The Monster Hunter

by Kit Cox

  The children both nodded their agreement.

  ‘Now it’s been a long day for all. Ben, eat your food – you need to keep your strength up – and then the two of you can sort out the beds. I don’t want you talking and keeping me awake upstairs either.’ And with this she shook Ben’s hand and nodded to Rosalie and said a friendly ‘goodnight’ before retiring to her room above.

  Ben was indeed hungry, so he sat at the desk eating the cold meal and drinking the apple juice. Excitement was certainly getting the better of Rosalie; she hadn’t slept in a room without wheels in her entire life and tomorrow a true adventure would unfold. On finishing his meal, Ben went to the trunk and quickly unpacked the camp bed. He failed to notice the leather-bound journal was no longer there.

  In the rooms above Nanny Belle held her brother’s journal in her hands. She had removed it early that morning just after Ben had left. She had been on the stairs when she heard the pages rip and thought it best to protect her brother’s property. She had followed after Ben, wondering why he was awake and moving about so early. Normally, he slept so heavily and snored like the steam engines at the Limehouse docks. It was a little annoying but at least you knew where he was.

  She hadn’t looked through the pages of Jack’s journal for a long time. He had been taking notes for many years, always aware that people at the top would try to hide the truth even more than it already was and that his journal could serve as a legacy, enabling others to learn his skills and to carry on the job of protecting the Empire.

  Opening the book was like meeting up with an old friend as she spied the curious drawings and neat handwriting of her brother. She reached the Ps – the torn pages where the Psammead had once been were gone. She ran her fingers down the rough edges. Here was a creature she knew all about; it was why she had come to Garden Orphanage… Well, it was a reason why she had come more quickly than expected. Her true reason for being here was the boy downstairs whose existence she had discovered while he was still recovering from his ordeal in Ceylon. She had written to the orphanage in Kent telling them of his plight and asked whether they could find room for the boy. Of course, he had a sizable legacy that would pay for his keep and she would send the school an extra pair of hands to help out.

  Jack wouldn’t be happy that the book had been damaged. But Nanny Belle had been covering her tracks for so long that it wasn’t too hard to cover those of Ben as well. She took a sharp pair of manicure scissors and neatly trimmed the pages back to the spine so they would never be missed. Before putting the book down, she flicked once more through the pages and found others had been torn out. She was surprised. As far as she was aware, they had only Psammead to worry about in the neighbourhood. What other pages had Ben torn from the book? She looked at the position of the missing creature that had lain somewhere between Snark and Troll and her heart skipped. She flipped back to the Bs to make sure it hadn’t been included elsewhere, but no, it was the entry on the Tattie Bogle that was missing. Nanny Belle looked from her window, seeing in her mind’s eye the acres of fruit trees that lay all around them.

  She rushed back down the stairs to find the camp bed unmade and Ben and Rosalie gone.

  ‘Damn!’ she cursed. She would never find them in a week of searching; she had to get help. Rushing back to her room, she wrote a hasty note, then ran to the covered birdcage, uncovering it in a flourish and startling the monkey within.

  ‘Icarus my love, I need you to find my brother. I need you to find Jack and bring him this note. The skies are dark and cold but it is important that you bring your master here.’

  The brown monkey grabbed the note from Belle’s hand and thrust it tightly into his collar. Nanny Belle opened the window of her room, allowing the cold sea air to rush in. The monkey chattered and shivered before jumping on to the window sill and then out into the night. As he left the confines of the room, a pair of magnificent tawny wings opened up from his back and, like an owl, he disappeared into the night.

  Far below and already covered by the blanket of darkness, Ben and Rosalie wound their way back to the orchard on the cliff.

  ‘It’s best that we watch it doesn’t escape tonight,’ said the well-wrapped-up Ben, his kitbag slung over his shoulder. ‘We won’t engage with it until the morning, though. We will need the light.’

  Rosalie nodded. ‘I think we’re doing the right thing. Besides, I was far too excited to sleep.’

  Bitter Fruit

  The thing about night is that it is often far from dark. The moment Rosalie and Ben had walked away from the orphanage they could see quite some way about them. The sea was dark where the sky met the water but, close to shore where the waves broke, the white-flecked surf cast back a lot of light and seemed to light the pebbly beach that lay before it. The white cliffs that rose out of the sea reflected light, too, as if they had been storing it all day and that now the sun had dipped out of sight it was their time to shine and light the headland. The clouds rolled across the night sky but the crescent moon shone down like the mocking grin of the Cheshire cat, and all around it clusters of pinprick lights blazed in a mixture of whites, yellows and reds, lighting up the blanket of the sky until it was a swirl of purples and deep blues.

  Beneath this the two friends walked determinedly towards the ancient cherry orchard. At first it had seemed like an escapade, sneaking out of the cosy, red-brick house and into the muted colours of the chill night. Now, however, with the heat slowly leaving their bodies and the task at hand becoming closer, the fun of it all had faded away and both were lost in thought. Ben was thinking of the night almost four years before when he had walked up a different hill in the night, leaving his home behind him. That night he had been alone but tonight he was with Rosalie. He didn’t need to look at her, for already her image was set in stone in his mind’s eye. She would be walking along, determination in her every footfall as if each and every step was planned, and although her legs would be wrapped in hard-wearing leather boots to just below the knee, it would look as if she were dancing lightly along in ballet slippers. He had known her such a short time but already he trusted her with his life and would forfeit his to save her. He had seen her run, plot and fight, and he couldn’t help thinking he would happily do all three with her until the end of time. He thought all these things to take his thoughts off the distant hill in Ceylon and the formidable shadow that lay at its crown.

  Rosalie was not thinking of what lay ahead, she had merely read the words from a book, but she trusted her friend and what he had seen. He had been right about the Psammead and if they were to do this right and protect the others at the orphanage then that was what they would do.

  Rosalie’s thoughts had wandered back to earlier in the day when the caravans had sauntered slowly along the road, leaving behind, as she thought, the district and her new friend for ever. Suddenly the horses had stopped. She had thought nothing of it at first – perhaps one of the other caravans needed to catch up. There were voices, however, and they were moving towards her. Father Mick called out her name. Her mind raced and for a moment she thought the police had come to arrest her or Uncle David. She emerged from the caravan to be greeted by Father Mick, her mother and, more surprisingly, by Nanny Belle.

  ‘This is a nanny from the orphanage, young girl,’ Father Mick said, unaware that the two had met. ‘She says she wants to look after you and give you a sound education.’ He had looked at the young woman, whose friendly eyes never once left Rosalie. ‘And I believe her words to be good.’ Father Mick looked up at Rosalie again. ‘But the choice is yours, Rosalie. We can no longer tell you what to do than we can cage a songbird.’

  Rosalie looked at her mother, and the woman, with a proud look in her eyes, gave a simple nod of her head. Permission given, Rosalie accepted whole-heartedly.

  Ben was the first true friend she had ever had of her own age and she thought little more beyond that. She didn’t need to clarify in her mind that she would give her life for him, no more than she needed to clari
fy that he would give his life for her. These were givens, simple facts of true friendship.

  The shape of the orchard now stood out on the skyline, like a badly woven basket of shadows. Something big moved through the dark lattice far from the ground and Rosalie stopped, not from fear but because she wanted to be able to study whatever it was before it got to studying her. Ben, too, noticed the shape moving through the trees and stopped beside his friend, his heart beating fast, hoping that it was fear that had stopped her feet, too. As one, they crouched down in the long grass that led to the orchard and without a word studied what lay ahead of them for a long, long time.

  The Bogle was looking for an escape. Although they could not see it moving constantly, from time to time a vast dark shape would scuttle like a spider from the depths of one shadow to the next. One moment it would be at the cliff edge, then it would be as far inland as the orchard would allow it to go. After close on an hour in the grass, they were convinced that the Bogle was still trapped within the orchard

  Rosalie could hardly bear to wait any more and when Ben rose up on his haunches and signalled that they should advance the two of them crept stealthily forward. Ben pointed at the ring of dark-grey stones that lay a few feet ahead; in the poor light they seemed almost like a moat of slow-flowing water.

  It was now they both felt a cold, hard stare fall upon them. As Rosalie’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, she could make out a patch of darkness in the trees before them that could be cast by neither branches nor leaves. She pointed it out to Ben.

  Ben stood tall. If the creature was going to watch him, he was going to show that he was not afraid, although in his heart every fibre was petrified and every nerve of his body tingled with fear.

  Rosalie was not so sure about this bold stance, though more out of caution than fear, and she tugged on Ben’s trouser leg to encourage him to crouch again. The boy, however, showed no signs of responding, so with their position now given away she stood up beside him. At once, the shadow dropped from the trees, disappearing into the heavy gloom of the orchard floor. Ben looked among the entangled darkness, expecting it to appear somewhere else, but Rosalie kept her gaze fixed on the spot where it been. But the creature seemed to have vanished…

  That was until it rushed forward, charging not like a man but scuttling alarmingly fast like a beast on all fours, prompting both Rosalie and Ben to take an involuntary step backwards. The Bogle halted its silent charge, stopping dead by the protective ring of stones. It stood facing them, stretching itself up to its full height. Like this, it stood almost seven feet tall, the skeletal remains of Tom Granger just visible through all the darkened, living wood.

  Thus the night passed, as the friends sat watching the apparition and it in turn watched the friends. At first, the sight filled the children with terror, Ben’s fear being the greatest, for he alone had known its kind and the destruction it could cause. Over time their fear seeped away and by the time the sun rose behind them it had almost faded completely and the Bogle held no more of a fear for them than a caged lion. Safe as long as you did not slip through the bars.

  The morning sun gave little heat and a heavy fog clung to the sea even as it rose above the horizon. With light, however, came renewed confidence. Ben stood up, ready to walk forward, his action waking Rosalie, who had fallen asleep against his shoulder. For a moment she blinked as if remembering where she was, until she saw in the sunlight the macabre figure of the Bogle. She reached up and slid her hand into Ben’s and he pulled her to her feet, and together hand in hand they drew closer to their enemy. The Bogle spun its skull towards them mouth wide open and it appeared to hiss, though it was simply the leaves rattling in the cage of its ribs.

  ‘Look for the heart,’ said Ben. ‘We can stop it if we get the heart.’

  ‘But it’s the size of a cherry in the frame of a monster!’ whispered Rosalie. ‘We would need the eyes of a hawk to spot it.’ Then, without a second thought, Rosalie stepped closer and across the stone path.

  ‘NOOOO!’ shouted Ben, grabbing for the girl’s arm but missing her entirely. The skull head swung around, hatred etched on its features, and the roar of the sea crashing on the cliffs below once again stood in for the silent roar of the creature. Ben dived for the kitbag and pulled forth the heavy tree-felling axe he had taken from the orphanage shed as he prepared to face the creature for a fight.

  Rosalie was now inside the stone ring. ‘Stop! It doesn’t want me; it wants you,’ she said calmly. ‘I don’t need the eyes of a hawk. As long as I resist the urge to run, I think I can locate the heart and remove it. This beastie will go down quicker than even the Sand Fairy. We just need to keep our heads and follow the instructions we’ve read to the letter.’

  Ben knew that Rosalie was right but he could still feel his flesh creep as Rosalie peered into the depths of the Bogle looking for its heart while the whole time the creature twisted and turned unnaturally, following the girl’s progress but not once raising its limbs to strike. To his eyes, it was like a macabre dance, the brave Gypsy girl and the wooden devil, Beauty and the Beast. Impatiently, Ben moved closer to the circle, tightening his grip on the stout axe handle as he did so. Instantly the Bogle reacted, whipping its twisted body around on him so quickly that it made both Ben and Rosalie jump back in honest fear.

  ‘Don’t do that again!’ Rosalie scolded, regaining her composure.

  Then she saw it. Among the dark dead leaves of the chest cavity was a flash of ruby red. The most perfect cherry hung from a delicate stem. She could reach it, too, if the creature would just raise its arm enough, allowing her small hand to dart in and grab. She looked the Bogle straight in its bleached-white skull face.

  ‘Go on,’ she whispered. ‘Just for little Rosalie – raise those big strong arms up high.’ But, of course, talking to the Bogle was like talking to the trees of the orchard. She pouted. ‘Tiger,’ she called, not taking her eyes off the emotionless skull. ‘Do your thing. Make it angry, make it roar!’

  Ben shifted uncomfortably. He really didn’t want to while Rosalie was so close and unprotected – it seemed foolish to take risks. Rosalie may have been looking deep inside to where the leaves were dark and dry, but he could only see how its hands were flexed into spear-like tips, hard and unforgiving. The morning dew made the wood glisten, lending the Bogle an unhealthy-looking shine as if it was sweating under pressure but the worse aspect of the morning sun on the wet wood was that it steamed and it seemed to Ben’s eyes as if it had turned it into some infernal demon, smoking at the fiery gates of hell.

  Ben steadied his nerve and brandished his axe from where he stood, but the creature failed to react. He stepped forward, closer towards the ring, and instantly it turned on him, arms thrown high like an angry ape. Rosalie made her move. She darted forward, pushing her hand through the opening beneath the arm and into the rotting leaves. Her delicate but strong fingers touched the ripe sphere of the cherry and she plucked it from the stem, removing her hand as quickly as a viper after a strike.

  The Bogle shuddered and twitched. For an instant it turned its hollow eyes back on Rosalie and seemed to gaze at the cherry heart she held in her open palm. Then it fell like a tree beneath the woodsman’s axe.

  For a moment Ben was stunned. The Bogle was down – no heart, no life – they had won. They had WON! He turned a grinning face on Rosalie and watched her throw the cherry in the air and catch it full in her mouth. His eyes widened in horror as the promised fruit disappeared between her full lips.

  For the second time he shrieked, ‘No!’ but it was stilled in his throat as he saw a mischievous look on Rosalie’s face.

  With a twinkle in her eyes Rosalie spat the whole fruit back into her palm. ‘You should have seen your face. I read the pages, too. I’m not stupid, just funny.’

  Ben shook his head, relief etched all over his features, but feeling foolish at being teased by his friend. ‘Put it somewhere safe so nothing else eats it. If you want cherries, pick them off the trees; there�
�s nothing to guard them now,’ Ben said with a laugh, pointing at the fruit-laden branches of the trees, the lovely red orbs dangling in perfect pairs from their stalks.

  Suddenly Ben threw himself forward, axe in hand, straight at Rosalie. In one bound he crossed the stone path and then threw the girl clear, back across the protective path. The Bogle was already rising up behind her, pulling itself up as if it was growing directly from the soil, its one intent to kill the girl and take its revenge. But now already in her place stood the freedom-stealing boy.

  In the back of his mind Ben could hear his mother’s voice, speaking not calming words or bedtime stories, but defiant commands of evade and attack. Ben heeded them well, calming himself before he swung the heavy metal axe and took the creature’s spear-like arm clean off at the elbow.

  The Bogle swept around and Ben was taken clean off his feet, landing hard upon his back, the wind knocked from his lungs. Seizing its chance, the Bogle lifted its remaining arm with its spear-like point and struck down hard at the prone figure. But the boy rolled as if he were remembering some ancient instinct within his blood. The Bogle could not fathom why the boy could move so fast, but already Ben had rolled behind the creature and stood up again, swinging the axe in both his hands towards the closest leg. The blow took it off at the hip, and with a splinter of wood and bone the Bogle crashed down on to the chalk-hard earth. The ancient skull struck against a large flint and brittle with age shattered. But Ben was not interested in the fake head. He brought the flat of the axe crashing down on the ribcage and it exploded beneath the hammer-like force, rotten leaves spilled from the skeletal frame. Another ripe red cherry, still on its stalk, became visible, and he lunged forward to tear the fruit-heart from the Bogle’s chest.

  As he stood breathless with his prize, the axe’s heavy head now resting on the ground, he turned to face Rosalie, who now carried a lit kerosene lamp. She wore a look of stunned awe on her face – she had never seen anyone fight like it and for a moment she was unsure whether the boy himself had now become some kind of beast as he stood among the shattered bones and twisted wood carcass of the broken monster. Walking forward, she took Ben’s hand and, feeling the heat within it, she led him silently away from the fallen guardian. Then she turned and threw the kerosene lamp into the dry leaves of the Bogle’s chest – ‘in case it’s not quite done,’ she said.