Where the Woods End

by Charlotte Salter

  “A grabber has visited the woodchopper,” her mother said. “I need you to deal with it.”

  It felt like someone had tipped a bucket of cold water down Kestrel’s back.

  “Scared?” her mother said, smiling craftily.

  “No,” Kestrel said, crossing her arms. She knew her mother didn’t believe her.

  “You should be,” said her mother. “The woodchopper had a lot of axes. The grabber must have taken at least one of them to build its body.”

  Kestrel tried very hard not to think of how a grabber would use an ax. They always stole things from their victim—insignificant things at first, then objects they knew the person would miss—and used them in the worst way possible. The grabbers built themselves a body out of whatever they could find in the forest, and the things they’d stolen from their victim. An ax could be a leg or an arm. It could even be a tooth. It all depended on whatever horrendous form the grabber chose to take.

  Grabbers never attacked until they’d completed their bodies, turning themselves into the one thing that terrified their victim the most. But once their bodies were complete, there was no stopping them.

  Not that Kestrel hadn’t tried.

  “There can’t be another grabber,” she said. “I got one three days ago.”

  “The wicked never rest, sweetie,” her mother said, looking up. “You know what you have to do. Follow the grabber’s trail and kill it. We don’t want it lurking in the forest, do we? And bring back a souvenir. It will make everyone in the village feel safer.”

  Her blood boiled.

  “What if I don’t want to?” she said defiantly.

  Kestrel’s mother grabbed her chin and pulled her in. Kestrel opened her mouth to protest, but her mother tapped her front tooth with a long, dirty fingernail.

  “You’ll do it,” she said, letting Kestrel go.

  Her gaze deliberately slid to a small, white tooth tied to a piece of black string. Kestrel couldn’t help but look as well. She knew it wasn’t just the villagers’ teeth tied into the weave. There were plenty of hers, too.

  And her mother wasn’t afraid to use them. Kestrel had failed to catch the first grabber she’d ever hunted, and her mother had been furious. She used the tooth in a spell that twisted Kestrel’s bones so far they’d almost splintered.

  “Dad wouldn’t make me do this,” Kestrel said quietly.

  “Your father chooses to be away,” said her mother. She gave a sudden tug at a string above her. Kestrel went tumbling forward and was locked into a tight, bony hug. Kestrel’s mother might have looked gaunt, but that didn’t mean she was weak.

  “I’m here for you, Kestrel,” she whispered into her ear. Her breath was dry and papery. “I’m the only reason the villagers haven’t thrown you to the wolves.”

  “They hate me because of you,” mumbled Kestrel, her face squashed in her mother’s shoulder. She felt Pippit slide down her back, desperately trying to get away from her mother’s sharp nose. “Ow. That hurts.”

  Her mother kissed her on the cheek.

  “They just don’t know how much they need you,” she said soothingly. “You’re the only one who can hunt the grabbers. Besides,” added the dusty woman, her voice dripping honey, “you need to get revenge for your grandmother. Otherwise you’ll never be free, will you?”

  Kestrel pulled away sharply. Her mother let her go, smiling like it was a joke.

  But it wasn’t.

  “You’ve got to keep your end of the bargain,” Kestrel said fiercely. “When I catch the grabber that got her, the black dog goes. And the tooth. Then I’m allowed to go wherever I want.”

  And then I can find a way to escape the forest, she added to herself. I won’t die at the hands of a stinking grabber.

  “It’s a promise,” said her mother. “But you have to find her grabber first, don’t you, sweetie? It’s still out there somewhere, gobbling up foxes and licking its teeth.”

  “I’ll get it,” Kestrel said stubbornly. “I’ll recognize it. It’s got a page of her notebook and all her jewelry.”

  “Of course,” said her mother. “But if you hadn’t let it into the house, you wouldn’t have this problem.”

  Kestrel felt sick right in the pit of her stomach.

  “You don’t need to keep reminding me,” she muttered, feeling hot and cold at the same time, like she was being swallowed by a fever.

  It had happened years ago. Kestrel was sick of being mercilessly trained by Granmos. She was sick of being thrown down wells and tossed to the bats, tied only to a piece of rope for safety. By the time she was seven Kestrel could wrestle a wolf one-handed, but her grandma only said it wasn’t good enough and thought of some other highly unusual, punishing test. Even now the thought of her grandma coming toward her, her thin lips pursed, her tarnished jewelry flashing, made Kestrel more nervous than any forest creature did.

  Granmos had made her life miserable, but Kestrel felt sick that she was ever stupid and selfish enough to let her grandma’s grabber into the house. That she’d actually been terrible enough to want to kill her.

  At least Kestrel would never wake up with a knife dangling over her head again. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about someone jumping out at her from behind every door.

  Kestrel’s thoughts fled as she saw something move at the edge of her vision. She twitched her head out of the way as a knife flew past her left ear, half an inch from lopping it off.

  The knife stuck in the splintered, boarded-up door, and quivered.

  “Good,” her mother said, satisfied. “Your eyes are as sharp as ever.”

  Kestrel was wrong. The tests hadn’t stopped. Her mother was always testing her, too.

  “Sharp as a spoon,” said Kestrel.

  The weave shivered and her mother licked her lips. Kestrel automatically looked through the window. Seconds later a thin, high-pitched scream curdled the air.

  “There,” said her mother triumphantly.

  The woodchopper’s grabber. Kestrel, seeing her chance to escape, turned and pushed through the forest of string. The black dog snapped its jaws behind her, but she kicked it away and wriggled free. As soon as she was out of the house Pippit escaped from her sweater and hopped onto her shoulder.

  “Which way, Pippit?” Kestrel said urgently.

  Pippit spun around on her shoulder, sniffing, then strained in the direction of the woodchopper’s house. People were already opening their doors, drawn by the terrible scream, but when they saw Kestrel they retreated. They knew what her presence meant.

  Leaves flew up from under her feet as she ran.

  The woodchopper had destroyed the trees around his house with careless, almost joyful abandon. Kestrel had always thought this was a terrible idea. The forest had a mind of its own, and nobody likes having their fingers lopped off. She raced through the predawn gloom until she could see the front of the house.

  The door was off its hinges and streaks of lamplight fell out, spilling over the ground. A trail of broken crockery and bits of furniture led from the front door and into the darkness of the woods. It looked like the forest had taken a deep breath and tried to suck everything into its belly. There was even a sagging armchair with a large bite mark in it. Half the leather had been pulled off like the skin from an overripe plum. The grabber’s trail was slippery with yellow grease, and it had left a deep scar in the ground, a trench that twisted heavily through the earth.

  “It was big,” breathed Kestrel. “It was huge.”

  Kestrel squeezed her eyes shut and tried to imagine what the woodchopper would be most scared of. That was the shape the grabber would take. That’s why they stalked their victims—not just to steal their things, but to find their weak spot.

  Kestrel never knew what she’d find. Grabbers built their bodies out of anything, vegetation and bones and rubbish and, very often, other
animals. The result was a stitched-together mess, a patchwork of body parts and stolen objects, held together by slime and sheer willpower.

  Pippit tugged her ear.

  “Something important!” he said, as though he’d just remembered.

  “Not now,” Kestrel said.

  The woodchopper had tried to run from the grabber. The grabber’s trail circled the cottage several times, following the woodchopper’s footprints, which stopped abruptly. Then the grabber’s trail went back into the forest. It had dragged the woodchopper into the forest to eat. She had to find it quickly.

  She jumped into the scar in the ground. Her heart was hammering, and she could feel a familiar nausea in her throat, but she forced it away like Granmos taught her.

  “Les geddit,” Pippit hissed, snapping his teeth. “Les geddit’s bones!”

  “Sharpen your teeth, Pippit,” said Kestrel. “We’re going hunting.”

  THE GRABBER’S TRAIL

  Kestrel ran, following the scar as it curved around the woodchopper’s house and plunged into the forest.

  The trees swallowed her. Even though it was daytime there was a permanent darkness, with the occasional patch of sick greenish light that made everything look ill. The trail twisted left and right, and Kestrel had to dodge foot-snagging roots and animal burrows. The birds were silent. Few creatures dared come out when a grabber was on the loose.

  The trail became softer and muddier, which meant that it was fresher, and she was getting closer to the grabber. But Kestrel was struggling. The trees were so close together, she could barely squeeze past them. The grabber, despite its obvious size, seemed to have slipped through with worrying elegance.

  Her feet sank into the mud, and soon she was wading almost up to her knees. Kestrel gritted her teeth and plowed on, but she knew she wasn’t going to catch up like this. The grabber was too quick. Her only chance of killing the grabber was when it had finished eating, when it would be slow and sluggish. When it was too late.

  “Important,” Pippit said. “Something important!”

  “What?” Kestrel said, exasperated.

  But then she heard a rustling sound high in the trees and pushed him back into her pocket. A shower of razor-sharp leaves drifted from the sky. Kestrel heard a whoop of joy. Despite everything, she felt a grin unravel.

  Maybe this hunt would be different.

  “Finn!” she shouted. “Down here!”

  A pale hand dropped down in front of her. Kestrel grabbed it and was yanked into the trees, breaking through a sheet of leaves which shattered like glass. For the first time in days she could see the pale, chilly sky.

  Finn was a chaotic vision of red and brown and gold. His hair was stuck with leaves, and there were streaks of mud on his face.

  “Hunting rabbits?” he said with infuriating nonchalance.

  “Of course not,” Kestrel said. Her heart was hammering at the thought of catching up with the grabber before it ate. “I need your help. It’s too muddy to run down there. There’s a grabber on the loose.”

  Finn stiffened, and the grin died on his face.

  “Are you sure?” he said.

  “Come on!” she yelled, fighting the urge to shake him. “We’re not scared of anything, remember?”

  “You only had to ask,” he said, but he still didn’t smile. Kestrel opened her mouth to shout again, but he took a deep breath, leaped into the next tree, and started to run. Kestrel braced herself, ignoring her wobbling knees, and forced herself to jump after him.

  Then she was running, too.

  Finn’s world at the top of the forest was filled with light. Planks of wood stretched dizzyingly between tall trees, and the fraying rope bridges he’d built twisted between the thick trunks like bunting. There were platforms and handholds, hiding places and lookouts. The system spread for miles, from the village to the darkest parts of the forest. You couldn’t always see it, but it was there—a rope here, a plank there—a highway through the trees that only Finn knew how to use.

  It was like flying. Sometimes Kestrel was sure this is what life was like outside the forest—you could run wherever you wanted, and nothing could stop you.

  Pippit squirmed out of Kestrel’s pocket and butted her with his head.

  “Later,” she said shortly, pushing him back down.

  They followed the trail below, pushing deeper and deeper into the forest. The sunlight began to fade as the leaves grew denser. The branches became more slippery, covered in moss and slimy weeds. Below them the trail was petering out where the grabber had picked its feet up. The soil was even fresher here, as though it had just been churned up.

  There were claw marks at the side of the grabber’s trail, as though the woodchopper and the grabber had struggled here. Finn saw it and stopped abruptly.

  “We can’t go any farther,” he said. “The trees are too thin.”

  Kestrel had left her nerves on the ground, but they came back as she and Finn slowed down. Suddenly she didn’t like the idea of being alone.

  “Come down,” she said. “Walk with me a bit.”

  “Can’t,” Finn said, shaking his head adamantly. He was clinging to the tree trunk. “I’ll slow you down.” Before she could protest he swung himself higher into the tree.

  Kestrel clumsily slid down. She reached the ground and bent down to sniff the trail. There was a strong vinegary smell. It was like sticking her nose in a jar of pickles, which meant the grabber was close. She felt nauseous.

  She briefly closed her eyes and tried again to picture the woodchopper’s grabber. She had no idea what he was afraid of. The villagers never talked about their fears, in case it gave the grabbers ideas.

  She turned away so Finn wouldn’t see how nervous she was, then something hit her on the back of the head. She looked up to glare at him, then saw that he was looking pointedly at the ground.

  She picked the fallen stone up. It was the size of a marble, smooth and with a hole in the middle.

  “If you look through it hard enough, you can see the future,” he said. “Plus, it’s lucky, which you need.”

  Kestrel’s temper flared.

  “Are you saying I’m not a good hunter?”

  Finn twisted his fingers together.

  “It’s just that I—” He stopped short and went red.

  Kestrel slipped the stone into her pocket, pretending that her stomach wasn’t twisting with fear. She knew Finn wasn’t calling her a bad hunter.

  They looked at each other for a moment, not sure what to say. Then Kestrel heard a long, low rumble in the trees behind her, like thunder. Finn twitched, as though it was taking all his power not to run the other way. Kestrel wrenched herself away, turned tail, and ran toward the noise, leaving Finn behind.

  “You’d better not die,” Finn called, his voice already distant.

  “I never die!” Kestrel called back.

  The trees flew past as Kestrel ran, their lowest branches whipping her in the face. She danced over roots like skipping ropes. A bird dropped from the trees in front of her, claws out to grab her, but she dodged before it could even open its beak. The trail went on and on, then disappeared at the edge of a cramped clearing.

  She slowed to a stop, putting her hand on Pippit’s head.

  “Keep your ears peeled,” she told him.

  “Something important,” he insisted.

  “It’ll hear us if you don’t shut up,” she said.

  The forest was silent as Kestrel entered the clearing. Her whole body felt cold, although she told herself it was just the weather. There were great scuff marks in the earth and gouges in the nearby trees. Kestrel drew her sharpened spoon from her pocket and held it out in front of her. Pippit was looking the other way, watching for anything that might come up behind them.

  The grabber had stopped here. Kestrel’s stomach dropped. That meant
it was digesting its meal, and she was too late to save anyone. Again.

  They circled one of the marks in the ground, but it didn’t reveal anything. Maybe the grabber was hiding under the leaves and would rise when they stood on it, enclosing them like a blanket. Or maybe it was hanging from the trees, ready to drop on their heads. Kestrel looked up quickly, but she couldn’t see anything.

  She slowly backed against the trunk of a huge, furrowed tree, pressing her feet into the tangle of roots. If she stayed quiet the grabber might show itself. She twisted the spoon in her hand and impulsively patted her pockets, checking for her notebook and her slingshot.

  After a few minutes she said, “You still there?”

  “Pippit,” said Pippit.

  “Good.”

  Another long, silent pause.

  “Spoooooky,” said Pippit.

  “Shut up,” she said, narrowing her eyes. She was sure they weren’t alone.

  Pippit suddenly went rigid in her pocket. He hissed excitedly through his teeth.

  “Something important,” he said again.

  “What is it, then?” she said, exasperated. He was running up to her shoulder now, sitting there like a parrot, his bad breath next to her face.

  “Saw grabber,” said Pippit triumphantly. “Taking pickles.”

  “The grabber was taking pickles?” she said, growing cold.

  “Pippit taking pickles. In house Grabber came–woodchopper–umph!”

  “What did it look like?” Kestrel said desperately, ignoring the fact that he had been stealing pickles again.

  Something jabbed her in the hip. She turned around, horrified, to see a long, pointed fingernail withdraw as quick as lightning.

  “Yeah,” said Pippit happily. “A lots-of-legs.”

  Kestrel grabbed him and threw him away from her, so he landed in the leaves with a splash. Then the grabber behind her lurched, and the roots of the tree rose up and entangled her.

  THE LOTS-OF-LEGS

  Kestrel shrieked and tried to lift her feet. They were trapped in the jumble of roots. The grabber hissed, its sour breath burning the back of her neck, and snapped its teeth around her hair.