Ravenwood

by Andrew Peters

Mucum was horrified. He knew the Rootshooters were weird. This explained it. He imagined the children with feet rooted in the subsoil like skinny sapling monsters. “Yeurghhh!” he exclaimed.

  Joe frowned at Mucum’s comment. “Whoi the funny face? They be right tasty! Yow wants to try one?”

  Mucum stepped back, almost knocking Ark over. He wanted to whisper to him to run. “They’re cannibals! They eat their own young!” he hissed, hoping Joe wouldn’t hear. Unfortunately, Mucum missed his footing and fell with a dull clump straight onto the shining white … things. “Help!” he squealed. “They’ve got sharp teeth. I’m being bitten!”

  Ark had already figured out what was going on and was almost doubled up with laughter. “Those aren’t teeth. They’re thorns!”

  “Yas!” said Joe. “Can’t have dulberries without brambles! Let’s pick a few fer the journey back. They be ever so sweet.”

  “You mean, they’re not … babies?” Mucum said, hauling himself back onto his feet, his brain taking a while to catch up.

  “Baybees? Is this how yow lot up top grow up? Oi always wondered what them scaffields were for!” Both Joe and Ark were sharing the joke now, their giggles echoing down the passage.

  “Oh, ha-ha! Very funny! How was I to know?” He tore off one of the fruits and stuck it in his mouth to show them he wasn’t afraid. It was sweet and earthy, like honey. “Not bad, I suppose.”

  “Not bad?” Joe was shocked. “This be treasure, moi boys, and wait ’til yow taste the brew it makes!”

  The moment they reached the diving station and pulled off their helmets, Joe’s whistle cut across the cavern. The sound was like a candle drawing moths. Within seconds, it seemed that all the Rootshooter kin within the huge trunk were gathered, pressing in an expectant circle around the trio.

  Joe waited patiently, his hands on Ark’s shoulders. “Yow not going to believe this!” he declared to all his colleagues. “This boy” — and he nodded his head downward — “made best mateys with a … wait for it … mealworm!”

  The whole crowd gave an “Oooh!” in delight as Joe proceeded to fill them in. When his yarn-spinning reached the moment that Ark had joined with the great worm, every single Rootshooter closed their eyes and they all swayed gently like a copse of skinny saplings in a breeze. The short silence didn’t last as Joe carried on painting Ark as the man of the hour.

  Ark stood at the center of it all, lit up by all the gazing eyes. He was suddenly tired. Had he really done anything? Maybe it was just sympathy. A sense of what others, including creatures, go through. The enthusiasm of the Rootshooters was overwhelming.

  Standing to one side, Mucum felt like a spare wrench hanging on a belt. This wasn’t helped by Flo’s constant fluttering glances. He remembered Ark’s words and looked away nervously.

  After swallowing at least a gallon of hot soup, Ark felt exhaustion seep into his limbs. His legs threatened to give way and Joe quickly motioned two of the Rootshooters to carry him back to his room. He was laid down on a moss bed and covered with blankets, where he drifted off. Had he really listened to that dark creature? For a second, he’d felt there had been another down in that tunnel. Not Mucum or Joe. Someone, or something, else.

  Later, much later, he woke to the sounds of music, feeling refreshed and wondering at the racket. The Rootshooters were celebrating, with Joe scraping on the fiddle and the others joining in throaty voices. One of the miners, his white skin streaked with circles and smears of coal, put a long hollow twig to his lips. The resonating drone echoed around the cavern, making the walls vibrate as his cheeks puffed in and out. Even Mucum, his face flushed red with drink, was beating on a drum as their newfound friends danced and sang, turning the tale of the boy and the mealworm into the stuff of myth and legend. When they saw Ark standing uncertainly at the door, they cheered again and plied him with a cup of hard cider.

  “Yow be one of us now!” shouted Joe above the clamor. “Yow saved me life and that makes yow me kin-brother. I am at yowr service ’til the day Oi be dead, boyo!”

  Ark was embarrassed, but he got the gist. He was their lucky mascot. If he could keep away the worms, then their one main predator was dealt with. But this ignored the fact of a far more dangerous predator that stalked their whole country. He needed to go; he’d realized it the moment he woke up. He was running out of time.

  “I can’t stay!” said Ark, but Joe didn’t hear him in the din of celebration. This was a night for feasting. After all, what could possibly go wrong now?

  21• INFANT TERRORISM

  “Your daughter is hereby charged with … umm … terrorist activity!”

  Petronio hung back in the shadows as Alnus delivered the charge. The surgeon apprentice couldn’t decide what he was enjoying more, the guard’s evident unease about arresting a four-year-old girl or the look on Ark’s mother’s face as the truth dawned on her.

  “Are you crazy?” said Mrs. Malikum, barring the doorway of her shanty home with a broom. “She’s only a child!”

  “Forgive me, ma’am!” And Alnus really meant it this time. “I’m only following orders.”

  “Orders! I’ll give you orders!” She came at the skinny guard with the broom handle first, thrusting it like a spear, suddenly catching him off balance.

  It was Salix who saved his colleague from toppling over the safety rope on the edge, grabbing at Alnus’s arm and leaning back with all his weight. Once he checked that Alnus hadn’t tried flying for real, Salix easily disarmed the distraught mother, tossing the broom over the branchway, where it twirled around and down, clacking and echoing against the trunk until it vanished from view. He pushed past her into the gloom of the one-room hovel and scooped up the child, who instantly began to scream at the top of her lungs while Mr. Malikum feebly tried to rise from his sickbed.

  “Shut your trap, girly!” Salix snarled, and the child instinctively knew this was no game, but danger. Little Shiv did as she was told.

  “And as for you …” Salix leaned toward Mrs. Malikum until she could smell the sour beer on his breath. “Call this a security measure. As long as we have your daughter, you won’t be running around telling the world about mad conspiracy plots that don’t even exist.” He paused, drilling her with a glint in his eyes. “That is, if you want to see her alive again!”

  Shiv reached out an arm and grabbed hold of her mother’s top. “Mommy!” she half sobbed, half whispered.

  “Let her go!” It was a stationary tug of war as Mrs. Malikum tried to pull her child from the soldier’s strong-armed grip.

  Salix’s arms folded over the girl like solid rock. A sneer spread over his lips as he leaned slowly backward to tear mother and daughter apart.

  “You are a disgrace!” Mrs. Malikum hissed through tight lips. “Using my child in this shameful way.” Her daughter’s hand now only clung on to empty air as Salix stepped away. “How can you?” she implored.

  “Not up to me.” Salix shrugged his shoulders, feeling guilty despite himself.

  Mrs. Malikum visibly slumped.

  Salix delivered his speech. “That’s better! Trust us, she’ll be well fed and watered in Councillor Grasp’s holding cell. All you have to do if asked is say that your daughter is infectious, under quarantine. Agree?”

  She had no choice but to nod her head like a lowly servant. The pain in her heart was too much to bear. Only Diana knew what had become of their son. Now this.

  “That’s settled, then.” Job done. With his bearlike arms wrapped round the child, Salix stalked off, not even waiting for his colleague.

  Alnus felt uneasy. It was one thing chasing treenage troublemakers with dangerous information in their heads. But incarcerating an innocent child? He backed away, leaving the mother sobbing and the father curled up in a cot-basket, impotent with fury and rage.

  Good! It was exactly as Petronio had planned. He melted back into the leafscape as the mother wailed and collapsed on the floor of her hovel. Squit happens. The woman would get over it.

&
nbsp; Anyhow, the plumber’s apprentice had given them no end of trouble. Time to repay the favor, give him a taste of his own making. And the little girl was the perfect wriggling worm, the bait he hoped would draw the little canker out of whatever hidey-hole he’d bolted down. When Ark returned home, the boy’s honor would make him try to rescue his little sister. Chivalry was overrated, but for once, it might help the outcome.

  Maybe Grasp Senior would finally see the sense of it and approve of his son’s actions. Never mind. The game was his now. It was time to sit and wait.

  Grasp had other matters and, more important, his king to attend to. The meeting was going as well as could be expected. The room, deep in the heart of the palace, was not overlarge and was plainly furnished with good oak furniture, a table covered in scrolls and maps, and the two chairs they sat in. The walls were unadorned plank, with not a tapestry in sight. The plain wooden goblets they drank from contrasted with Grasp’s own gold-leafed version. He was the King, for Diana’s sake. All this so-called humility and “servant of the people” nonsense was seriously outdated! He really was ignorant of what went on beyond the palace gates. The truth was that society consisted of leaders and servants. It was the way of the wood. Feeding the poor with a feast once a year at harvest was not about to change that. Grasp and his Alder Councillors already controlled most of the wages in the country, skimming off the cream for themselves. Quercus really had no idea that he was effectively running the country in name only. This coup would put an end to his nonsensical ideas forever.

  The flickering gaslight revealed a man of late middle age, strongly built, with a trimmed, graying beard, wide forehead, and hazel eyes that stared unwaveringly at Grasp. The King’s green gown lay loose at the waist, revealing a shoulder sash embroidered with gold-threaded oak leaves. The silk doublet on his chest and fine suede boots on his feet were both dyed dark blue, a color that none but the King might wear. The dye, produced from fermented knotweed represented the only crown that the trees wore: blue sky. On either side of the chair stood the two obligatory royal guards, their eyes fixed impassively straight ahead, their oiled muscles glinting in the gaslight.

  Grasp felt sure of himself, even now eyeing up the room and working out how it would be redecorated once he was in power. The King was droning on, as usual, and then stopped, as if waiting. Suddenly, Grasp worked out that an answer was required. He took a punt. “It is something to consider.”

  “But what about our borders? I fear for our little island. Do you think Maw is up to its old tricks again?”

  Grasp cursed himself for stirring up the old man’s fervor, but he was prepared for this one. “Commander Flint’s patrols have met with no incursions. The gas that the trees have given off for generations is still doing its job.”

  The King scratched at his beard as if he might find a different answer in there. “Yes, I suppose you are right.”

  Grasp smiled placatingly. This was the King’s favorite phrase these days and he never tired of hearing it.

  “It’s the technology I am concerned with,” the King continued. “We are the last frontier, a tiny kingdom holding out against the odds….”

  “And doing very well at it, my lord!” Grasp interrupted.

  “Yes, yes. I am aware of luxuries being smuggled in. The mud-pirates who live below must be tolerated while they are still able to bring goods that we cannot manufacture ourselves. Our scaffields have not yet cultivated a usable tea crop, and a cup of something warm is no threat.”

  “Indeed.” If Grasp nodded any more, his head would fall off. The old fool didn’t half go on.

  “But what else can slip in, eh?” The King paused, his eyes resting on the Councillor.

  For a second, the Councillor panicked as the silence deepened. He could not stop a flush from creeping across his face like poison ivy. The two bodyguards still looked dead ahead, but was that a sudden tightening of the grip on their weapons? Had he been found out? Was this a trap? “My l-lord!” he stammered. “Nothing … erm … that is, nothing would get past Flint. He is the best.”

  King Quercus waited before answering.

  Maybe this was the moment. Any second, Grasp expected the heavy hand on his shoulder, the accusation, the bodyguards springing to life like two life-threatening machines.

  Finally, the King sighed. “Of course. You are right. I grew up with him, you know. In a fight, he’s the one I would want by my side. I still wonder if Moss-side was the best place to put the armories.”

  The young Grasp had known full well how Flint had ended the uprising. The King’s shame at such deeds in his name had been a spur for sudden inspiration. Supported by the other councillors, Grasp had suggested the general populace might feel less threatened, after the years of unrest, if their army was stationed out of sight. It also provided another benefit in that it had given Grasp more power in the capital city. This was his secret and the reason he had prospered as the King had gradually weakened. He hoped Flint would never find out.

  The King’s question meant that Quercus was not about to have Grasp arrested. The Councillor pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the sudden sweat from his brow. “They can always be summoned quickly enough if there is danger….” He changed the subject. “Now, I trust the plans for the Harvest Festival are to your favor?”

  “Oh please, Ambrosius, less of the formality. The plans are fine. It seems you have it all under control as usual: the music, food, security.”

  If only he knew. “Don’t worry, my lord, my men are the best.”

  “Good, good. Maybe this is one night when we can celebrate what we hold dear in this little kingdom of ours. Who would dare attack us on such a holly occasion, hmmm?” It would be good for his subjects to have a night off: fresh, roast timber goat, maybe even the odd deepwood boar skewered on the spit, washed down with a little too much to drink.

  “I am glad to have men such as you under my command. Come, let us leave these matters behind and share a sip of something stronger! The vines of the southern scaffields were a great success last year. Our Arborian wine is maturing well.”

  Grasp almost heaved a sigh of relief as he drained his cup. An hour or so of dull small talk was little price to pay. The date was soon approaching when the old man would finally be out of his way.

  Several cups later, Grasp had to be lifted onto his horse. As the drink had flowed, Quercus’s jokes had become raucous and rather hilarious. For a second, Grasp almost felt a prick of conscience. Then it was gone, dissolved by the thought of Fenestra’s promises. This once visionary King had built little but castles in the air. It was time for something more substantial.

  As the sure-footed horse plodded its way through the last of the evening light, Grasp felt a sense that history had a place reserved for him. In a few days, the halfhearted moon that rose palely in the sky would soon be shining on a very different country.

  The horse suddenly reared up as a shadowy figure planted itself in the roadway. Who would dare to step out in front of the High Councillor? But his pride covered a deeper fear. Salix and Alnus were no doubt playing dice in the guardroom of the house around the corner. They were near, but not near enough. If it was a thief, Grasp’s purse was heavy, and the drop to the stinking earth below, a long one.

  “Who would block my way?” He tried to keep his voice from shaking.

  A mass of clouds scudded across the sky, clearing for a second to reveal an excited face, pale as the moon itself. “It is I, Father.”

  “And why does my son need to crawl about in the night like a snake?” Relief gave way to fury.

  But his son ignored the anger and the question. “Listen! We have succeeded! I have the girl!”

  For a moment, Grasp’s drink-addled head thought Petronio was talking about Fenestra. Then his mind cleared. This was welcome news. “Good … good.”

  “And where the girl is, the brother shall surely follow.”

  Grasp almost smiled. Loose ends were being tied up. “Take my horse. And ask the se
rvants to bring me food. Immediately.”

  Petronio could think of several answers to his father’s demands that would have got him in instant trouble. Why bother with servants when he, the son of the house, was treated no better? But this night was his. He wouldn’t let it be ruined. He kept his mouth shut and led the horse away.

  Grasp suddenly never felt more sober. He made sure that a serving woman was sent to keep the young child company, feed her, and soothe her to sleep. It would not do to have his evening interrupted by the screeching of a commoner. Salix and Alnus were summoned to keep careful watch and apprehend the boy if he should turn up. They were not to kill him, at least not until he had answered several questions. Then they could do what they liked.

  As his father ascended the stairs, Petronio carefully made his way back through the courtyard, hugging the shadows and easily avoiding the two guards. He slipped quietly into the kitchens to make a flask of chicory coffee. The night ahead was going to be cold. He crept from the house, down the woodway along which any unexpected visitor would have to come. This was one part of the plan he had no intention of sharing with his father, let alone those two imbecilic guards.

  Petronio chose his spot, where the branch had a natural kink and its curve created a hollow of deeper darkness. He sat carefully in the shadows, pulling the knife from his belt and sharpening it on a small whetstone. Spots of light rain began to tip-tap on the woodway. Perfect. If Ark turned up … when Ark turned up, Petronio would make sure that this time, he would not get away.

  22• FLIGHT AND FIGHT

  The party was in full swing.

  “Good stuff, eh? Get it down yer neck, mate!” Mucum shoved a rough-carved stone cup at Ark, almost splashing him. “S’not bad down ’ere, really.” His eyes had already glazed over and his words were thick with the drink.

  Ark held on to the cup without sipping. “They’re good people” was his only response.

  “The best!” Mucum was squeezed next to Flo on a dried-moss bed. Sitting down, they almost looked the same size. She’d changed into a flowing red skirt and green velvet bodice embroidered with patterns of curling roots, laced tight round the front. The effect was startling.