She heard voices ahead. A faint light flickered. Strideforth appeared, holding the stump of a candle. Stella gasped with relief.
‘There you are,’ he said. ‘I was coming back for you. We have to stay together, so nobody will get lost.’
The candlelight showed a low, narrow tunnel with uneven rocky walls. Stella followed Strideforth, ducking her head. The stream trickled along beside them, disappearing into a rusty iron pipe.
‘I had this candle and a matchbox in my pocket,’ Strideforth said. ‘But there was only one match left, and the candle is very short. It won’t last long.’
Around a bend in the tunnel, Hortense and Jem were waiting, huddled together. Hortense was holding Anya close to her chest and whispering to her. Henry was perched on her head, his feathers ruffled. He clicked his beak at Stella and frowned. Jem was wearing Strideforth’s hairy coat. It was much too large for him. He was shivering and looked miserable.
‘I’m that sorry I broke the lantern,’ he said.
Hortense patted his arm.
‘It was an accident,’ said Strideforth.
The monster howled again. It was coming closer.
Strideforth looked back down the tunnel towards the cavern. ‘It’s following us. We can’t go back. We have to keep moving.’
Jem said, ‘This is the way I came. Through the caves. We’ll come out in the wood.’
‘Here, you go first.’ Strideforth passed the candle to Jem.
Jem looked doubtful, but nodded, took the candle and led the way. The tunnel was narrow and winding, following the course of the trickling stream. They clambered over rocks and squeezed through crevices and waded through the icy water. Fantastical shapes loomed around them; rock formations towered like hunched figures or speared down from the darkness overhead, like the fangs of enormous creatures.
The monster’s voice echoed through the tunnels, rumbling like thunder.
They went on, passing through a large cavern, threading their way between curved, jagged rocks that looked like the rib bones of a whale. The candle sputtered, and all around, the shadows lurched and flickered.
Something glimmered in Stella’s memory. Hurrying through a cave by the light of a lantern. Her mother held her by the hand, pulling her along. She cried and her mother comforted her. They had to go quickly and be very quiet.
Suddenly, the candle hissed and went out.
‘Ouch,’ said Jem in the darkness. ‘It’s burned down.’
‘We’ll have to go on without it,’ said Strideforth.
Hortense’s cold hand found Stella’s in the darkness. Stella gave it a squeeze.
‘We’ll be all right,’ she said.
They went on as quickly as they could, feeling their way, hands outstretched, stumbling over rocks, crawling along narrow tunnels, splashing through the water.
The darkness seemed to go on forever. Somewhere behind them, the monster howled.
At last, Stella realised she could see vague shapes ahead. She heard the sound of cascading water. Around a bend, they came to the foot of a waterfall. It gleamed in the dim misty light, plunging over mossy rocks and ferns, filling the air with icy spray.
‘Come on,’ said Strideforth. He peered up the steep sides of the waterfall. ‘This is the way out.’ He clambered onto a wet rock, reached out a hand and dragged Jem up beside him. Hortense climbed quickly. Stella scrambled up after them. She tried to grip with her fingers, but the rocks were slippery with moss and slime. Water splashed down around her. She coughed and wiped her wet hair out of her eyes. Strideforth leaned down, grabbed her hand and pulled her up. ‘Keep going,’ he said. ‘You’re nearly there.’
Stella climbed as well as she could. Strideforth hauled her up over the last few rocks. She crawled out and sank down onto the ground, gasping. She was shaking and wet through. She took a deep breath and rolled over onto her back. Huge trees surrounded them, their branches reaching up into the sky. Her eyes were so used to the darkness of the caves that the stars seemed to glow as brightly as lamps in the mist, and the crescent moon made her blink.
She took another breath, sat up and looked around. They had come out into a little clearing in the wood. The stream trickled out from between the trees, and then dived down, into a hole, tumbling and splashing over the rocks, disappearing underground.
Strideforth leaned out precariously over the edge and looked down at the waterfall. ‘Is this where you fell down, Jem?’
Jem nodded. ‘I think so. But I was running that fast, I din’t stop and look.’
A distant howl echoed up from deep below.
Strideforth backed away from the hole. He grabbed Stella’s hand and pulled her to her feet. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
They made their way across the clearing towards the trees.
There was a sudden sharp whistle. Henry shrieked. A light glimmered. Dark figures appeared from the shadows.
Stella yelled in fright.
A strong hand gripped her arm. ‘Hold hard, cully.’
Twenty-Four
Stella gasped, blinking. The lantern light glistened on the tarnished sequins of Mr Flint’s coat and on the teeth around his hatband. He put his fingers to his mouth and gave another sharp whistle.
Three young men, gap-toothed and vacant-looking, slouched into the light, dragging Strideforth, Hortense and Jem. Strideforth was struggling and trying to yell, but the man’s hand was clamped tightly over his mouth. The second man held both Jem and Hortense, twisting their arms behind their backs. Jem was pale. Blood trickled from his nose. Hortense was wriggling and squeaking and trying to kick. The third youth gripped Anya by the scruff of her neck and had Henry clamped under his arm. Anya was making shrill, angry squeals and scratching and biting. Henry was shrieking and snapping his beak at his captor’s face.
Mr Flint said, ‘Get that rope from the wagon, boys. Put the little white whitterick in a cage. I’ll see to it later. Shove that bleedin’ bird in too, whatever it is. Quick, now.’
The young man holding Anya and Henry gave him a nod and hurried off.
‘Tie them nippers tight to the tree there.’ Mr Flint pointed to a huge tree at the edge of the clearing. ‘Nice and tight, mind. Watch that hole, and fetch me when the monster turns up.’ He gripped Stella’s arm. She tried to wrench herself away, but his fingers were like iron. ‘You’re coming with me, cully,’ he said, and dragged her away into the trees.
‘Let go,’ she gasped. She twisted around, trying to kick him. ‘What do you want? Let me go.’
He pulled her along, ignoring her struggles. They came out onto a winding, overgrown cart track. The dentist’s wagon stood nearby, the horses resting between the shafts. There were squeaks and shrieks from inside. The young man jumped down, carrying a coil of rope. He looked rather badly bitten. He slouched off and disappeared into the trees.
Mr Flint dragged Stella up the stairs, pushed her inside and shut the door behind them.
The wagon was crammed so full of boxes and bundles stacked in untidy piles that there was only a small space to stand. Anya and Henry were in a small wire cage along with the two-headed chicken, balanced on top of a bundle of canvas. Henry shrieked and tried to flap his wings. Anya dashed from side to side, uttering piercing squeaks. The two-headed chicken crouched in the corner of the cage. It shivered and blinked, and each head gave a sad little cluck. Rows of jars and tins lined the walls of the wagon. Florence Nightingale, Doctor Livingstone and the Duke of Wellington leaned together in a corner, their glass eyes glittering.
Mr Flint hung the lantern on a hook overhead. ‘I had to strike the tent and move out, cully, what with them coppers swarming all over the village,’ he said. ‘So I came here, quiet like, to have a go at snabbling this monster. I don’t like all these bleedin’ trees, though. They make me uneasy, I don’t mind telling you, cully. Give me a nice town street, gaslight and hot oysters any day. We came past the crossroads back there,’ he jerked a thumb over his shoulder, ‘and I saw something pale, flit
tin’ along. Singing. My word on it. It gave me the frights, it did. And my lads too. We come along past, lickety-split, then heard the monster bellowing, down there underground. So we hopped down from the wagon to take a gander. And here you come, waltzing up out of the hole, right into my hands. Just like that.’ He snapped his fingers and smiled.
‘Wh-what do you want with me?’
Mr Flint gestured at the rows of jam jars and soup tins. Stella saw that they were piled full of teeth. Hundreds and hundreds of gleaming teeth. Mr Flint dipped his fingers into a jar, selected one and held it up to show her. ‘Ever given much thought to your pie grinders, cully?’ He looked at Stella with his head on the side, his green eyes glinting. ‘Full of secrets, teeth are. When I pull a tooth, I take a listen, like this.’ He pushed the tooth into his ear. ‘Most people don’t hear nothing. But me, I hear whispers. Things people don’t like to talk about. Nasty little things sometimes, my dear young lady. My word on it. Shameful things. Dreadful stories. Such as might make your hair curl.’ He smiled. ‘All sorts.’ He took the tooth out of his ear and dropped it back into the jar with a clink.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Everything has a price, cully.’ He waved his hand around the wagon. ‘A two-headed chicken. A little white whitterick.’ He nodded at Anya, who hissed at him from between the bars of the cage, her fur bristling. ‘Even a stone what looks just like a toad. Curiosities. Sixpence here. A shilling there. But I’ve always got my lugs out for something special. I was over Brockley way and I heard whispers about this here monster. There’s money in that, Jethro Flint, I thought to myself. Shoved in a cage for people to gawp at. Or stuffed and mounted. Either way. The Wormwood Monster. Dead or Alive (depending). Marvel of Nature. Tickets only half a crown.’ He smiled again. ‘So I came here to get my grabblers on it. And while I’m here, I pull a few more teeth, and I hear a few more secrets, village gossip and tittle-tat, nothing out of the way. But then I pull an old woman’s snaggler, and in that tooth I hear something special. A story about two nippers, ten years back. Strange little things, seeming. Fading in and out, like. Vanishing and appearing again. Uncanny, that.’
‘Fading? What … what do you mean?’ Stella’s voice shook.
‘The family were rich coves, and they kept the strange little nippers tucked away, all alone with their ma, in a big house with a high wall all around. The gate locked tight, and nobody allowed in or out. Keeping them secret, so nobody would find out what they was. And no wonder, neither. Rich coves don’t like folk knowing there’s something rum in their family tree. But the nippers went missing. One was gone for good, but the other one was found, so the story goes, right here in the wood, wandering all by herself. And now here she is. Back again.’ He grabbed Stella’s arm once more and pulled her closer. ‘I’ve been keeping a close eye on you, cully. And I saw what you did, that day in the village. I saw you appear, right out of nothing.’ He nodded. ‘A monster is special, right enough. But a little mort what can fade herself away like that? That’s singular, that is. That’s bleedin’ unique.’
‘N-no,’ Stella stammered.
Mr Flint nodded again. ‘Yes, indeed. Everything has a price, my dear young lady. And there’s ready money for a singular item like yourself. Ready money. My word on it.’
Twenty-Five
Stella yelled and struggled. Mr Flint’s fingers bit into her arm.
‘Yawl all you like, cully. Your little mates won’t be coming to save you. My boys will see to that.’ He picked up a long pair of pliers from a shelf. ‘Now. How are your teeth? Any little niggles at all?’ He snapped the jaws of the pliers. Click, click. His green eyes gleamed in the light of the lantern.
Stella tried to wrench her arm out of his grasp.
‘A little snick. Quick as a wink. You won’t even know it’s gone. I’ll just pull two or three and have a listen. And after that, you’ll be a sight more obliging, cully. Because when I’ve got ahold of a few of your secrets, I’ve got ahold of you. My three lads out there, I snabbled most of their teeth, and I keep them on my hat, and here on my ticker slang.’ He indicated the watch chain that hung across his waistcoat. A row of teeth dangled from it, like ivory fobs. ‘I left them enough for chewing their porridge.’ He laughed. ‘They don’t think for themselves, overly much. Not any more. But they do what I say. And you will too, my dear young lady. My word on it.’
Stella tried to pull away. She collided with the cage, making it rock. Anya squeaked and Henry shrieked.
‘Open up,’ said Mr Flint. Click, click. He dragged her closer.
Stella felt the cold metal of the pliers against her cheek. She twisted her head aside.
For some reason, the final story from A Garden of Lilies came into her mind. Zenobia answered back to her governess and was immediately sucked into a waterspout and whirled away.
Disaster comes to every child,
Headstrong, wilful, rude or wild.
Stella groaned in exasperation. A Garden of Lilies was the most discouraging, unhelpful book ever written. That was certain. Right now, she had to be headstrong. She had to do something to escape and to rescue the others. With determination, she snaked her free hand behind her back and fumbled for the little piece of wire that held the door of the cage closed. She untwisted it and yanked open the door.
Anya and Henry shot out. Henry flew around the wagon, shrieking. Anya sank her teeth into Mr Flint’s nose and darted away. He yelled, let go of Stella’s arm and clutched his face. Henry landed on his head. ‘Heus!’ he screeched. Mr Flint thrashed his arms about. Henry kicked off his hat, snatched a tuft of his hair and tried to pull it out. Mr Flint shouted and staggered around the wagon. Henry flapped his wings and screamed.
Florence Nightingale, Doctor Livingstone and the Duke of Wellington toppled over, knocking several boxes to the floor. The cage crashed down, and the two-headed chicken scuttled out and disappeared into a dark corner. Jars smashed and teeth scattered. Anya dashed in circles, leaping from box to box around the wagon, then onto Mr Flint’s face. She bit his nose again. He howled in pain.
The door opened. One of the young men stood on the step and stared vacantly at the chaos inside, his mouth hanging open. He made a gesture over his shoulder. ‘Monster’s comin’,’ he said.
Stella dived under Mr Flint’s clutching fingers, swerved around the young man, jumped down the steps and sprinted away into the trees. Henry flew after her, shrieking with excitement. Anya darted past her like a streak of light. Stella fled, bounding over tree roots, pushing through banks of ferns, ducking under overhanging branches. She could hear Mr Flint close behind, crashing and cursing.
She came to the small clearing by the waterfall. Strideforth, Jem and Hortense were sitting in a row, tied with rope to the trunk of the huge tree, their hands behind them. Strideforth had a bruise on his cheek. Jem’s eyes were closed. Hortense was frowning, as if she were trying not to cry.
Mr Flint’s other two men spun around when Anya and Henry burst into the clearing. Anya leaped onto Hortense’s shoulder, chittering and squeaking, then darted away from her, dashed up the leg of one of the men and bit him hard on the ear. He yelled. Henry swooped down at them, shrieking. The men covered their heads with their hands and stumbled around.
Stella ran over to the tree. ‘Are you all right?’ she panted. She crouched and tried to untie the knots, but they were too tight, and she couldn’t loosen them.
‘Grab my knife,’ said Strideforth. He wriggled around so she could reach his pocket. She fished out the pocketknife, opened a blade and began to saw through the rope.
‘Hurry!’ Strideforth gasped.
Stella shot a glance behind. Mr Flint appeared at the edge of the clearing. His hat was gone and his nose was bleeding. The third young man followed him, carrying the empty cage.
Stella kept hacking through the rope.
‘Drop the knife, cully,’ said Mr Flint. He strode over to grab her. She jumped to her feet and turned to run, but tripped over a tree root and
fell. The knife spun out of her hand. Before she could scramble to her feet again, Mr Flint seized her arm.
Stella struggled and wrenched herself free. She backed away from him, took a breath and forced herself to fade. Her head swam. She felt the horrible, dizzying sensation as she made herself disappear into the shadows.
Mr Flint’s fingers passed right through her.
Strideforth and the others gasped.
‘Where are you?’ shouted Mr Flint, spinning around.
Invisible, Stella held her breath and watched as he clutched at empty air.
Strideforth had pulled his arms free and untangled himself from the rope. He staggered upright and dragged Hortense and Jem to their feet. They turned to run, but before they could escape, Mr Flint whirled around and seized Hortense by her neck. He held the pliers against her throat. She gave a choking scream.
‘No!’ yelled Strideforth. He hurled himself at Mr Flint. One of the young men caught him and shoved him roughly to the ground. Henry swooped, snapping his beak. Anya darted up Mr Flint’s leg, squeaking.
‘Snabble them bleedin’ animals!’ shouted Mr Flint. ‘Shove ’em in that cage.’
Jem sidled around behind Mr Flint and lunged towards him, but he was caught and hurled aside.
One of the men snatched up Anya by the scruff of her neck. She squeaked and wriggled and hissed as he pushed her into the cage. Another grabbed Henry, jammed him in, shrieking and snapping, and slammed the door.
Mr Flint dragged Hortense towards the waterfall.
Strideforth struggled upright, but his leg gave way under him, and he fell. ‘Leave her alone,’ he gasped.
Mr Flint ignored him. He called out, ‘All right then, my dear young lady. I know you’re here. So show yourself, nice and quiet, and your mates will go free. Otherwise, I’ll toss them down the hole to the bleedin’ monster. One by one. This little mort’s goin’ first.’
Wormwood Mire Page 15