Ravenwood

by Andrew Peters

  Ark checked his arm. The rope burn all the way up the skin of his upper arm had begun to weep. There was a small beading of blood: all that was needed as scent to draw a keen hunter. Very bad. He looked and smelled like dinner on a twig.

  “Hello, little birdies,” Ark murmured. “No need to cry.”

  But to them he knew he was simply edible-looking prey, just feet away from their nest. They didn’t want soothing words, they wanted Mommy. Now! Especially as Mommy could turn this intruder into din-din!

  “Hush there!” Ark tried, but he might as well have told the sun not to get up that morning. Frantically, he attempted to lick the blood from his arm while looking for a way back up onto the branch line. Could he risk it? Did he have any choice? The ravens’ screeching was getting louder and they’d begun flapping excitedly. Once they’d got the scent of injury and weakness, it was almost pointless even thinking about escape.

  Ark heard the beating of wings before he could see anything. He was in just about the worst place possible. He knew that female ravens would do anything to protect their young. Out of the shadows of the underforest, a darker shadow blotted out his vision. As he shrank down instinctively, he forced himself to look up and saw the huge, dark eyes swallowing him, the claws — each the size of a sword — advancing to rip him up for supper, and the vast wings about to settle and draw a cloak over all his days.

  At the same moment, the mist suddenly parted and the last of the evening sun shot a rare beam of light right down through the gloom. It pierced his retinas and he screeched in pain, a noise echoed by the raven’s cry. This is it! he thought, closing his eyes. His mind filled up with home: his father curled like an arthritic leaf by the fire, his mother humming soft tunes to herself as she stirred the pot, his sister, Shiv, making tiny, complete worlds out of twigs and nutshells, the curve of the branches that held them up high. Each image slipped away until there was only the imprint of a black sun rising between his ears. All gone. All …

  4• AN UNEXPECTED MEETING

  The blinding pain disappeared as quickly as it had come, and the cry faded from Ark’s lips. He hesitantly risked a glance, then opened both eyes wide in surprise. The baby ravens still stared at him but were mute. Their mother, with her ravening claws, was nowhere to be seen.

  Ten seconds ago, he’d been a meaty morsel in the making. Now he wasn’t even frightened of the fledglings. What the bark had happened? Nothing made sense. He felt queasy. The raven of myth and story had veered away from him instead of swallowing him up. Two lives down. How many left?

  But when he was calm, cold fury took over. It wasn’t his fault that he’d overhead talk of a revolution and threats to Arborium! He was just a simple plumber’s boy. The job was squitty, but it was a life. Ark felt the tears prickling his eyes. All that he loved in the whole wide-wood could be snatched away.

  When his father had first fallen ill, Ark found himself one evening punching the thin wooden roof above his bed so hard that his knuckles had begun to bleed. School was for little children or for rich kids. He was neither. That was the way of Arborium. He was an apprentice and now he would have to be the head of the house, too. He remembered how scared he’d been to pick up his father’s tools and his first day at work, filling his father’s place, and all the jibes and jeers. How would he survive in the dark sewers, away from the sunlight that sank through the leaves, and the rain that battered the branches?

  Somehow, he’d got through, even though the boss had made sure that the newbie got all the dirtiest tasks. He’d survived, kept up to his targets, and even gained the grudging respect from workers twice his size. Now it could all have been for nothing.

  It was time to go. Ark glanced one last time at the baby ravens. They didn’t move but simply stared back at him. A strange instinct made him want to reach out and stroke their plumage. These were birds of myth and legend. He’d never been within touching distance before. Forget that! He levered his way out from under the scaffolding, shinned his way up various supporting poles, and peered over the edge of the branch line.

  In all the activity, he hadn’t heard the clocking-off bells. The empty highway was beginning to throng with tired day workers streaming away from court and the businesses that surrounded the seat of King Quercus. Ark chose a particularly dense, shaded spot a few feet away and, at the perfect moment, slipped up and over the edge. The storm had gone and taken the mist with it, leaving the trunks shining as if polished.

  No one even noticed the dirty plumber’s boy climbing out from under their boots and he allowed the crowds to sweep him along the branch line toward the nearest trunk. That was the thing about Arborium — it was a country that was never still. Buildings creaked, floors vibrated, wooden highways arched and flexed with wind and weight.

  Amazing to think that the city of Hellebore, with the palace at its center, was almost all that remained of the great Arborian counties, before the ancient choleric plagues reduced the population to a sliver of what went before. The great forest truly was a place of abandoned echoes.

  The trunk gates were wide open. Inside, beyond the through way, cavernous stairs wound left, going up, and right, going down. They were carved around the central, living core of the tree and worn with the footsteps of generations of plodding Dendrans. The smell of hot pies wafted up the nearside stairwell, reminding Ark he hadn’t eaten all day. Of course, now he could hardly go back to his job and ask for his wages. Ghosts didn’t usually get paid, as far as he knew. Anyway, he consoled himself that he’d always doubted that the advertised one-hundred-percent-pure-goat pie contents was strictly honest. Fifty percent dog and other unsavory leftovers was far more likely.

  He ignored the fast-food stall, shoehorned into a dark alcove of the trunk, and wearily trudged on down the steps toward the lower levels. This way took him past the inner doors and windows of apartments hollowed out into the heartwood: prime property for the rich, but far out of reach of a plumber’s income. The steps continued, winding down and down the central trunk, and the crowds eventually began to thin as he descended to the lower levels. Finally, a poorly patched-up gate swung open, revealing his local branch line. He stepped out into a land of shadows. The twilight had problems reaching this far. Night came earlier for the poor. But in the darkness Ark felt safe for the first time that day. Home was the only thought in his head. In the distance, he could see the gaslighter reaching up with his flare pole to spark the first evening lamps.

  “Wot are you doin’ ’ere?” The voice boomed in his ear as a meaty pair of hands grabbed him in a viselike headlock.

  Ark’s heart faltered. So close to home and he’d been found. Why had he come back? Of course they’d look for him here.

  “Get off!”

  And amazingly, instead of strangling him, the hands did as he asked and let go. Then, before he turned around, it hit him. The voice. “Mucum, you big overgrown lump!” Ark hissed as he faced his workmate.

  The boy he confronted fit the description perfectly, his tatty sheepskin waistcote barely able to contain a thick trunk, legs, and arms solid as oak as they almost sprouted out of his mud-colored hose stockings. The eyes, under a bright orange fuzz, stared at him amused.

  “And keep your voice down. I’m supposed to be dead!”

  “Yeah, right. That toilet must have been a real killer, huh? Looks like you fell in it! Yer soakin’! Didn’t drown, did yer?”

  Ark looked around frantically. “It’s no joke. I’m in danger. I can’t go home, can’t go back to work, can’t do anything.” At that moment, Ark burst into tears, the tension of the last hour finally spilling out.

  “Don’t be such a girl!” said Mucum.

  Ark wanted to kick Mucum, but all he could do was sob.

  “Here …” Mucum pulled out a handkerchief that looked like it was stained with moss. He pushed it in Ark’s direction.

  Ark shuddered. “Thanks, but no, thanks.” He wiped his tears away with a grubby hand.

  “Suit yourself.”

&n
bsp; Ark wondered if he could trust Mucum. Working in the same sewage station didn’t exactly make them best of buds. In fact, he hardly knew the boy, except to make the odd comment about the weather. After a second’s indecision, he pulled at Mucum’s sleeve and dragged him off the main thoroughfare, away from any possible listening ears. “Here! Sit! Be quiet … please!” He pointed at a gap between two piles of pine pallets ready for recycling.

  Mucum wasn’t used to being ordered around. He frowned. He could either sit on Ark and squash him or squat like a good boy on a pile of rubbish. He shrugged. “I’m all ears. But let me tell you that if you managed to flood Mister High-and-Mighty Grasp’s basement with squit and are now sitting on the pity potty, I don’t wanna know!”

  “It’s worse than that!” said Ark, scanning the walkway uneasily. “Much worse.” He squeezed in alongside Mucum and finally filled him in on the events that had begun when he’d tried to unblock a toilet.

  When Ark had finished, Mucum shook his head in wonder. “That’s the longest speech I’ve ever ‘eard from you!” He stared back at the normally quiet plumber’s boy. “Either you’ve totally gone off your tree and made up the whole thing, or —”

  “Since when have I been an expert liar? That’s your department.”

  Mucum smiled. It was true. His excuses for being late for work had a legendary quality about them. The only reason their boss, Jobby Jones, tolerated him was that, occasionally, plumbing problems could be solved with brute force only. And when it came to bolts that refused to budge, or pipes that were heavy enough to squash mere mortal Dendrans, Mucum was the one for the task. “Okay. I always thought that Grasp was a bit too big for his boots, strutting around the place with his thugs as if he owned every buddy woodway! But from moron to traitor — that’s a holly big leap! You dead sure about this?”

  “I heard what I heard,” said Ark.

  “Maw coming here to nick the whole lot?”

  Ark nodded. The place sounded like a far tale. A land without trees? Now, that really was a Holly Woodsman’s version of hell. Towering palaces of mirrored glass and metal machines that flew. To most Dendrans, the distant empire was something of a rumor, a story that lurked at the back of their dreams. Now those dreams, those nightmares, were about to come to life. From what he’d heard today, Maw was rightly named, a greedy mouth keen to chew up their little island and spit out the pieces.

  Mucum grabbed a small broken twig and began chewing it. He paused suddenly. “Every splinter worth its weight in gold to that lot? Makes yer think …” He looked around at the branches deepening into shadow, as the last of the stragglers from work made their way home and gaslights came on.

  “Maybe they’re right. This place is precious,” muttered Ark, shivering at the thought of the future.

  Mucum was already bored with talking about the end of the wood. “And they really shot at you with their crossbows?”

  Ark nodded glumly.

  “And you smacked one with yer wrench! Even I ’ave to admit that’s dead impressive.”

  Ark tried not to smile, but actually, escaping killer guards was quite an achievement.

  “That’s better. You’re cheerin’ up now. As for pretending to kill yourself— buddy marvelous! Who’d have thought that our mousy little apprentice had it in him?” Mucum paused for a second. “Wot about them ravens?” The boy shuddered at the thought. He’d fight anyone. But the ravens? “Stuff of nightmares, they are, not that I’m scared or nothing, right?”

  Ark knew it was a good idea to nod his head in agreement.

  “But since when did they let a free meal go asking? And that close to the nest. You might as well ’ave had a target painted on yer ‘ead! Am I missing something ’ere?”

  “No. I don’t understand it either. It’s strange.” Even stranger that he wanted to stroke the raven chicks.

  “Anyways. Your problems are bigger than a bunch of monster babies.”

  “Thanks, Mucum. That really helps.” Ark suddenly felt heavy all over, exhausted from running, from everything. He could just curl up in these boxes and let everything else fall away.

  “Oi, sleepyhead. Go home. Take advantage of being dead! It’s an asset, right? They’re hardly gonna be looking for yer!” Despite appearances, Mucum was not as thick as a plank.

  “Yes. Of course, you’re right.”

  “I’m always right, me. When did yer say it was all kickin’ off?”

  Ark tried to remember what the woman had said. “Harvest Festival.”

  “Spot on. We got seven days. You can save Arborium when yer head’s clearer. I’ve gotta get home for tea or me dad will kill me. Meet us outside work. I’ll find an excuse and get out an hour before lunch. We’ll think up a plan. And I promise if I see that Petronio, he’ll be sorted.” Mucum thumped Ark on the shoulder, almost knocking him over, then stalked off, his massive feet making the whole woodway vibrate.

  It was time for Ark to go home.

  5• DEAD AND ALIVE

  Despite himself, Ark managed a smile. At least he wasn’t alone, though describing Mucum as a friend might be stretching it.

  He was nearly back. Down here, between the branches, a thousand shanty homes had been erected, built from uppercanopian leftovers. There were trunnels, bark boards, and treepaulin, and pieces of cheap sheet resin for windows. Reworked iron sprouted and supported a thousand chimneys, now smoking away as if each house were secretly puffing on a cheroot. The twinkling subsettlement on the outskirts of Hellebore was strung on a precarious network of fraying ropes and vines. Ugly to some, but in his eyes, the dusklight revealed a winking, flickering necklace of beauty. Who needed stars in the sky when you could have this?

  Ark trudged along the branch, trying to work out what on earth he could possibly tell his parents. The truth? Right— so he’d overheard a plot that would destroy their home and country, had nearly been murdered, then almost eaten by a bird straight out of the Ravenwood, was now believed to be dead … oh and, by the way, he’d brought no money home for food or rent and wouldn’t be able to earn any more for the foreseeable future. Yes, that story would go down a treat.

  He wove his way down a wood-alleyway between the densely crowded homes. Smoke swirled around the branches, its aroma mingling with the verdant leaves and resinous bark. Ark breathed in the smell of home.

  “Whoa!” His foot paused midair. There in the middle of the woodway stood a bunch of bristles. The tiny hedgehog curled into a spiky ball, determined to defend its territory. As Ark stepped carefully around the creature, he frowned. If the empire had its way, the animals of Arborium would be no more than pests to be dealt with.

  A minute later, he rounded the corner and his heart lit up. A tethered, somewhat grubby, curly-haired child played with a pile of twigs, dropping one, then another, over the edge of the branch. She had a look of rapt wonder on her face as the sticks spun down into the fathomless dark. Though she was already four, her imagination still lived in the wild wood.

  “Hello, Shiv!”

  “Arky-Parky!” cried his little sister. Her smile was even bigger than his.

  He bent to inspect her tether. “We don’t want you slipping off the edge, eh? I fell off the branch today and I pretended I was dead!”

  “Arky’s not dead! I won’t let you, ever!” She frowned.

  “Good for you!” He lifted her in his arms and landed a big kiss on her forehead.

  Shiv squealed with delight. “Throw me off the tree? Pleeeeease?”

  Ark could feel the weight of her. “You, my beautiful girl, are growing up too quick.” Ark still loved playing the old game of holding his sister over the safety rope, upside down, and pretending to drop her, but then thought better of it. Too close for comfort, and besides, it occurred to him he ought to get inside before he was seen by any passing neighbors. He placed her back down carefully on the branch. “Sorry, Shiv. Another time. I have to go in to see Dad.”

  Her bottom lip drooped and a cry threatened to erupt from her lips.r />
  Ark tried to head off the sulky storm. “Later. I promise. Be good now.”

  “Humpph!” muttered Shiv and turned her back on him to tell off one of the sticks.

  Ark took a deep breath. At least he was back. The dome-shaped family home nestled by itself in a cradle of rope, like a giant egg. He stepped off the branch line onto a thin, swaying walkway, and bounced lightly. The creak was familiar, welcoming.

  “Anyone home?” Ark lifted the flap of the treepaulin, the stitched-together harvest-leaves that provided waterproofing and protection. As the leaves fell throughout autumn, Dendrans would haul in their nets strung between the trees. The leaves were a strong and flexible crop. Once tanned, they were far more durable than cow leather.

  Ark ducked down out of the gloom. The round, single room was divided by thick, moth-munched blankets. Wall gaslights flickered in a breeze that made the whole house tremble in its fragile cradle of rope. Ark steadied himself as the fuggy heat warmed his damp body.

  “Here, son,” came a weak voice. His father lay curled up in a large cot-basket next to the wood burner. His filmy eyes gazed toward Ark. “Good day?”

  “It was all right,” Ark lied. He was wet, tired, and his whole world had been turned upside down. All right was nowhere near the truth.

  “Your mother’s out veg-haggling. Back in a bit.”

  Ark felt guilty. Their last coins would be gone on a few blighted spuds and wrinkled carrots. “Dad. I’m in trouble.”

  “Oh?”

  But he had no chance to explain. They both turned at the sound of hobnailed boots clattering down the walkway. Ark looked wild-eyed at his father, who quick as a flash motioned his son down behind one of the partition sheets.

  Before Mr. Malikum Senior could say Enter, the flap was roughly pulled aside, letting in the chill evening air.