying to look and see who was there he neglected to ensure that Frankie was hidden.
The door was being forced, so much so that Sam was coerced into opening it to avoid it being demolished altogether. He was greeted by the stout figure of Hector Stubbs and several other city men on horseback. Stubbs was the city mayor. But others knew him only as a warmonger and a troublemaker. His plan was to capture every hidden child to join his army to wage war on the forest. He was both savior and enemy to the youth of the hollow. He longed to triumph over the creatures of the Spindlewood, but the price was too much to pay. City folk would perish alongside their children. Fathers and sons, mothers and daughters. And what did Hector care? He sought only to improve the city.
The city was at war with the forest. Creatures spilled out from the woods at night and filtered into the streets and alleyways. To gain their domination over the city they searched for the children to make prisoners of them. The authorities swept children from the streets to discourage the beasts from entering the city.
This was no place to be growing up. But for those that happened to be there, there was no choice. To be a youngster in this place was a crime. Children were becoming a thing of the past, and those that were there moved through the city after dark. But to do so was to risk being caught by the twilight seekers, the creatures of the forest, or the authorities and the city guardian, Mister Jarvis. And though he was supposed to be on the side of the authorities, when it came to double dealing with the forest types, he couldn’t help himself.
“Routine check, landlord,” groaned Stubbs. “We require to inspect the premises for children. Keeping children hidden is a violation of city laws in the present climate.” And he reeled off some old nonsense that Sam had heard before. He frequently expected their inquisitive visits and he was used to their prying eyes. He kept them at the door as long as he could to make sure that the children were given the chance they needed.
Stubbs stormed through the inn, followed by his men. He showed no mercy, turning tables, pulling out drawers, and opening cupboards, and Sam winced at every move for he had no idea what Frankie had done to hide herself. She could be anywhere.
Sam backed into the scullery. Frankie had gone but small footprints could be seen in the flour that lay upon the floor. Quickly he disturbed them with his feet, dispersing the white dust. Where had she gone?
At length, Stubbs and his men gave in. No obvious traces could be seen. They’d peered into the cellar, skirted round the bedrooms and upstairs spaces, and even helped themselves to the drink.
When at long last they left, Frankie emerged like a small ghost from the flour barrel. She was covered in white dust.
Sam could only smile with relief. For now, at least, they would not be subject to further suspicion.
But not far away, someone else thought differently. Someone who couldn’t get the image of Toad out of his mind. He lay in bed and all he could see was the Deadman’s Hand. The paint flaking from its sign as it swung, creaking in the chill wind, and that drawing on the wall, the one he had slit from corner to corner. He would see that face again, and soon. He was sure of that.
Edgar didn’t like the new house. He didn’t like his room, nor did he like his bed. He had terrible dreams and he wanted to return to the old place.
“It’s the rotten soldier’s fault,” insisted Edgar.
“Poor old Mister Soldier,” said Mrs. McCreedy. “You can’t blame him. He’s just an old wounded hero, sent here to make you feel welcome in your new home.”
“He’s evil,” said Edgar, and he threw the figure across the room and watched him land in a folded heap in the corner.
“I’m sure it’s quite normal,” explained Ely McCreedy to his wife. “Edgar has had an ordeal. Moving home can be quite distressing for children. After all, he is in hiding. Who knows what such a thing does to a child?”
When Edgar went to bed that night it was not until the early hours that he finally felt the weight of his eyes reduce him to sleep. But he tossed and turned again and his dreams were filled with nigh
tmare creatures and sinister voices.
He rose from his bed, his eyes opened wide, but all the while he stayed asleep. Pushing back the warmth of his bedclothes he slid into the shoes that were tucked under the frame. And then he walked across the room and picked up the figure of the old wooden soldier, holding it tightly in his hand.
Then, without any hesitation, he walked up the step into the parlor and unlatched the front door. His movements went unheard by his parents and he stepped out into the night. He was now under the glowing torchlight that was fixed to the wall of the house.
He marched purposefully across the street and through the stone archway that led to the footbridge.
In a short while he had walked a good way across the hollow and now he headed, unheedingly, into the woods. As he did so Captain Dooley’s eyes shone brightly, glowing like little white moons in the snowy crisp darkness of the hollow, as if to affirm his satisfaction. If that little wooden face of his could have smiled, it would have done so.
“Well, well, well. A little boy lost,” came a voice that seemed to appear from nowhere.
A tall figure loomed over Edgar McCreedy. He had strange white hair, one dark eye, one milky gray eye, and two sets of long arms, but the boy seemed not in the least alarmed. Not even the sight of the wolf that walked alongside him was enough to perturb him.
“You let me take care of your little wooden soldier, my boy, and come along with me,” said the man. “Mister Roach will look after you for sure.”
Edgar handed the figure of Captain Dooley to Roach without so much as a shrug of his shoulders and then he took his hand, and off they walked, into the thick of the Spindlewood Forest.
It was oh, so cold, but the captain had a feeling he had not had in a long while, almost as if he was returning home. The fresh cool air, the smell of Spindlewood, and the drowsy, dreamy feel of the forest. He opened his eyes to the trees. Endless pillars of frosted white bark that reached out forever, winding and twisting a snakelike walk into a black wilderness. “There’s no place like home,” whispered the captain quietly to himself, for h knew he should only speak when spoken to.
Toad had done it again. He’d lain there in the dark telling his sinister tales of the hollow into the early morning and then suddenly he was asleep and snoring, leaving Pip and Frankie half frightened out of their wits.
“How does he do that?” said Frankie. “You know, falling asleep like that. Instantly, without any warning!”
Pip chuckled to himself. Good old Toad. Seemingly nothing bothered him. But Pip did not have quite the same way of dealing with things. His mind turned with the events of the hollow and his troubled past chased on after him through the dark hours.
He was eager to change the subject.
“What is it like,” he began, “to be part of a family? You know, brothers and sisters and parents?”
“Oh, don’t remind me,” Frankie said. “I miss them terribly, the young ones especially. I miss all their little ways. How they laugh and sing and make fun and how they’re always jolly.”
“And what of your parents?”
“I miss them too. My mother’s arms around me and my father’s smile. They are good people, Pip. They just want to live in peace. They do no harm.”
“You’ll find them again one day,” promised Pip. “I know you will.” And he felt that he could somehow sense her pain. They lay in silence in their beds, pulling their sheets around themselves to fend off the cold.
Pip’s mind wandered as he lay alone in the darkness. Why was he without sisters and brothers? Who were his parents? Perhaps he was part of some wrongdoing in the past and had blanked out the details, something that meant he was not allowed the kind of life he would have loved. He had that feeling again—the one that felt there was a part of him missing. As if a piece of him had been removed and it had left a hole right there in his side. He tossed and turned in his bed and nursed the pain until sleep crept upon him and carried him through the twilight.
The forest was still. Cold and crisp and calm. But as Roach returned with young McCreedy, noises spilled among the trees. Howls and barks and strange hoots that only the forest folk could understand. They escalated in a whirling cacophony of sound, louder and louder. Things gathered and drew close, inspecting at a distance, watching in wonder and wild excitement.
Wood witches came near, too near, cackling and cawing with their crows and wolves at their sides.
The boy remained trancelike as they poked and pawed him and inspected him closely.
“A child,” came an excited voice. It was followed with gasps and oohs and aahs.
“Urghhh!” said Stixx. “Ugly little fella, in’t he?” “Yeah, pig ugly,” said Pugg, her nose wrinkling up in disgust, as her eyes narrowed to an enquiring squint.
And then they saw that Roach carried the old soldier in his hand and the excitement turned to pandemonium. They began to tug at his arms and legs until they almost broke his little wooden limbs. Roach lost his temper and pushed them all away. His wolf companion growled at the onlookers, forcing them backward into submission.
A crow landed on a nearby branch ahead of her master, who followed on quickly.
“Esther,” said Hogwick. “Where is he?” “He’s here.”
And then, predictably, the wheels were rolling through the snow-blessed grounds of the forest. The shape of the black pumpkin appeared ominously through the trees and Jarvis was back with his carriage mended and his horse in fine fettle.
“Well, how interesting,” said Jarvis, announcing himself. “A little party and I’m not invited. What have we here, Mister Roach?”
“Well, in these hands I have the McCreedy boy,” said Roach, pulling the child into view with his two left arms. “And in these hands I have our friend Captain Dooley.” He grinned with the wooden doll held preciously on display.
It was the first time Jarvis had seen children since the others had escaped him. He stared in disbelief, unable to comprehend how Roach had managed to capture one before he had. He was mesmerized by its ugliness. The little round face, the snubby little nose. The sheer smallness of it. Chalky white skin, that had not been blessed with sunlight. They really were dreadful creatures.
Jarvis was not the only one inspecting Edgar closely. Faces leered down at him. Long snouts and dribbling mouths seemed to draw closer and closer. By now he was coming to his senses, wondering where he was and what strange company he was keeping.
“An impressive catch indeed,” said Jarvis, whose insane jealousy was immediately overridden by his joy that Captain Dooley had been discovered. It was so long since he’d worn the expression that the smile he made almost cracked his face in half.
“Who are you, boy?” he sneered.
“Edgar,” he said in a mumbled daze. “Edgar McCreedy.”
“Oh really,” he said, staring harder. “Huh … I must look harder in future, eh,” he mumbled to himself.
“Take him to the undergate,” said Hogwick, and a procession of four- and two-legged things marched Edgar away.
Jarvis took hold of the wooden soldier. It was their first meeting. Jarvis found it hard to believe that this loose-limbed scrap of wood and rusting joints, with his pointy little nose and round rolling eyes, could help him. “We shall see,” he whispered to himself, and he tucked him into his belt so that the captain’s head and arms hung over the leather and across the buckle. He climbed back onto his carriage and left.
Captain Dooley’s way of speaking was more than strange.
There was to be no hesitation on Jarvis’s part. Everyone knew where his first suspicions lay. Excitement thumped in his heart as he popped the old wooden soldier on the mantelpiece. He had prepared himself for the moment by making himself a drink and lighting the fire, almost as if he was about to enjoy a favorite book or sit down to a hearty meal. Esther sat on the top of the wingbacked chair with her feet clamped into the dirty fabric. She could see that her position was about to be made redundant. With Captain Dooley’s knowledg
e of where all the children were, it seemed she would be without use, but knowing she could do nothing, she hung around until she was forced to do otherwise.
Now there are some things that don’t seem right no matter how you look at them. You can see the proof right there in front of you. But somehow, it is not enough. And that was exactly how it felt to watch and listen to Captain Dooley speaking. He would drop his square little box of a lower jaw like it was spring-loaded and the words would come tumbling out in the meanest, croakiest, most pathetic little voice you’ve ever heard.
Jarvis took a noisy slurp of the drink that he held with his right hand. The hook was curled around the mug handle, not holding it, just leaning on it.
“Are there children at the Deadman’s Hand?”
Captain Dooley spat out the words, “Three little birds at the Deadman’s Hand.” Once he’d said it, that was it. There was no going back. Those children would be hunted day and night.
And it was only then that the likeness became apparent to Jarvis.
“Of course, Esther, of course,” he said, rising to his feet and staring into the air as if lost in thought. “I have had a moment of clarity!” He smiled.
His mind went back to the portrait. It was the landlord’s face but younger. Of course it was. It was his son. And the three little birds were the two boys and the girl, all hiding together at the tavern!
The full realization made him momentarily happy but within a breath, happiness boiled into fury.
There are times when anger overtakes you. Destroys every piece of common sense you have and every piece of logic in your brain. That’s what happened to Jarvis when he heard the children were at the Deadman’s Hand. Why had he been so careful? Why had he trodden so lightly, with all those months of wondering suspiciously about the place? How dare they go behind his back? How could they lie to him so blatantly? How dare they ignore his importance!