Thorn Ogres of Hagwood

by Robin Jarvis

  “Got a lot of hard work ahead if’n you’re goin’ to catch up with me,” she boasted. “Look what I can do now. Take two years or more to do this, Gamaliel.”

  Kernella began to forage in her bag, but her mother told her to stop teasing.

  “No need to show off,” Tidubelle said. “We know how clever you are at it, Kernella. Gamaliel will get there eventually.”

  The girl shrugged and tied the neck of her wergle pouch again. “No matter how hard Gamaliel tries,” she began huffily, “he’ll never be as good as Finnen.”

  “Don’t get her started on Finnen Lufkin,” Figgle mumbled with a roll of his eyes. “Give our Gamaliel his breakfast.”

  But there was no time for him to eat anything. At that moment there came the sound of a horn blowing throughout the woodland, and Kernella sprang to her feet.

  “Got to go!” she cried, wrapping her cape about her shoulders and scurrying from the room.

  “Well,” Figgle murmured while his wife stuffed Gamaliel’s pockets with food. “This is it, son. That was the summons. You’d best get out there; the others’ll be along to take you to Master Gibble. Don’t look so worried—just do the best you can.”

  Taking a deep breath, Gamaliel gave a weak smile, then walked apprehensively down the passage that led to the outside. The moment he had hoped would never arrive was here.

  After the dim lantern light of the Tumpin home, the late-March sunshine was dazzling, and stepping into it, Gamaliel shielded his squinting eyes.

  A warm breeze coursed through Hagwood, and the gently swaying branches played a delightful, rushing music. It was too beautiful a day to commence instruction, and when he gazed out across the leaf canopy, the young werling set his thoughts free.

  In all his seven years he had never been allowed to venture anywhere near the banks of the Hagburn, let alone the wilder forest beyond. The children of his race were kept close to home until the wergle training began, but in his dreams he had journeyed far into the dark heart of Hagwood.

  Now, one last time, he surveyed that fascinating country of his youthful imaginings and sent his mind traveling: out over the rolling landscape of the treetops to where hushed tales told of gnarled yews that grew so close that not even a ray of light could slip between their tangled branches.

  Through that blind gloom he often had pressed, braving hideous perils until at last he arrived at the great green hill—that wonderful spectacle he never tired of gazing upon.

  Out over the green rustling sea, that steadfast island reared in the hazy distance, and Gamaliel drank in the vision as he had done countless times before. Of the noble lords and ladies who dwelt within its hallowed halls, there were many bewitching legends, and Gamaliel loved to hear them.

  “Perhaps one day...,” he whispered to himself, “one day I could go there and see it up close.”

  At that moment, suddenly and without warning, a fat squirrel came racing round the oak’s great trunk and barged straight into him.

  “Hey!” Gamaliel called, flinging his arms wide to keep his balance. But it was no use: His feet slithered from the bark and down he fell.

  Into his large ears the air rushed as the tree went shooting by and he tumbled head over heels—plummeting toward the ground.

  A startled, gurgling wail accompanied his plunging descent until Gamaliel’s instincts took control and his hands reached out to seize hold of a blurring branch. Immediately the breakneck drop came to an abrupt and stomach-jolting halt.

  With a rattle of twigs, the branch bowed before springing up again, and the werling was catapulted across the gulf to the trunk. Sweeping his legs high and over, he somersaulted through the distance and landed deftly on the tree—out of breath and angry. The squirrel that had bumped into him had been wearing his sister’s cape and hood.

  Like all members of the werling race, Gamaliel was an expert at climbing, and he scampered down the oak in a matter of moments.

  At the base of the tree, having returned to her own form, Kernella was already waiting. She laughed out loud when she saw how scarlet his face had become.

  “Not funny, not funny!” he shouted, jumping onto the sloping ground. “I could have got hurt—killed even!”

  “Pooh!” his sister scorned. “I’m sure I doesn’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Scooping up a handful of damp leaf mold, Gamaliel hurled it at her, but Kernella leaped aside. She was about to pick up a quantity of the stuff herself when she glanced over her brother’s shoulder and thought better of it.

  “You two!” a gruff voice called impatiently. “Stop larking about!”

  Gamaliel turned sharply, and there, shambling up the gentle bank toward the oak, was a large hedgehog.

  “Morning, Mr. Mattock,” Kernella said, assuming an air of mock innocence.

  The hedgehog shuffled closer. “What are you still doing here, Kernella Tumpin?” the brusque voice demanded.

  “Keeping Gamaliel company,” the girl promptly fibbed. “Gets horrible scared he does.”

  Muffled titters issued from the hedgehog’s back legs and Gamaliel frowned.

  The prickly creature was a sorry-looking specimen: The bulky body sagged in the center and its movements were extremely peculiar. When it drew close to the Tumpin children, the voice called out.

  “Halt, back there!”

  At once the hedgehog stumbled to a standstill, then its middle drooped even more and it sank strangely to the ground.

  Moving closer, Gamaliel peered at the blank holes where the urchin’s eyes ought to have been and glimpsed a stern face staring out at him.

  “Don’t stand there gawping, lad!” the voice chided. “Do you want to be late on your first day? Master Gibble won’t like that! Get you in here.”

  As these words were spoken, the creature’s snout gave a violent twitch as if it were about to sneeze. Then its entire head was thrown back, and standing where its face had been was a grave-looking werling dressed in a dark green cloak and with tufts of white bristling hair sprouting from his ears.

  This was Yoori Mattock, a much-respected member of the presiding council, but today he, along with four other adults, was collecting those children about to commence their training and conveying them safely to the place of instruction.

  Holding the front part of the empty hedgehog skin above his head, he looked at Gamaliel in annoyance.

  “Don’t gawk, boy!” he snapped. “Do you want a wolf to come along and gobble you up? There’s an owl been seen these past few nights. What if it’s late getting home and fancies a nibble of your daft head? Death and danger all around—you should know that.”

  Gamaliel stammered an apology, but his eyes were drawn to the two figures crouching behind Mr. Mattock in the hedgehog’s hindquarters. Although they were half hidden in the shade of that prickly camouflage, Gamaliel recognized them, and his heart sank.

  Mufus and Bufus Doolan were twins, and because they were the same age as Gamaliel, they, too, were commencing their wergle training that day. Practically identical in appearance, with curly chestnut hair and upturned, usually snotty noses, they shared an irritating snigger and poked fun at everything and everybody.

  “Hide and be safe,” Mr. Mattock continued “That’s how it’s always been. You youngsters can’t make your way to Master Gibble’s classes on your own. Best disguise, this is, until you’re a bit older and have learned a few tricks of your own.”

  Gamaliel gave the Doolan brothers another uneasy glance. He didn’t relish traveling anywhere with them. They were already nudging each other and smirking.

  “What ails you, lad?” Mr. Mattock cried. “Get a move on!”

  “Yes,” Kernella joined in. “Stop dithering!”

  Greatly flustered, Gamaliel hastened toward them. But the leaf mold was slippery, and before he knew what was happening, the young werling was flying headfirst down the slope, unable to stop himself.

  “Steady!” Mr. Mattock cried.

  “Look out!” Kernella
shrieked in horror. Unable to witness the mortifying spectacle her idiotic brother was about to make of himself, she hoisted her snookulhood up over her eyes.

  In a moment it was over. There was a thump and another, then a bang, followed by a scuffle and squeals from the Doolan brothers, until finally Kernella heard a horrible ripping sound.

  “I never did!” came Mr. Mattock’s indignant roar. “Never in all my days!”

  Anxiously, Kernella lowered her hood and peeped out at the devastation her brother had wrought.

  Sprawled on the ground, his face covered in wet leaf mulch, hands thrust bizarrely through the hedgehog’s empty ears, Yoori Mattock was fuming. Nearby, Mufus and Bufus were hooting with laughter and pointing down the slope to where Gamaliel was still careering out of control, the back half of the now-torn disguise wrapped tightly around him.

  “Gamaliel!” Kernella screeched. “How could you?”

  Helpless with mirth, the Doolans gasped for breath and tried to calm themselves, but when the prickly object finally came to rest and a pair of legs wormed their way free, stood up, then fell down again, the twins collapsed anew.

  “Don’t...don’t know about Gamaliel!” Bufus wheezed. “His name should be Gammy.”

  “Gammy! Gammy! Gammy!” Mufus echoed in rapturous agreement.

  Wiping the dirt from his face, Yoori Mattock rose and glared at the ridiculous figure flailing and thrashing on the ground.

  “Get over here, you perfect fool!” he raged.

  Several minutes later, Gamaliel had managed to clamber out of the spiny binding and was sheepishly ambling back up the slope, dragging it behind him.

  Kernella had already fled the scene, not wishing to have anything more to do with him. The bristles of Mr. Mattock’s ears were quivering with fury, and the Doolan brothers mocked the poor young werling with the nickname he would bear for a long, long time.

  It was not the best of beginnings, but Gamaliel had the uncomfortable feeling that it was going to get a lot worse.

  CHAPTER 2

  The Great Grand Wergle Master

  AT THE FOOT OF a lofty hazel tree, a decidedly ragged and peculiar-looking hedgehog came to rest, and four werlings gladly cast the disheveled and unconvincing deception aside.

  It had been a most uncomfortable journey through the wood. Hunched over beneath the damaged skin, Gamaliel had been forced to follow Mr. Mattock as closely as possible and had lost count of the times he stepped upon the elder’s heels.

  Yoori suffered him in silence, but Gamaliel could sense how angry and exasperated he was. To make matters worse, Mufus and Bufus snickered to themselves the entire time, and on three occasions tried to trip Gamaliel over again.

  Because he was in the middle, and because it was his fault anyway, it had been Gamaliel’s job to hold the two halves of the hedgehog together, and by the time they reached their destination, Gamaliel’s arms were aching and his fingers pricked and sore.

  “This is the place,” Mr. Mattock informed them, deliberately avoiding Gamaliel’s eye. “Looks like everyone else is here. We’re late.”

  Glancing around the tree’s roots, the young werlings saw that four other prickly disguises had been abandoned and left until the end of the day, when they would be needed again.

  “You’d best climb up there quick as a wink,” Mr. Mattock advised. “Master Gibble doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  The Doolan brothers needed no further warning and were soon swarming swiftly up the smooth bark of the hazel tree.

  “Last one to the top is a Gammy Tumpin!” they called out to each other.

  Left behind, Gamaliel turned to Mr. Mattock in an endeavor to make amends, but the agitated werling had already departed, and Kernella’s brother caught sight of a green-cloaked stoat darting into a ragged clump of dead ferns.

  Shifting his gaze back toward the tree, Gamaliel stared up at the trunk. “Here we go then,” he mumbled to himself.

  The hazel that grew in the peaceful eaves of Hagwood was of immense age and stature. Its lofty branches stretched higher than the surrounding oaks and hornbeams, and since the time when the first werlings settled in that tranquil realm, it had been the place where children were taught to master the marvelous, mysterious art of wergling.

  Amid the high branches, a wide platform had been constructed. When Gamaliel Tumpin first peered up through the opening at its center, he saw that he was, indeed, the last youngster to arrive.

  Sitting upon that wooden deck were more werling children than he had ever seen assembled together before. At the front, the younger ones could hardly contain their excitement, while behind them their older brothers and sisters were seated upon stools and waiting expectantly.

  There were many faces Gamaliel recognized, but some of them were strangers. Concentrating hard, for he was never good at tallying numbers, he counted out a total of thirty-nine.

  Kernella was among them, but she was still out of sorts, especially as Gamaliel’s behavior had caused her to be late herself, which prevented her from sitting next to the one she never tired of talking about at home.

  Nervously her brother glanced around to see if the strict Master Gibble was present and was enormously relieved to discover that he was not. The tutor’s familiar black gown was hooked on one of the overhanging branches, but of him as yet there was no sign.

  Thankful for this, Gamaliel turned back to the other children and was disconcerted to find that they were all staring at him.

  Self-consciously he clambered onto the platform. When she spotted him, Kernella adopted a lofty air, then ignored him completely. Leaning forward, she grinned goofily at a youth several seats away, whose features were hidden by a shaggy fringe.

  “Hoo, Finnen!” she called, giving him a bashful wave. “I’ll bet you’ve been practicing all winter, haven’t you? Be taking over from Master Gibble himself one of these days, I reckon.”

  The boy fidgeted uncomfortably and stared at the floor so that the curtain of his long fringe screened his face entirely.

  Kernella chortled and eased herself back on the stool. “Might as well give all the prize patches to him right now,” she said admiringly. “We know he’ll win them, anyway.”

  At the front of the gathering, Gamaliel was trying to find a place to sit, but there did not appear to be any room. Seeing his predicament, Mufus Doolan budged up a little and shouted.

  “Gammy, come sit with us—I dares you. We won’t bite.”

  “I will!” his brother, Bufus, promised.

  “N-no.” Gamaliel spluttered, feeling foolish in front of everyone. “I don’t think...”

  His words were drowned out by a sudden squawking cry that croaked and screeched fiercely above their heads.

  Glancing upward, the werling children were horrified to see a great magpie come diving through the branches, talons outstretched, its black-and-white wings flapping furiously.

  Squeals of terror rang from the hazel tree. The youngsters fell on their faces, throwing their arms over their heads when the savage marauder swooped down, snatching at their hair with its claws.

  “We’ll be eated!” they screamed shrilly. “Save us! Save us!”

  Tumbling from their stools, the older children were whipped by the beating feathers, and for several moments their hearts were filled with panic and despair.

  Only two of those present remained where they were. Gamaliel was too thunderstruck and astounded to know what to do, and so throughout all the wild, thrashing frenzy he stood gaping, his green eyes boggling at the frightful spectacle unfolding around him.

  The second was Finnen Lufkin. Instead of toppling from his seat as his peers had done, he took an intense interest in the ferocious, shrieking attack. Brushing the hair from his face, he casually chewed his lower lip and stared keenly up at the ravaging bird.

  There was something extremely familiar about that lethal-seeming beak. It was far too long for any magpie and was peppered with holes.

  “Dab crack,” he murmured
. “The wily old boaster.”

  Around him the older children were recovering from their initial shock. Then they began to coo with an amazement that rapidly turned into a peal of fervent applause.

  “Hooray!” they cheered. “Isn’t he clever? I can’t believe it—I really can’t.”

  Aware that the disguise had at last been penetrated, the magpie gave a triumphant croak, then wheeled about the hazel’s trunk three times before spreading its wings wide and alighting upon the platform, to the stupefaction of the younger members of the assembly. Lifting their faces from the floor, they looked up at the great bird and marveled.

  Shaking its feathers, the magpie paraded up and down, strutting before the astounded gathering. Then, with a conceited look upon its face, it gave a final, jubilant hop, and the feathered form was cast aside.

  Effortlessly, the shape of the magpie melted. In a moment the bird had vanished, and in its place was Terser Gibble—the Great Grand Wergle Master.

  The tutor of the werlings was one of the most outlandish and extreme examples of their kind. Tall and spindly, his real appearance looked more like a twig than anything else. His aged skin was cracked and lined like the bark of a sycamore, and his long arms were knobbled and skinny.

  Taking the black gown from its hook, he wrapped it about himself and, with a flourish, struck an authoritative and ostentatious pose while the children continued to applaud his great skill.

  “Amazing!” Kernella cooed. Birds were an incredibly difficult shape to master, and then the art of flying itself was a completely new discipline to overcome. No other werling had succeeded half as well as Master Gibble, and so he deserved the praise lavished upon him.

  Still standing at the side, Gamaliel clapped along with everyone else and regarded his new teacher with awe. He knew Terser Gibble by sight, of course—every werling did—but he had never been this close to him before and had never witnessed such a dazzling display of his skill.

  Basking in the adoration, the Wergle Master continued posturing and smiled serenely. His face was perhaps the strangest aspect of him. A tuft of wiry hair, like a beard of fibrous roots, projected from the back of his head, but that was perfectly balanced by the longest nose of any werling.