Thorn Ogres of Hagwood

by Robin Jarvis

  “She’s gone with the rest,” Figgle told them. “To the Silent Grove, to attend the interment. It’s Mufus Doolan—he’s been killed.”

  At the southernmost tip of the werlings’ territory, beyond the hazel tree where they received instruction, the ground dipped into a shallow but wide dingle. Within this broad hollow, many ancient beech trees grew, and beneath their spreading branches, a somber silence lay.

  No sound of the surrounding woodland was heard in that hallowed place. Birds refused to nest in the lofty heights, and if they sang nearby their chorus never penetrated the tranquil peace. Even the noise of rustling leaves was muted and reverent.

  This was the Silent Grove, a region of gentle calm and serenity, but the werlings hardly ever ventured here and hated doing so. They were not afraid to descend into that quiet dell; no lurking terror kept them at bay. Only the memory of pain and loss compelled them to avoid that spot. The Silent Grove was where those they had loved were finally laid to rest and given back to the forest. This was the werling burial ground.

  Finnen’s group knew that they must pay their last respects to Mufus. Gamaliel would have gone with them, but his parents forbade it and he was sent straight to bed. The others, however, set off immediately, and still carrying the fox cub (for they could not leave it behind), the Wandering Smith accompanied them. He was curious about these little people and, for purposes of his own, wished to learn all that he could.

  Once they had passed the hazel, they glimpsed the glow of lanterns in the distance, and the nocturnal noises of Hagwood became hushed and still. Only the sound of mournful voices, slowly chanting a melancholy dirge, disturbed the mute shadows.

  Beneath the trees the werlings sorrowfully paraded. The profound sadness of the lament blended exquisitely with the stark beauty of the dappling moonlight, and beholding this unfamiliar race at their most private ceremony, the Pucca changed his mind and hung back, removing the helm from his head.

  “Smith’ll not intrude on such an hour as this,” he explained to the others. “The rites of your folk should not be overlooked by any other.”

  They had come close to the brink of the Silent Grove. The funeral bier had gone down into the night shade of the beeches, and as the Smith watched, the last of the mourners descended after them.

  Tollychook glanced at Liffidia and Finnen. “We should go in,” he said.

  Liffidia agreed, but Finnen resisted. On hearing those grieving voices he felt he had no right to go among them, for he knew he was responsible. The Doolan twins had been in his care, and he had failed them. He could not bring himself to look on the anguish of Mufus’s family.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Liffidia insisted. “You can’t blame yourself. We’d all be dead if it wasn’t for you. You saved us from Frighty Aggie.”

  “If it wasn’t for me, we wouldn’t have gone to her lair in the first place!” Finnen answered. “I should have gone straight to the heath, instead, where Mufus needed me. Everything I’ve done tonight has been a disaster. He’d still be alive if I hadn’t panicked or had been keeping a closer eye on them both.”

  There was nothing Liffidia could say to ease his conscience. Reaching up, she ruffled the fur behind the fox cub’s ears and pledged to return shortly. Then, with Tollychook bumbling alongside, she pattered down the bank.

  Gradually the lantern lights wound deeper into the grove, and the Pucca turned to the werling boy at his side.

  “Regret and guilt,” he began gruffly. “Tie you up tight as the werhag’s webs, they will. Smith knows all about them. Don’t you reproach yourself over things outside your control. Smith knows where the real blame lies. The foul servants of Rhiannon committed this awful murder. Vile things they are, malignant horrors spawned in the blackness of Her thought. What foulness has She done to raise them? To what new depths has She bent Her evil mind? Her hands are awash with innocent blood.”

  Finnen found no comfort in his words, and the unlikely pair sat at the edge of the Silent Grove, locked in their own private brooding.

  At last the Pucca said, “Never has Smith seen beeches like them yonder. What malady afflicts them so?”

  Finnen’s long fringe fell across his face as he bent his head, and it was several minutes before he answered.

  The trees of the Silent Grove were distorted in shape. Every trunk was covered in unnatural bulges and crusty swellings. Up into the high, sturdy boughs the tumorous growths reached. Some were only slight lumps or budding nodules, but there were many large, cragged carbuncles that barreled and stretched the bagging bark.

  “They’re not diseased,” Finnen revealed. “It’s us, those are our grave markers.”

  Hurrying in the wake of the trailing procession, Tollychook and Liffidia tagged themselves onto the end of the mourners. Presently they halted by one of the gibbous beeches, and the werlings congregated around it, encircling the bumpy trunk.

  Arms outstretched, Master Gibble stepped forward and in a loud, imploring voice called, “Blessed beech. Mother of the Forest you are! Here we have brought to you one of your sons. Receive and keep him, we beg.”

  The stretcher that carried Mufus’s corpse was laid on the ground, and the Doolan family stroked and kissed him one final time. Then slender ropes were tied to each of the bier’s four corners, and Master Gibble clambered up the tree, composed and dignified.

  High he climbed, to where the trunk divided, then higher still—until he reached a place where the lumps were only faint blisters.

  Two stout and strong werlings, bearing the four ropes, followed him and ascended even higher, throwing the lines over sturdy branches above their heads. When they were in position, Master Gibble gave the sign and they began to heave on the cables.

  Below them, the Doolans wept as their dead son was lifted off the ground, and Bufus sprang forward, his grief raging.

  “I won’t let him go!” he shrieked, clutching at the stretcher. “Don’t take him away! Don’t!”

  His father pulled him clear, and the bier was hoisted out of reach.

  “MUFUS!” his brother howled.

  Perched upon the bough, the Wergle Master spread his tapering fingers over the moderate undulations of the beech tree and pressed his lips to the bark. Then in a low, worshipful voice he recited:

  “Beech, beech, blessed beech.

  Within your timbers our long past slumbers.

  Great is that list of those we have missed,

  But open and keep another who sleeps.

  Take him now—away from reach.”

  The mourners at the base of the tree joined their hands and closed their eyes. Almost imperceptibly they began to hum—one long, protracted note.

  The droning accord grew steadily louder, and in response, the branches of the beech tree shivered and swayed. The mystery of the werling interment was commencing, and the age-old miracle occurred anew.

  From the bottom-most roots, a slow tremor rippled up the trunk, sluggishly flowing up into the branches in a spiraling wave, surging just below the knobbed surface.

  Upon the quivering branches, tiny buds burst forth, blossoming with purple, tassel-like flowers that danced and trembled. Their rustling was like a whispering music that made a fragile harmony with the humming of the werlings. In the heart of every bloom a bright dew burned with a golden light, and the welling radiance streamed through the grove, dispelling the midnight gloom.

  Rich rays of summer shone over the branches, and the bark beneath Master Gibble’s palms rolled and pulsed. Then, with his fingernail, he drew a line along the soft and mushing rind.

  Into the yielding wood the mark sank, becoming a furrow that deepened into a crack, which became a cleft—creeping wider and wider apart until a great hole had opened up in that mighty bough. A delicate fragrance of sweet musty decay arose from the strange chasm, and the tutor’s nostrils quivered.

  “Raise him,” he called to the rope handlers.

  Over that newly gaping gulf, the stretcher was heaved into position, and
Master Gibble guided its course with his spindly fingers.

  “Blessed beech!” he called aloud. “You are the book in which our forebears are recorded. Closely do you keep their names, from first to last. Accept, then, another, to guard and protect him in the mansion of the dead. Here is Mufus Doolan, outside our care now. Thus, unto yours do we commend him.”

  The ropes that tethered the stretcher by Mufus’s feet were lowered gently, and the Doolan boy’s body slid down into the dark, waiting grave.

  Slowly the edges of the gap pushed inward, and the bark closed together, sealing Mufus within for as long as the tree should endure.

  Far below, his brother screwed up his face and dug his fists into his eyes.

  The scintillating light grew dim, and the mysterious blossoms fell from the branches, dropping to the floor with the sound of soft rain. Dun shadows returned, the resonant humming faded to silence, and the tree ceased its trembling.

  “It is done,” Master Gibble proclaimed. “Let us remember him and the others we have been parted from.”

  The ceremony was over, and the mourners began to disperse through the grove, pausing at certain trees. Some of the werlings caressed the rugged projections, while others watered the ground with tears.

  Outside, but not removed from this despair, the Smith stroked his beard and his eyes glinted.

  “A strange folk you are,” he said in wonderment.

  “It’s always been this way,” Finnen told him. “There’s nothing strange about it. We all know where our final resting place will be. The Lufkin tree is over there. We go to the beeches; they are the wardens of our dead.”

  “But the growths, why are they so uneven in size?”

  “The lumps grow where we are placed. The really big bumps show where a Grand Wergle Master is interred. It has to do with how strong the wergling gift was in whoever lies there. It affects the wood somehow.”

  “The transforming skill must run mighty in your family,” the Pucca observed. “Yon Lufkin tree seems fair to rupturing.”

  Finnen averted his eyes.

  At that moment the fox cub began to squirm in the Pucca’s arms, for Liffidia was returning. Kernella Tumpin was with her. Tollychook had found his parents among the crowd and had already begun the journey back with them.

  “Ooh, Finnen!” Gamaliel’s sister cried, giving the outlandish and tall Smith a wide berth. “I was so worried about you. You must tell me everything. There’s been such a lot going on that if I don’t go pop with my nerves it’ll be an amazement. Why did the Doolans go to the heath on their own? Everyone wants to know. What have you done to your arm; why’s it in a sling?”

  Before the boy could answer, the Pucca placed the helm back on his head and declared that it was time he departed.

  “The night grows old,” he said. “Smith has the great matter to attend to. By morning the land may be cleansed, and there will be no more senseless slaughter of children.”

  Finnen bade him farewell and wished him luck.

  “Will you come back?” he asked.

  The Pucca smiled grimly. “Of that there’s no doubt; Smith’ll have to.”

  Finnen wondered if there was more to those words than he could guess, for the Pucca had looked at him strangely.

  But there was no time to ponder on hidden meanings for with a bow the Smith took his leave. When he had taken the fox cub to Liffidia’s home, he would begin the journey back to his encampment.

  Kernella and Finnen were alone.

  “I didn’t like the look of that great giant,” she snorted. “Who was he? Some grubby beggar of the big folk, I shouldn’t wonder. What you taking up with the likes of him for?”

  Finnen sighed. He was tired and had been through too much already without having to face the ordeal of Kernella Tumpin’s interrogation.

  “If you want to know, you’ll have to wait till the morning, like the rest of them,” he said bluntly. “I’d like to be on my own now. I want to go over to the Lufkin tree.”

  His words could have been chosen with greater care and tact, for Kernella took both the cue and offense. Pressing her lips together, she flounced away.

  The Silent Grove was deserted. The mourners had returned to their homes. All was quiet and hushed once again. The venerable calm of the beech trees had returned and would not be disturbed again until the passing of another werling.

  Finnen glanced cautiously around him, then stepped down into the tranquil dingle. Purposefully he strode toward the tree that housed the deceased members of the Lufkin family, and standing in its shadow, he lifted his face. It was wrung with remorse and shame.

  “Forgive me,” he whispered.

  Very slowly, because of the injury to his arm, he began to climb. Up over the beech’s many rumpled bulges he went, scaling those bunioned bellies while quoting the names of his ancestors.

  “Channin Luffud, Meldit Luffud—the Grand Wergle Master, Hootil Luffud, Fashana Lufkin—the elder, Sifkin Lufkin, Fashana Lufkin—the adept, Gremiggan Lufkin, Porfi Lufkin—the Great Adept, Wirfol Lufkin—Great Grand Wergle Master...”

  It was a prodigious, honorable list, and when he reached a cleft in the trunk, Finnen’s ascent ceased.

  Two immense limbs covered with vast swellings mounted the night on either side, and turning to face a particularly large and warty protuberance, the boy bowed in respect

  “Mahfti Lufkin—Supreme Wergle Master, one of the most gifted of our race, second only to Agnilla Hellekin. Pardon this wretch, your humble descendant. I was not blessed with your skill.”

  Unclasping the leather bag at his belt, the very one that Frighty Aggie had pored over, Finnen took out a tiny whittling knife. A shudder ran through his body and his face contorted with self-loathing, but there was no going back.

  “You can’t stop now,” he told himself. “You ought never to have begun—oh, if only I’d never set foot here.”

  The hand that held the knife was trembling.

  “Do it quick!” Finnen urged. “Then you can get away. Quickly now!”

  Raising the blade close to the lumpy growth that marked the resting place of his exalted forebear, he closed his eyes in disgust and started shaving the bark away.

  In the small bag, he collected the parings.

  Many years ago, Agnilla Hellekin had reaped a similar harvest. By chewing slivers of wood garnered from the grave markers of past Wergle Masters, she had greatly increased her already formidable powers. Finnen had heard the tale from his grandmother, and when he failed at his first wergling attempt, he had foolishly dared to do the same. Now he despised himself for it.

  “What will become of you?” he mumbled, repulsed by his own actions. “A cheat and a liar you were, and a coward—for if you had any courage you would never have done this revolting thing. Now someone has lost his life because of you. Finnen Lufkin, you’re a murderer as well.”

  Weeping, he crawled down the beech tree and stumbled home.

  At the edge of the Silent Grove, a gangly figure stepped from the shadows where it had been hiding, and a spiteful sneer crept over its long-nosed face.

  “My successor, indeed!” Terser Gibble spat.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Death of Gofannon

  THROUGH THE WILD FOREST the Pucca hurried. The tyrannic rule of the High Lady Rhiannon would end that very night.

  “To Her own carrion birds Smith’ll feed Her sequestered heart,” he vowed. “Scatter the last beakful to the four winds and in Her halls She’ll drop stone dead. Aye, then we’ll do what’s right. A gentler ruler will take up the crown; Smith’ll see to that.”

  Approaching his encampment, the Pucca went straight to his handcart and drew out a gleaming sword. The tempered blade rang musically, but even before the note faded, the Smith hissed under his breath and the whiskers of his beard began to tingle. Something was horribly wrong.

  “The night is thick with watchful eyes,” he whispered, backing away warily. “The servants of the enemy are here.”

 
Whirling around, he dashed back the way he had come, lunging desperately through the trees with the sword sweeping before him. But it was too late; he had entered the trap and now it snapped shut about him.

  A ferocious clamor suddenly broke out, and the darkness was filled with raucous yells. From the encircling trees evil shapes with small shining eyes came springing, and crashing into the Pucca’s path to prevent his escape were three enormous thorn ogres.

  The Smith skidded to a halt before their fearsome, cackling faces and looked wildly behind him.

  It seemed as if the whole forest teemed and heaved with those foul creatures. From every shadow the horrors charged. The full strength of Rhiannon’s malevolent army had descended from the cold hills where She had bred them, and their infernal shrieks trumpeted in the Pucca’s ears. Into the little clearing of his encampment they swarmed, overturning his cart and baying for death. Devils of thorn and hate they were—snarling, screeching fiends—and over all their heads the barn owl circled, calling the commands of their pitiless mistress.

  “Take him!” it hooted. “Seize the hated thief!”

  There were too many for the Smith to overcome. Rank upon rank of the savage brutes rampaged toward him, and all hope died. Yet he would not be captured without dispatching as many of his foes as he was able.

  “Thimbleglaive!” he cried. “Fly and fight. Let your steel cut the night.”

  From his belt the enchanted knife bolted, instantly hurling itself at the raging enemy.

  Glittering like a cold splinter of moonlight, it plunged and stabbed. Grasping claws were sliced apart, eyes burning with malice were rapidly extinguished, and shrieking gullets were razored. Bellowing, the ogres fell before the blades slashing volleys, but for every slain monster there were countless others to take its place.

  While his knife dealt darting death, the Smith grasped the hilt of his sword and swung it into the woody necks of the fiends that leaped in front of him.

  “For Angirrion!” he roared, splitting a repulsive spiny-crowned head in two. “For Gromer! Gwyddno! Diarmund and Cormac!”