by Paul Stewart
Green slime immediately began bubbling to the surface. It oozed round the knife and over his hand, oily and slippery. Twig lost his grasp and tumbled back through the air.
Dangling helplessly by his feet, he twisted his neck back and looked down. He was above the top of the main tree-trunk. Directly beneath him were the thousand razor-sharp teeth he had heard clattering so greedily. Arranged in a wide circle, they glinted in the red light.
All at once, they sprang open. Twig found himself staring down into the crimson gorge of the bloodthirsty tree. It slobbered and slavered noisily. The stench was atrocious. Twig gagged emptily.
Now he would never ride the sky pirates’ ships. Nor reach his destiny. Nor even leave the Deepwoods.
With his last bit of strength, Twig struggled frantically to pull himself upwards again. The hammelhornskin waistcoat slipped down over his eyes. He felt the fur stiffen as he rubbed it the wrong way. Again and again, he reached up and – finally – he managed to clutch hold of the vine. As he did so, it released his feet.
Twig cried out with fear as he swung loose, and dug in with his fingernails. Now, instead of trying to cut himself free, he was desperate to hold on – desperate not to be dropped down into the gaping mouth of the bloodoak. Hand over hand, he tried to climb the vine but, slippery with the slime, it slid back between his fingers. For every inch he went up, he slithered back half a dozen.
‘Help,’ he whimpered softly. ‘Help me.’
The vine gave a violent jerk. Twig lost his grip and the tarry vine flicked him away.
Feet first, arms flailing, he dropped through the air. He landed with a sickening squelch deep down inside the cavernous mouth of the flesh-eating bloodoak. The teeth snapped shut above his head.
It was pitch black in the tree, and loud with the sound of hideous gurgling. ‘I can't move,’ he gasped. All round him, the monstrous throat constricted, and rings of hard woody muscle squeezed him tightly. ‘Can't bre … e … eathe!’
One thought went round and round his head, too awful to take in. I'm being eaten alive! Deeper and deeper down he went. Eaten alive…’
Suddenly the bloodoak juddered. A rumbling, grumbling burp burbled up from the inner depths of the tree, and a blast of foul air rushed up past Twig. For an instant, the muscles released their grip.
Twig gasped and slipped down a little further. The thick hair on the hammelhornskin waistcoat bristled as it was brushed up the wrong way. The bloodoak juddered again.
The gurgling grew louder as the bloodoak continued to cough, until the whole spongy tube shook with a deafening roar. Beneath him, Twig felt something strange pressing against the bottom of his feet, pushing him upwards.
All at once, the retching tree released its grip on Twig's body for a second time. It had to get rid of the spiky object which had become lodged in its throat. It burped, and the pressure of air which had built up below suddenly exploded with such violence that it shot Twig back up the hollow trunk.
He burst into the air with a loud POP and soared off in a shower of spittle and slime. And for a moment, Twig felt he was actually flying. Up and away he went, as free as a bird.
And then down again, crashing through branches, as he hurtled back to the ground. He landed with a heavy thud that jarred every bone in his body. For a moment he lay there, scarcely daring to believe what had happened.
‘You saved my life,’ he said, smoothing the fur of the hammelhornskin waistcoat. ‘Thank you for your gift, Ma-Tatum.’
Hurt, but not that badly, it occurred to Twig that something must have broken his fall. He reached below him tentatively.
‘Oy!’ a voice protested.
Startled, Twig rolled over and looked up. Not something, but somebody! He tightened his grip on the knife, still in his hand.
· CHAPTER SIX ·
THE GYLE GOBLIN
COLONY
Twig climbed shakily to his feet, and looked at the character lying on the ground. He had a flat head, a bulbous nose and heavy-lidded eyes; he was dressed in filthy rags and covered in dirt from head to toe. He stared at Twig suspiciously.
‘You did drop down on us from a great height,’ he said.
‘I know, I'm sorry about that,’ said Twig, and shuddered. ‘You wouldn't believe what I've just been through. I…’
‘You did hurt us,’ the goblin interrupted. His nasal voice buzzed round inside Twig's head. ‘Are you the gloamglozer?’ it said.
‘The gloamglozer?’ said Twig. ‘Of course not!’
‘The most terrifying creature in all the Deepwoods, it be,’ the goblin said, its ears twitching. ‘It does lurk in the dark corners of the sky and drop down upon the unsuspecting.’ The goblin's eyes became two thin slits. ‘But then perhaps you do know that already.’
‘I'm no gloamglozer,’ Twig said. He returned his knife to its sheath, reached forwards and helped the goblin to his feet. The bony hand felt hot and sticky to the touch. ‘I'll tell you what, though,’ Twig added. ‘I was almost eaten just now – by a bloodo…’
But the goblin was no longer listening. ‘He does say he is not the gloamglozer,’ he called into the shadows.
Two more of the squat, angular goblins appeared. Apart from the differing patterns of streaked dirt on their faces, the three of them were identical. Twig's nose wrinkled up at the sickly sweet odour they gave off.
‘In that case,’ said the first, ‘we do best return to the colony. Our Grossmother will wonder where we are.’
The others nodded, picked up their bundles of weeds and swung them up onto their flat heads.
‘Wait!’ Twig cried. ‘You can't just go. You've got to help me. COME BACK!’ he yelled, and sped off after them.
The forest was dense and overgrown. Through cracks in the canopy, Twig saw that the sky had turned to pinky-blue. Little light penetrated the gloom beneath.
‘Why won't you listen to me?’ said Twig miserably.
‘Why should we?’ came the reply.
Twig trembled with loneliness. ‘I'm tired and hungry,’ he said.
‘So what!’ they jeered.
Twig bit into his lower lip. ‘And I'm lost!’ he shouted angrily. ‘Can't I go with you?’
The goblin directly in front of him turned and shrugged. ‘It be all the same to us what you do.’
Twig sighed. It was the nearest to an invitation he was likely to get. At least they hadn't said he couldn't go with them. The goblins were unpleasant but, as Twig had already learned, you couldn't afford to be too fussy in the Deepwoods. And so, picking out the tarry vine's thorny splinters from his wrist as he went, Twig did go with them.
‘Do you have names?’ he called out, some while later.
‘We are gyle goblins,’ they all replied as one.
A little farther after that, they were suddenly joined by three more goblins, and then another three – and then half a dozen more. They all looked the same. It was only the objects balanced on their flat heads that singled them out. One was carrying a wicker tray of berries, one, a basket of knotted roots, another, a huge bulbous gourd of purple and yellow.
All at once, the thronging crowd emerged from the forest and Twig was swept along with them into a sunlit clearing. In front of him stood a magnificent construction made of a pink, waxen material, with sagging windows and drooping towers. It was as tall as the tallest trees and stretched back farther than Twig could see.
The goblins began chattering excitedly. ‘We are back,’ they cried, as they surged forwards. ‘We are home. Our Grossmother will be pleased with us. Our Grossmother will feed us.’
Squeezed on all sides by the crush of bodies, Twig could hardly breathe. Suddenly, his feet left the ground and he found himself being carried on against his will. A great gateway loomed up in front of him. The next moment he was sucked beneath the towering arch in the flood of gyle goblins, and on into the colony itself.
Once inside, the goblins hurried off in all directions. Twig tumbled to the floor with a thud. More and more of the
goblins continued to pour in. They stepped on his hands, they tripped over his legs. With one arm raised protectively, Twig struggled to his feet and tried in vain to get back to the door.
Jostled and bounced, he was driven across the hall and down one of the many tunnels. The air became closer, clammier. The walls were sticky and warm and glowed with a deep pink light.
‘You've got to help me,’ Twig pleaded as the goblins shoved past him. ‘I'm hungry!’ he cried, and grabbed a long woodsap from one of the passing baskets.
The goblin, whose fruit it was, turned on him angrily. ‘That does not be for you,’ he snapped, and snatched the woodsap back.
‘But I need it,’ said Twig weakly.
The goblin turned his back, and was gone. Twig felt anger bubbling up inside him. He was hungry. The goblins had food – yet they wouldn't let him have any. All at once his anger exploded.
The goblin with the woodsaps hadn't got far. Barging past the others, Twig steadied himself, threw himself at the goblin's ankles – and missed.
He sat up, dazed. He was lying next to a narrow alcove set back in the wall. It was into this opening that the goblin had darted. Twig smiled grimly as he climbed to his feet. He had the goblin cornered.
‘You!’ he yelled. ‘I want some of that fruit and I want it now.’
The red woodsaps gleamed in the pink light. Twig could already taste their syrupy flesh on his tongue.
‘I did tell you once,’ said the goblin as he swung the basket down off his head. ‘They do not be for you.’ And with that, he tipped the entire load of woodsaps down a hole in the floor. Twig heard them bouncing down a long chute and landing far below – with a muffled plattsh.
Twig stared at the goblin open-mouthed. ‘Why did you do that?’ he said.
But the goblin left without saying a word.
Twig slumped to the floor. ‘Horrible little beast,’ he muttered. Others came with their loads of roots, fruits, berries and leaves. None of them noticed Twig. None of them heard him pleading for something to eat. Eventually, Twig fell silent and stared down at the sticky floor. The stream of goblins dwindled.
It was only when a latecomer arrived, grumbling to himself about the time, that Twig looked up again. The goblin looked flustered. His hands shook as he tipped his load of succulent yellow tubroots down the hole.
‘At last,’ he sighed. ‘Now for some food.’
Food. Food! The wonderful word echoed round Twig's head. He leapt up and followed the goblin.
Two right turns and a left fork later, Twig found himself in a vast, cavernous chamber. It was round and high and domed, with glistening walls and thick pillars like dripping candles. The air was cloying with the familiar sickly sweet smell, and sticky on the skin.
Although packed, the chamber was quite still. The gyle goblins were all staring upwards, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, at a point in the very centre of the domed ceiling. Twig followed their gaze and saw a wide tube slowly descending. Clouds of pink steam billowed out from its end, making the stuffy air more stifling still.
The tube came to a halt inches above a trough. The goblins held their breath as one. There was a click and a gurgle, a final puff of steam, and all at once a torrent of thick, pink honey poured out of the bottom of the tube and into the trough.
At the sight of the honey, the goblins went wild. Voices were raised, fists flew. Those at the back surged forwards, while those at the front fought with each other. They scratched, they scraped, they tore at one another's clothes in a frenzied effort to be first at the steaming pink honey.
Twig drew back, away from the rioting goblins. He felt behind him for the wall and worked his way around the outside of the chamber. And when he came to a flight of stairs, he climbed it. Halfway to the top, he stopped, sat, and looked down on the goblins.
The pink honey was splashing and splattering everywhere as the goblins struggled to get as much of the gooey mixture as they could. Some were slurping from their cupped hands. Some had plunged their heads into the sticky mess and were gulping it down in greedy mouthfuls. One had jumped into the trough and was lying directly under the tube with his mouth open. A look of mindless contentment spread over his spattered features.
Twig shook his head in disgust.
All at once, there was a loud CLONK and the stream of pink honey stopped. Feeding time was over. A half-hearted groan went up and several of the goblins clambered into the trough to lick it clean. The rest began to file away; calmly, peacefully. Along with their hunger, the frantic atmosphere had also disappeared.
The chamber was all but empty when Twig climbed to his feet. He paused. There was another noise. PUFF-PANT, it went. SQUELCH, CLATTER. And again. PUFF-PANT, SQUELCH, CLATTER.
Heart pounding, Twig spun round and peered up into the darkness above him. He fingered his amulets nervously.
PUFF-PANT, SQUELCH, CLATTER.
Twig gasped with terror. Something was approaching. Something he didn't like the sound of one tiny little bit.
PUFF-PANT, SQUELCH, CLATTER, G-R-O-A-N!
All at once, the doorway at the top of the stairs was filled with the BIGGEST, the FATTEST, the MOST MONSTROUSLY OBESE creature Twig had ever ever EVER seen. She – for it was female – moved her head and surveyed the scene below her. Beady eyes peered over her fat cheeks, and the rolls of blubber around her neck wobbled.
‘No peace for the wicked,’ she muttered. Her voice sounded like bubbling mud. Plob plob plob plob plob. ‘Still,’ she added softly, shifting the mop and bucket in her hands. ‘Grossmother's boys be worth it.’
She squished and squeezed herself through the doorway, wodge by wobbling wodge. Twig leaped to his feet, flew down the stairs and hid in the only place there was to hide – beneath the trough. The noise continued – PUFF-PANT, SQUELCH, CLATTER. THUD! Twig peeked nervously out.
The Grossmother was moving quickly for one so immense. Closer she came, closer and closer. Twig shivered with dread, ‘She must have seen me,’ he groaned, and shrank back as far into the shadows as he could.
The bucket clattered to the floor, the mop plunged into the water and the Grossmother began cleaning the mess her ‘boys’ had left. In the trough and around it she slopped, humming wheezily as she worked. Finally, she seized the bucket and threw the remaining water underneath the trough.
Twig yelped with surprise. The water was icy cold.
‘What was that?’ the Grossmother shrieked, and began prodding and jabbing beneath the trough with her mop. Time and again, Twig dodged out of the way. But then his luck ran out. The mop slammed into his chest and sent him skidding backwards, out into the open. The Grossmother was upon him at once.
‘Ugh!’ she exclaimed. ‘Vile … disgusting … revolting VERMIN! Contaminating my beautiful colony.’
She seized Twig by the ear, swung him up off the ground and plonked him into the bucket. Then she rammed the mop down on top of him, picked the whole lot up and hauled herself back to the top of the stairs.
Twig lay still. His chest ached, his ear throbbed – the bucket swayed. He heard the Grossmother squeeze herself back through the door, and then through another. The sweet, sickly smell grew stronger than ever. Suddenly the swaying stopped. Twig waited a moment, then pushed the mop aside and peered over the edge.
The bucket was hanging from a hook, high up above a vast steamy kitchen. Twig gasped. There was no way down.
He watched the Grossmother wobble across the room to where two massive pots were bubbling away on a stove. She seized a wooden paddle and plunged it into the simmering pink honey. ‘Stir, stir, stir,’ she sang. ‘Got to keep it stirring.’
Then she dipped a podgy finger into the pot, and sucked it thoughtfully. Her face broke into a smile. ‘Perfect,’ she said. ‘Though perhaps we could do with just a little more.’
She laid the paddle down and heaved her massive bulk over to a shadowy recess at the back of the kitchen. There, looking out of place next to the cupboards and table, Twig saw a well. The Grossmother seize
d the wooden handle and began turning. When the end of the rope suddenly popped up into view, she looked perplexed.
‘Where's the blooming bucket got to?’ she muttered.
Then she remembered.
‘Unnh!’ she grunted with surprise a moment later, as she unhooked the bucket and glanced inside. ‘I did forget to put the rubbish out.’
Twig stared out of the bucket nervously as the Grossmother lumbered back to the sink. What exactly did ‘putting the rubbish out’ involve? He discovered all too soon as a powerful jet of water – so cold it took his breath away – thundered down onto him. He felt himself spinning round and round as the Grossmother swilled the bucket.
‘Whooaaah!’ he cried out dizzily.
The next moment, the Grossmother tipped the bucket up and sloshed the whole lot – Twig and all – down the disposal chute.
‘Aaaarrgh!’ he screamed as he tumbled, over and over, helter-skelter all the way down to the bottom of the long chute, out and – PLATTSH – onto a warm, soft, soggy mound.
Twig sat up and looked round. The long, flexible tube he'd fallen down was only one of many. All of them were swaying gently this way and that, illuminated by the roof of waxy pink which glowed far, far above his head. He would never be able to climb back up that high. What was he to do now?
‘First things first,’ Twig thought, his eye catching sight of a woodsap, still intact, lying on the rotting pile to his right. He picked it up and wiped it on his hammelhornskin waistcoat till the red skin gleamed. He bit into the fruit hungrily. Red juice dribbled down his chin.
Twig smiled happily. ‘Scrumptious!’ he slurped.
· CHAPTER SEVEN ·
SPINDLEBUGS AND
MILCHGRUBS
Twig finished the woodsap and tossed the core away. The painful gnawing in his stomach had gone. He climbed to his feet, wiped his hands on his jacket and looked round. He was standing at the centre of a huge compost heap in an underground cavern as colossal as the colony above it.