The Windvale Sprites

by Mackenzie Crook

  Each gruesome description was accompanied by an equally grizzly illustration; twisted bodies in glass jars, wizened specimens stretched out and pinned on boards. It was hard to tell how many of the things Tooth had killed; he probably lost count himself. The reading got worse still as the scientist started dissecting his specimens and sketching the internal organs and bones.

  All of this helped Asa decide that he would approach his studies from a different angle, as a conservationist. He would concentrate on the areas Tooth did not, on how the creatures lived, what they ate, and how they could be protected.

  It was getting late so Asa closed the book, resolving to build the sprite a proper spacious home first thing in the morning.

  He got into bed and closed his eyes but for a long time his brain was swimming with the sinister images of pickled sprites in half-gallon jars.

  15

  The Greenhouse

  Next morning he set to work early.

  Straight away he knew he wanted the sprite to have enough room to fly around and, remembering how last summer a starling had got trapped in the greenhouse, he decided to see if it could be made into a suitable home.

  At the end of the garden, obscured from the view of the kitchen window by a holly hedge, the recently repaired greenhouse was ideal.

  He started by fixing netting over the windows at the top so they could be opened to let in fresh air. Back in the garage he unscrewed the legs of the hutch and, by putting it on his skateboard, was able to wheel it relatively smoothly down the garden. He placed it on the ground in the corner of the greenhouse and taking a spade and wheelbarrow he proceeded to pile earth and compost on top, leaving the entrance clear. Down by the pond he pulled great handfuls of long grass which came up with a wad of roots which he planted all over the mound until it started to resemble a burrow in a grassy bank.

  Asa then carried the broken remains of Dad’s tomato vines back into the greenhouse and tried to untangle them. Those that could be saved he replanted in pots and the snapped stems he hung up at the glass to provide shade and cover. He wedged some branches high up for perches and by the end of two hours he had created a nice little habitat that looked a lot more appealing than a birdcage. He made sure the greenhouse door was slid shut and then carefully reached in and pulled open the front of the guinea-pig hutch.

  All was quiet and still from inside and Asa withdrew to the opposite corner of the greenhouse and watched like a statue. He didn’t have to wait for long before he heard a faint shuffling and saw a shape edging to the front of the box. Suddenly the sprite shot out of the hutch and flew vertically upwards, slamming into the roof. It fell down, momentarily dazed but then zipped across, ricocheting off the glass. Asa threw up his hands, wanting to stop it, wanting to catch it and prevent it hurting itself, but that only terrified the creature more and it became even more frantic.

  Deciding that recapturing it would be impossible, Asa lowered his arms and stood very still. Then he slowly started to lower himself down so that he was sitting in the corner clasping his knees. The sprite, dazed and exhausted, slowed a bit. It hid in the tomato vines, watching Asa and catching its breath before again attacking the glass in three or four places. It soon learned that the panes were solid but was clearly confused by it, touching the glass with its fingertips and pushing with its shoulder. All the while it kept an eye on Asa who sat as still as stone in the corner.

  Asa watched as it searched for a means of escape but after about ten minutes it disappeared back into the hutch and didn’t come out.

  He slowly got to his feet, sneaked out of the greenhouse and set about thinking what the sprite might like to eat.

  In the kitchen he chopped soft fruit into small pieces – grapes, banana, tomatoes – and poured some honey into a saucer. He gathered a large vase of flowers from the garden, ones that insects seemed particularly to like and even found a few caterpillars, which he put in a jar. Returning to the greenhouse he laid the offerings on the ground in front of the mound and settled again in the far corner to read some more of Tooth’s journal.

  16

  Destruction

  For the next two days Asa spent most of his time in the greenhouse. The sprite eventually became less nervous and would venture out of the hutch and fly up to perch in the tomato vines from where it would watch him reading. But it never got closer than that and it never showed any interest in the food or water he had brought.

  Benjamin Tooth, in his writing, was starting to show signs that he was quite as mad as the people of Mereton had suspected all those years ago.

  He had become convinced that the tattoo the sprites wore on their chests held some sort of mystical secret and that whatever it represented had the power to grant a long life:

  1st July

  Those that bear the markings appear to be older than those without and several seem to be of a very great age indeed. I have counted the growth ridges on the exoskeleton of a particular individual and calculated it to be at least a hundred and fifty years old.

  He started concentrating his efforts on one colony that inhabited a large abandoned rabbit warren about a mile from his house:

  All of the marked specimens I have collected came from the vicinity of this nest so I conclude that the answer to the mystery will be found there.

  I have started digging on the south-facing bank. It is hard work and I could use some help but I’ll be damned if I shall share this discovery with even the lowliest labourer.

  Tooth went on to describe how the sprites would periodically attempt to mount an attack, swarming him and stinging any exposed skin until he was forced to cover up completely and wear a beekeeper’s hat as he dug. But even this didn’t appear to deter them:

  4th July

  I have been stung by the spiteful little beasts one too many times, and have lost all sympathy for, and patience with them. Tomorrow I will go to town and purchase some ferrets with which to drive them from their burrows. Then I can continue to excavate without risk of being constantly stung.

  5th July

  The ferret plan worked as well as I could have wished. After securing nets across every hole I could locate I sent down the two animals who were eager and hungry. Almost immediately the sprites started to flee and were trapped: I netted a dozen good specimens of varying ages. Unfortunately I seem to have missed a hole on the northern side of the warren and soon witnessed a mass exodus of perhaps a hundred individuals who flew in a swarm away across the moor to the north-west. A breakaway group must have doubled back, however, and I was stung severely several times on the buttocks as I tried to coax the ferrets back out.

  Once they were gone I lost no time and began to dig.

  The entrance tunnels are extraordinarily deep and only after two hours’ solid work did I come across a first ‘room’. A small dugout containing nothing but a pile of acorn cups. A stockroom perhaps? There are no oaks on the moor so they must have been gathered from far afield, perhaps used for bowls or drinking vessels. I progressed another couple of feet downwards before the tunnel started to level out to horizontal. It started to get dark and though I was tempted to return to the house and get candles to work through the night, the wind was starting to pick up and the clouds threatened rain. I barricaded the hole securely before I left with stones and rubble to prevent the creatures returning to their home and stealing any of their possessions back.

  A further three or four feet along the passageway I fancy it starts to open up into a much bigger chamber. I shall return at daybreak on the morrow.

  Asa went to bed that night with a heavy heart. Reading about Tooth’s decimation of the colony made him feel that he was a part of the ruthless plan. Though he had endeavoured to provide a comfortable environment for his specimen the sprite was still not eating and was spending more and more time hidden from view in the burrow.

  His parents were coming back in two days and he resolved that if there was no change by the end of tomorrow he would take the creature back to its home.
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  17

  The Statue

  The next morning Asa let himself into the greenhouse and froze. The sprite was lying motionless at the entrance to the burrow, its rich olive-coloured skin now a pallid grey.

  But as he closed the greenhouse door the creature looked up and pulled itself back out of sight.

  Asa knew he had to take it back to the moor.

  There were only a few pages of the journal left to read and, though he didn’t expect the story to end happily, he was curious to know what Tooth had discovered.

  6th July

  I have found it! The object that the creatures hold in such high esteem and which I am certain has some kind of mystic power of eternal youth. It is mine!

  I’ll be brief as I have many dissections to perform on the captured specimens and they are dropping like flies.

  When I returned to the warren at first light there was indeed some evidence that a group of them had been back to salvage their treasures but the rubble barricades were too much for them. They had started to dig new tunnels down but they had been abandoned, probably as they saw me arriving.

  It didn’t take long to reach the room I mentioned yesterday, some sort of dining hall with earthen tables and benches in rows. Other rooms and antechambers lead off of this hall, dormitories perhaps, but nothing of great interest was found here.

  It was then that I realised the fresh tunnels that had appeared overnight were on the other side of the mound. Whatever they were so desperate to retrieve was obviously on that side. I started to dig in the direction of these new holes. After an hour’s hard graft the ground suddenly caved in and revealed a large chamber filled with objects, the collected treasures of generations of sprites. They were the shiny trinkets that I have come to know the beasts cannot resist. Lots of junk and scrap metal, spoons, nails, stained glass, and my stolen coat buttons and hatpin, all polished to a high sheen. But amongst the rubbish are many valuable items, numerous coins, some of them gold, dating back to Roman times, small pieces of jewellery and gems. I shall spend many enjoyable evenings sifting though my hoard, grading and valuing the treasure.

  The floor of this grand ‘hall’ (though it is, in actual fact, no bigger than the size of my pantry) had semicircular earthen ridges radiating out from a central point, presumably seating, and at the centre was the object of my search. A figure, a totem fashioned in wood, perhaps rose or holly, barely eight inches tall and exactly as represented in the tattoos the creatures bear which have intrigued me so greatly. It is a beautiful piece of work with carving so intricate it can only have been rendered by tiny hands but, more than that, as soon as I grasped it and tore it from its base I felt an invigorating wave of health and vitality pass through me. The aches and cramps of the previous day’s exertion evaporated and I felt as strong as an ox.

  This wild place, this unforgiving Windvale Moor that I have come to love has finally rewarded me.

  A possible plan is to grind the statue to a fine powder and use it in potions that will guarantee long life and health. This I will sell at great profit, not to ordinary people but to Kings and Queens, only the very rich, and then so shall I be. It cannot fail.

  Asa turned the page to a beautiful painting of the object (whatever else you could say about Benjamin Tooth, he was a skilled artist).

  The sculpture was a carved statue of a young sprite squatting on top of a grotesque, six-legged creature with a long tail that curled underneath to form a base.

  Asa could recognise in it the shape of the pond-sprite’s stylised tattoo but this carving was exquisitely detailed. The wings of the sprite showed every vein and even the thorns on its limbs were there.

  It reminded Asa of a dragonfly hatching from a nymph.

  As he studied the page he suddenly got the feeling that someone was looking over his shoulder. Thinking it was his mum or dad he slammed the book shut and wheeled around. With a frantic, panicked buzz of wings the sprite, which had somehow crept from the burrow and around behind him, zipped upwards and crashed into the glass. Stunned, it dropped again, spun around twice and then darted back inside the burrow.

  Asa crept slowly over to the entrance and, clearing the plates of untouched food to one side, he opened the book at the painting and laid it on the ground. Then he retreated to the door and watched. Ten minutes passed, twenty, but then, after half an hour, he thought he saw a movement from within. Sure enough the creature, crawling on all fours, came nervously into view and crouched at the opening. It was watching him. Asa crossed his arms on his knees and laid his head on his arms to show that he was not about to pounce or attack it.

  The creature spread its wings and buzzed up into the air, hovering above the book looking down at the picture. Then it turned to Asa and looked at him with an expression of pain and questioning. It slowly held out its long, willowy arms towards him and then dropped on to the page and ran its hands over the painting.

  ‘I don’t have it,’ said Asa. ‘I don’t know where it is.’ The sprite again reached out its hands as if it were pleading with him.

  ‘I don’t know where it is,’ he repeated. ‘The old man took it.’

  With a flick the sprite’s wings became a blur and it rose slowly into the air. It drifted forward until it was floating no more than a foot from Asa’s face. It filled his vision and he was suddenly aware of nothing else but this incredible thing in front of him. He could see, in magnified detail, every hair on its head, its filament fingers, the hundred glittering surfaces of each hypnotic eye. From somewhere distant he heard an echoing, ringing note and then a word.

  Help.

  Nothing had been said out loud, the word had been planted without a voice in his brain.

  Help.

  Asa said nothing but found himself replying: How?

  Help us.

  I want to.

  The creature pointed away.

  Home.

  A great sadness washed over Asa as he looked deep into the sprite’s eyes.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you home.’

  18

  Home

  Asa didn’t need any further supplies for this trip. He simply wanted to return the sprite to the moor. Suddenly the whole adventure seemed like a mistake. He was as bad as Benjamin Tooth. What right had he to steal one of these rare creatures from its home and keep it captive? He knew what he had to do: set the sprite free, leave them in peace and never whisper a word about them to another living soul.

  He placed his open rucksack on the ground and pointed to it. ‘You go in there,’ he said. ‘You ride in the bag.’ He stepped back and the sprite flitted over to inspect it. It looked at the bag from all angles then settled on top. It dropped inside and then shot out again, circled round and once again came to rest on the bag. It looked at Asa and seemed to be happy enough with the arrangement.

  Asa put the bag on his back as the sprite hovered nearby.

  ‘You get in there,’ he said, gesturing over his shoulder, but it took no notice.

  ‘OK, well, it’s there if you need it,’ and he stepped out of the greenhouse to fetch his bike.

  The sprite seemed to understand the plan and regained some of its former energy and colour. It was constantly on the move, darting into bushes and up into the trees, zipping through Asa’s legs and circling above him.

  He wheeled his bike out of the back gate and around to the street. At the first sound of a car the sprite was straight in the backpack and remained there until he was well away from busy roads and human habitation. But as soon as the roads turned into lanes and the town became fields and countryside it emerged again.

  The sprite seemed fascinated by Asa’s bicycle, hovering close by and watching the wheels spin, marvelling at the unlikely contraption. Sometimes it flew on ahead and other times it stayed close by. Occasionally it would perch on his shoulder and he could feel the breeze of its wings beating next to his ear. Various times when the road meandered off course the sprite would fly off across a field and be waiting for him
on the other side.

  He knows the way, thought Asa, so why does he even need me to come? But then whenever a potential danger showed itself, a passing tractor or a large bird overhead, the sprite would seek the safety of the bag and stay there until the danger had passed.

  *

  When eventually they came to the moor and Asa could take his bike no further, he laid it on the ground and stood for a while to catch his breath.

  ‘There you go.’ He gestured to the wide expanse of waving grasses. ‘Home.’

  The sprite hung in the air in front of him.

  ‘You’re home,’ repeated Asa. ‘This is where I found you, I don’t know exactly where you came from.’

  The tiny creature darted away for several feet but then stopped and turned again to face him.

  ‘What?’ Asa asked. ‘I don’t understand.’

  The sprite flew in close and hovered right in front of his face.

  Come.

  The word hung in his head as if it had been placed there. Asa knew he was supposed to follow.