by Paul Stewart
It was played on a large square of land between the back of the village and the forest. The pitch was criss-crossed with well-worn paths beaten out by generations of young woodtrolls. Between these bare tracks, the grass grew thick and tall.
The rules of the game were simple. There were two teams, with as many woodtrolls on each side as wanted to play. The aim was to catch the trockbladder – the bladder of a hammelhorn stuffed with dried trockbeans – and run twelve paces, calling out the numbers as you went. If you managed that, you were allowed a shot at the central basket, which could double your score. However, since the ground was often slippery, the trockbladder always squidgy, and the entire opposing team was trying to wrest the ball away, this was not as easy as it sounded. In his eight years of playing the game, Twig had never once managed to score a trockbladder.
On this particular morning, no-one was having much luck. Heavy rain had left the pitch waterlogged and the game kept stopping and starting as, time after time, woodtroll after woodtroll came sliding off the muddy paths.
It wasn't until the third quarter that the trockbladder landed near enough to Twig for him to seize it and start running. ‘ONE, TWO, THREE…’ he yelled out as, with the trockbladder wedged beneath the elbow of his left arm, he belted along the paths which led to the centre of the pitch. The nearer to the basket you were when you reached twelve, the easier it was to score.
‘FOUR, FIVE…’ In front of him half-a-dozen members of the opposing team were converging on him. He darted down a path to the left. His opponents chased after him.
‘SIX, SEVEN…’
‘To me! Twig, to me!’ various members of his own team called out. ‘Pass it!’
But Twig didn't pass it. He wanted to score. He wanted to hear his team-mates’ cheers, to feel their hands slapping him on the back. For once, he wanted to be the hero.
‘EIGHT, NINE…’
He was completely surrounded.
‘PASS IT TO ME!’ he heard. It was Hoddergruff, calling from the far side of the pitch. Twig knew that if he chucked the ball to him now his friend would have a good chance of scoring for the team. But that was no good. You remembered who scored, not who set the goal up. Twig wanted everyone to remember that he had scored.
He paused. Half of the opposing team were almost upon him. He couldn't go forwards. He couldn't go back. He looked round at the basket. So near and yet so far, and he wanted that goal. He wanted it more than anything.
All at once, a little voice in his head seemed to say, ‘But what's the problem? The rules say nothing about sticking to the path.’ Twig looked back towards the basket, and swallowed nervously. The next instant he did what no woodtroll before had ever done: he left the path. The long grass whipped at his bare legs as he loped towards the basket.
‘TEN, ELEVEN … TWELVE!’ he screamed, and dunked the bladder down through the basket. ‘A trockbladder!’ he cried, and looked round happily. ‘A twenty-four pointer. I've scored a tro…’ He stopped. The woodtrolls on both teams were glaring at him. There were no cheers. No slaps on the back.
‘You stepped from the path!’ one of them shouted.
‘No-one steps from the path,’ cried another.
‘But … but…’ Twig stammered. ‘There's nothing in the rules that says…’
But the other woodtrolls were not listening. They knew, of course, that the rules didn't mention keeping to the paths – but then why should they? In trockbladder, as in their lives, the woodtrolls never ever strayed from the paths. It was a given. It was taken as read. It would have made as much sense to have a rule telling them not to stop breathing!
All at once, as if by some pre-arranged signal, the woodtrolls fell on Twig. ‘You lanky weirdo,’ they cried as they kicked him and punched him. ‘You hideous gangly freak!’
A sudden fiery pain tore through Twig's arm. It felt as if it had been branded. He looked up to see a wodge of his smooth flesh being viciously twisted by a handful of hard spatula-fingers.
‘Hoddergruff,’ Twig whispered.
The Snatchwoods and the Gropeknots were neighbours. He and Hoddergruff had been born within a week of each other, and grew up together. Twig had thought they were friends. Hoddergruff sneered, and twisted the skin round still further. Twig bit into his lower lip and fought back the tears. Not because of the pain in his arm – that he could bear – but because Hoddergruff had now also turned against him.
As Twig had stumbled home, battered, bruised and bleeding, it was the fact that he'd lost his only friend that hurt most. Now, because he was different, he was also alone.
*
‘Special!’ said Twig, and snorted.
‘Yes,’ said Spelda. ‘Even the sky pirates recognized that fact when they saw you,’ she added softly. ‘That is why your father…’ Her voice faltered. ‘Why we … That is why you must leave home.’
Twig froze. Leave home? What did she mean? He spun round and stared at his mother. She was weeping.
‘I don't understand,’ he said. ‘Do you want me to go?’
‘Of course I don't, Twig,’ she sobbed. ‘But you'll be thirteen in less than a week. An adult. What will you do then? You cannot fell wood like your father. You … you're not built for it. And where will you live? The cabin is already too small for you. And now that the sky pirates know about you…’
Twig twisted the knot of hair round and round his finger. Three weeks earlier he had gone with his father far into the Deepwoods, where woodtrolls felled and fashioned the wood that they sold to the sky pirates.
Whereas his father could walk upright beneath the lowest branches, Twig had had to stoop. And even that wasn't enough. Time and again he knocked his head, until his scalp had become a mass of angry red grazes. In the end Twig had had no option but to crawl on his hands and knees to the clearing.
‘Our latest felling recruit,’ Tuntum had said to the sky pirate in charge of delivery that morning.
The pirate glanced over his clipboard and looked Twig up and down. ‘Looks too tall,’ he said, and went back to his paperwork.
Twig stared at the sky pirate. Tall and upright, he looked magnificent with his tricorn hat and tooled leather breastplate, his parawings and waxed side-whiskers. His coat was patched in places but was, with its ruffs, tassles, golden buttons and braid, none the less splendid for that. Each of the numerous objects that hung from special hooks seemed to shout of adventure.
Twig found himself wondering who the sky pirate had fought with that cutlass, with its ornately jewelled hilt – and what had caused the nick in its long curved blade. He wondered what marvels the sky pirate had seen through his telescope, what walls he had scaled with the grappling irons, what distant places his compass had led him to.
Suddenly, the sky pirate looked up again. He caught Twig staring at him and raised a quizzical brow. Twig stared at his feet. ‘Tell you what,’ the sky pirate said to Tuntum. ‘There's always a place for a tall young man on a sky ship.’
‘No,’ said Tuntum sharply. ‘Thank you very much for the offer,’ he added politely. ‘But, no.’
Tuntum knew his son wouldn't last ten minutes on board ship. The sky pirates were shiftless, shameless rogues. They would slit your throat as soon as look at you. It was only because they paid so well for the buoyant Deepwood timber that the woodtrolls had anything to do with them at all.
The sky pirate shrugged. ‘Just a thought,’ he said, and turned away. ‘Pity, though,’ he muttered.
As Twig crawled back through the Deepwoods behind his father, he thought of the ships he had watched flying overhead, sails full, soaring off, up and away. ‘Skyriding,’ he whispered, and his heart quickened. Surely, he thought, there are worse things to do.
Back in the woodtroll cabin, Spelda thought otherwise. ‘Oh those sky pirates!’ she grumbled. ‘Tuntum should never have taken you to meet them in the first place. Now they'll be back for you, as sure as my name's Spelda Snatchwood.’
‘But the sky pirate I saw didn't seem bothered whet
her I joined the crew, or not,’ said Twig.
‘That's what they pretend,’ said Spelda. ‘But look what happened to Hobblebark and Hogwort. Seized from their beds they were, and never seen again. Oh, Twig, I couldn't bear it if that happened to you. It would break my heart.’
Outside, the wind howled through the dense Deepwoods. As darkness fell, the air was filled with the sounds of the wakening night creatures. Fromps coughed and spat, quarms squealed, while the great banderbear beat its monstrous hairy chest and yodelled to its mate. Far away in the distance Twig could just make out the familiar rhythmical pounding of the slaughterers, still hard at work.
‘What am I to do, then?’ Twig asked softly.
Spelda sniffed. ‘In the short term, you're to go and stay with Cousin Snetterbark,’ she said. ‘We've already sent message, and he's expecting you. Just until things blow over,’ she added. ‘Sky willing, you'll be safe there.’
‘And after,’ said Twig. ‘I can come home again then, can I?’
‘Yes,’ said Spelda slowly. Twig knew at once that there was more to come.
‘But?’ he said.
Spelda trembled and hugged the boy's head to her chest. ‘Oh, Twig, my beautiful boy,’ she sobbed. ‘There is something else I must tell you.’
Twig pulled away and looked up at her troubled face. There were tears rolling down his own cheeks now. ‘What is it, Mother-Mine?’ he asked nervously.
‘Oh, Gloamglozer!’ Spelda cursed. ‘This isn't easy.’ She looked at the boy tearfully. ‘Although I have loved you as my own since the day you arrived, you are not my son, Twig. Nor is Tuntum your father.’
Twig stared in silent disbelief. ‘Then, who am I?’ he said.
Spelda shrugged. ‘We found you,’ she said. ‘A little bundle, all wrapped up in a shawl, at the foot of our tree.’
‘Found me,’ Twig whispered.
Spelda nodded, leaned forwards and touched the cloth knotted at Twig's neck. Twig flinched.
‘My comfort cloth?’ he said. ‘The shawl?’
Spelda sighed. ‘The very same,’ she said. ‘The shawl we found you wrapped in. The shawl you won't be parted from, even now.’
Twig stroked the fabric with trembling fingers. He heard Spelda sniff.
‘Oh, Twig,’ she said. ‘Although we are not your parents, Tuntum and I have loved you like our very own. Tuntum asked me to say … goodbye for him. He said…’ She stopped, overwhelmed with sadness. ‘He said to tell you that … that, whatever happens, you must never forget … he loves you.’
Now that the words were said, Spelda abandoned herself to her grief completely. She wailed with misery, and uncontrolled sobbing racked her entire body.
Twig knelt across and wrapped his arms right round his mother's back. ‘So I am to leave at once,’ he said.
‘It's for the best,’ Spelda said. ‘But you will return, Twig. Won't you?’ she added uncertainly. ‘Believe me, my beautiful boy, I didn't ever want to have to tell you the end of the tale, but…’
‘Don't cry,’ said Twig. ‘This isn't the end of the tale.’
Spelda looked up and sniffed. ‘You're right,’ she said, and smiled bravely. ‘It's more of a beginning, isn't it? Yes, that's what it is, Twig. A new start.’
· CHAPTER TWO ·
THE HOVER WORM
The sounds of the Deepwoods echoed loudly all round as Twig walked along the path through the trees. He shivered, tightened his scarf and pulled up the collar of his leather jacket.
He hadn't wanted to leave that evening at all. It was dark and cold. But Spelda had been insistent. ‘There's no time like the present,’ she'd said several times as she got together the bits and pieces that Twig would need for his journey: a leather bottle, a rope, a small bag of food and – most precious of all – his naming knife. Twig had finally come of age.
‘Anyway, you know what they say,’ she added, as she reached up and tied two wooden charms around her son's neck. ‘Depart by night, arrive by day.’
Twig knew Spelda had been putting on a brave face. ‘But be careful,’ she insisted. ‘It's dark out there and I know what you're like, forever dreaming and dawdling and wondering what's round the next corner.’
‘Yes, mother,’ said Twig.
‘And don't “yes, mother” me,’ said Spelda. ‘This is important. Remember, stick to the path if you want to steer clear of the fearsome gloamglozer. We woodtrolls always stick to the path.’
‘But I'm not a woodtroll,’ mumbled Twig, tears stinging his eyes.
‘You're my little boy,’ said Spelda, hugging him tightly. ‘Stick to the path. Woodtrolls know best. Now, be off with you, and give my love to Cousin Snetterbark. You'll be back before you know it. Everything will be back to normal. You'll see…’
Spelda couldn't finish. The tears were coming thick and fast. Twig turned and set off down the shadowy path into the gloom.
Normal! he thought. Normal! I don't want things to be normal. Normal is trockbladder games. Normal is felling trees. Normal is always being left out, never belonging. And why should it be any different at Cousin Snetterbark's?
Being pressganged into crewing a sky ship suddenly seemed more appealing than ever. The sky pirates roamed the skies above the Deepwoods. Surely their airborne adventures must be better than anything down here on the forest floor.
A desperate howl of pain echoed through the trees. For a second, the Deepwoods were still. The next second the night sounds returned, louder than before, as if each and every creature was rejoicing that it was not the one who had fallen prey to some hungry predator.
As he walked on, Twig began putting names to the creatures he could hear out there in the treacherous Deepwoods, away from the path. It helped to calm his pounding heart. There were squealing quarms and coughing fromps in the trees above his head. Neither of them could harm a woodtroll – at least, not fatally. Away to his right, he heard the chattering screech of a razorflit, about to dive. The next instant, the air was filled with the scream of its victim: a woodrat, perhaps, or a leafgobbler.
Some way further on, with the dark path still stretching out in front of him, the forest opened up. Twig stopped and stared at the silver moonlight that snaked along the trunks and branches, and gleamed on the waxy leaves. This was the first time he had been out in the forest after dark, and it was beautiful – more beautiful than he had ever imagined.
With his eyes gazing up at the silvery leaves, Twig took a step forward, away from the shadowy path. The moonlight bathed him in its cold glow and made his skin shine like metal. His billowing breath gleamed, snow-bright.
‘In-cred-ible,’ said Twig, and took a couple of steps more.
Below his feet, the glittering frost cracked and crunched. Icicles hung down from a weeping-willoak, and the beads of liquid on a dewdrop tree had frosted and frozen, and glistened now like pearls. A wispy sapling with fronds like hair swayed in the icy breeze.
‘A-mazing,’ said Twig, as he wandered on. Now left. Now right. Now round a corner. Now over a slope. It was all so mysterious, all so new.
He stopped by a bank of quivering plants with tall spiky leaves and budded stems, all glinting in the moonlight. All at once, the buds began to pop open. One by one. Until the bank was covered with massive round flowers – with petals like shavings of ice – that turned their heads to the moon, and glowed with its brilliance.
Twig smiled to himself and turned away. ‘Just a weeny bit further…’ he said.
A tumblebush tumbled past him and disappeared into the shadows. Moonbells and tinkleberries jingled and jangled in the gathering wind.
Then Twig heard another noise. He spun round. A small, sleek, furry brown creature with a corkscrew tail scurried across the forest floor, squeaking with terror. The screech of a woodowl sliced through the air.
Twig's heart began to race. He looked round him wildly. There were eyes in the shadows. Yellow eyes. Green eyes. Red eyes. And all of them staring at him. ‘Oh, no,’ he moaned. ‘What have I done?’
Twig knew what he had done. ‘Never stray from the path,’ Spelda had said. Yet that was precisely what he had done. Entranced by the silvery beauty of the Deepwoods, he had strayed from the safety of the path.
Twig groaned. ‘I can't do anything right! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!’ he shouted at himself, as he stumbled this way and that, desperately trying to find his way back to the path. ‘STU—’
All at once he heard something; a sound which silenced his voice and froze him to the spot. It was the wheezing pant of a halitoad – a huge and dangerous reptile, with breath so foul it could stun its victim at twenty paces. At ten paces the stench was lethal. A single evil-smelling belch had been enough to kill Hoddergruff's uncle.
What could he do? Where could he go? Twig had never been away from the Deepwoods paths on his own before. He started this way, stopped, ran the other way, and stopped again. The sound of the wheezing halitoad seemed to be all round him. He darted into the shadows of some dark undergrowth and crouched down behind the trunk of a tall and lumpy tree.
The halitoad came closer. Its rasping breath grew louder. Twig's palms were wet and his mouth was dry; he couldn't swallow. The fromps and the quarms fell silent, and in the awful stillness Twig's heart beat like a drum. Surely the halitoad must be able to hear it. Perhaps it had gone. Twig peered cautiously round the trunk of the tree.
MISTAKE! his brain screamed, as he found himself staring into two yellow slit-eyes glinting back at him from the darkness. A long coiled tongue flicked in and out, tasting the air. Suddenly, the halitoad inflated like a bullfrog. It was about to blast its jet of venomous breath. Twig closed his eyes, held his nose and clamped his mouth shut. He heard a fizzing hiss.
The next moment, there was a muffled thud from behind him as something fell to the ground. Twig nervously opened one eye and inspected. A fromp was lying on the forest floor. Its furry, prehensile tail was twitching. Twig remained perfectly still as the halitoad shot out its sticky tongue, grasped the hapless fromp and scuttled off with it into the undergrowth.