by Paul Stewart
He fingered his amulets. He took another step forwards. Where was the girl? Was it all just another horrible trap…?
‘Waaaaiii!’ Twig screamed.
The ground had opened up and Twig was falling. Into the earth he tumbled, and down a long curving tunnel. Bump, bump, roll, bumpety, roll, crash, bang and plaff, down onto a thick bed of soft straw.
Twig looked up, dazed. Everything was spinning. Yellow lights, twisted roots – and four faces staring down at him.
‘Where you bin?’ two of them were saying. ‘You know I don't like you going upground. It's too dangerous. You'll get carried off by the gloamglozer one day, my girl, and that's a fact.’
‘I can look after myself,’ the other two replied sulkily.
Twig shook his head. The four faces became two. The larger one loomed closer, all bloodshot eyes and corrugated lips.
‘And what's this?’ it complained. ‘Oh, Mag, what have you brought back now?’
The pale-skinned girl stroked Twig's hair. ‘It followed me home, Mumsie,’ she said. ‘Can I keep it?’
The older woman pulled her head away and folded her arms, breathing in, and swelling up, as she did so. She stared at Twig suspiciously. ‘I trust he's not a talker,’ she said. ‘I've told you before, I draw the line at pets that can talk.’
Twig swallowed anxiously.
Mag shook her head. ‘I don't think so, Mumsie. The occasional noise, but no words.’
Mumsie grunted. ‘You'd better be telling me the truth. Talkers means trouble.’
Mumsie was enormous, with rippling forearms and a neck as broad as her head. What was more, unlike the girl, whose pale skin made her almost invisible in the subterranean gloom, Mumsie was all too visible. With the exception of her face, almost every bit of exposed skin was covered with iridescent tattoos.
There were trees, weapons, symbols, animals, faces, dragons, skulls; you name it. Even her bald head had been tattooed. What Twig had first taken for curls of hair plastered to her scalp, were in fact coiled snakes.
She reached up and scratched thoughtfully under her broad nose, inadvertently flexing her biceps as she did so. The sleeve of her patterned dress rode up with a rustle – and Twig found himself staring at a picture of a young girl with fiery orange hair. Beneath it, in indigo letters, was a tattooed message: MUMSIE LOVES MAG.
‘Well?’ said Mag.
Her mother sniffed. ‘Mag,’ she said, ‘you can be such a trying trog at times. But … I suppose so,’ she said. ‘HOWEVER,’ she added, interrupting Mag's whoops of delight, ‘you're responsible for it. Do you understand? You feed it, you exercise it, and if it makes a mess in the cavern, you clean it up. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Crystal clear, Mumsie,’ said Mag.
‘And if I hear so much as a single word,’ she went on, ‘I'll wring its scrawny little neck. Right?’
Mag nodded. She reached forwards and grabbed Twig by the hair. ‘Come on,’ she said.
‘Yow!’ Twig helped, and slapped her hand away.
‘It hit me,’ Mag howled at once. ‘Mumsie, my pet hit me – it hurt me!’
Twig suddenly felt himself being whisked up off the floor and swung round. He stared petrified into the trog-woman's ferocious bloodshot eyes. ‘If you ever, EVER push, slap, scratch or bite my little moonbeam, I'll—’
‘Or in any other way hurt my body,’ Mag butted in.
‘Or in any other way hurt her body, I'll—’
‘Or my feelings.’
‘— hurt her body or her feelings, I'll—’
‘Or try to run away…’
‘Or try to run away,’ Mumsie repeated. ‘You're dead!’ Her paper dress rustled as she shook him. ‘Obedient and dumb, that's the rule. OK?’
Twig didn't know whether to nod or not. If he wasn't allowed to speak, was he expected to understand? With Mumsie's massive fist gripping his coat so tightly, he could scarcely move anyway. She sniffed, and dropped him onto the floor.
Twig looked up warily. Mag was standing behind her mother, her hands held primly at her front. Her face bore an expression of impossible smugness. She leant forwards and tugged his hair for a second time. Wincing with pain, Twig climbed passively to his feet.
‘That's more like it,’ Mumsie growled. ‘What are you going to call it?’ she said.
Mag shrugged and turned to her new pet. ‘Have you got a name?’ she said.
‘Twig,’ he replied automatically – and immediately wished he hadn't.
‘What's that?’ roared Mumsie. ‘Was that a word?’ She prodded Twig hard in the chest. ‘Are you a talker after all?’
‘Twigtwigtwigtwig,’ he said, desperately trying to make it sound as unwordlike as possible. ‘Twigtwigtwig!’
Mag put her arm around Twig's shoulders and smiled up at her mother. ‘I think I'll call him Twig.’
Mumsie glared at Twig through narrowed eyes. ‘One word, that's all,’ she snarled. ‘And I'll rip your head off.’
‘Twig's going to be just fine,’ Mag reassured her. ‘Come along, boy,’ she said to him. ‘Let's go and play.’
Mumsie stood, hands on hips, watching as Mag dragged him away. Twig kept his head down. ‘I'll be keeping my eye on that one,’ he heard her say. ‘You see if I don't.’
As they continued along the tunnel, Mumsie's threats faded away. There were stairs and ramps and long narrow slopes that took them lower, always lower, deep down into the ground. Twig felt uneasy at the thought of the weight of all that earth and rock above him. What was to stop it falling down? What was to stop it swallowing him up?
All at once, the oppressive walkway came to an end. Twig stared round him, trembling with amazement. The pair of them were standing in an immense underground cavern.
Mag let go of his hair. ‘You'll like it down here with us termagant trogs, Twig,’ she was saying. ‘It's never too hot, it's never too cold. There's no rain, no snow, no wind. There are no dangerous plants and no wild beasts…’
Twig's fingers moved automatically to the tooth around his neck, and a tear trickled down his cheek.
No dangerous plants and no wild beasts, he thought. But no sky, no moon … The girl prodded him roughly in the back, and Twig walked on. And no freedom.
Like the tunnels, the cavern glowed with a pale light. Below his feet, the ground had been trampled flat under generations of trogfeet. Above, the lofty ceiling towered far over his head. Spanning the two, like knobbly pillars, were long thick gnarled roots.
It's like a mirror-image of the Deepwoods themselves, he thought. But the Deepwoods of winter, when the trees are stripped and bare.
Bathed in the cavern's glow, the roots were gaunt and twisted and … Twig gasped. He'd been wrong. The light wasn't shining on the tree roots, but from them.
‘Twig!’ barked Mag sternly, as he ran for a closer look.
White, yellow, mushroom-brown; at least half of the long thick roots were giving out a softly pulsing glow. Twig placed his hand against one. It was warm, and throbbed faintly.
‘TWIG!’ Mag screeched. ‘HEEL!’
Twig looked round. Mag was glaring menacingly. Obedient and dumb, Twig remembered. He trotted over and stood by her side.
Mag patted him on the head. ‘Interested in the roots, are you?’ she said. ‘They provide us with all we need.’
Twig nodded, but remained silent.
‘Light, of course,’ said Mag, pointing to the roots that glowed. ‘Food,’ and she broke off two nodules from some fibrous roots. One she popped into her mouth. The other she handed to Twig, who stared at it unenthusiastically. ‘Eat!’ said Mag insistently. ‘Go on!’ And when Twig still refused to put it in his mouth, she added sweetly, ‘I'll tell Mumsie.’
The nodule was crunchy and juicy. It tasted of toasted nuts. ‘Mmm-mmm,’ Twig mumbled and licked his lips theatrically.
Mag smiled and moved on. ‘These we dry and grind for flour,’ she explained. ‘These we pulp and turn into paper. These burn well. And this…’ she began, stopping
next to a bulbous flesh-coloured root. ‘Strange,’ she said, and frowned. ‘I didn't know these grew wild.’ She turned to Twig and looked him up and down. ‘Twig,’ she said sternly. ‘You must never, ever eat this type of root.’
A little further on, they came to a place where most of the vertical roots had been cut, to form a clearing around a deep lake of dark water. Those roots which remained fanned out near the ground, domed and serpentine. In amongst them, was a collection of huge capsules, each one separate from, but connected to, its neighbour. Rounded, buff-coloured and with small dark circular entrances, the capsules formed a mound up to five storeys high in places.
‘The trogcombs are where we live,’ said Mag. ‘Follow me.’
Twig smiled to himself. Mag hadn't grabbed him by the hair. She was beginning to trust him.
The capsules, Twig discovered, were made of a thick papery substance, like Mumsie's dress, only thicker. It cracked under his feet as Twig stumbled up the inter-connecting walkways, and echoed hollowly when he tapped on the round walls.
‘Don't do that!’ said Mag sharply. ‘It annoys the neighbours.’
Mag's capsule was situated to the top left of the mound and was considerably larger inside than it looked from the outside. The light from the roots glowed creamily through the walls. Twig sniffed. There was a hint of cinnamon in the air.
‘You must be tired,’ Mag announced. ‘Your place is over there,’ she said, pointing to a basket. ‘Mumsie doesn't like pets sleeping on my bed.’ She grinned mischievously. ‘But I do! Come on, up you jump,’ she said, patting the end of the bed. ‘I won't tell her if you don't,’ she said and burst out laughing.
Twig did as he was told. Forbidden it might have been, but the thick papery mattress was soft and warm. Twig fell instantly into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Some hours later – day and night had no meaning in the constant glow of the trog dwellings – Twig woke to the feel of someone patting his head. He opened his eyes.
‘Sleep well?’ said Mag brightly.
Twig grunted.
‘Good,’ she said, jumping out of bed, ‘coz we've got loads to do. We'll do a spot of nodule collecting and rootmilk tapping for breakfast. Then, after we've cleaned up, Mumsie wants us to help with some paper making. So many of us girls have been turning termagant recently, they're running out of dress material.
‘And then if you're good,’ Mag continued without taking a breath, ‘we'll go walkies. But first of all,’ she said, fiddling with his hair and running her fingers gently over his cheek. ‘First of all, Twig darling, I'm going to make you look beautiful.’
Twig groaned, and watched miserably as Mag busied herself in a small cupboard. A moment later she was back, carrying a trayful of bits and pieces. ‘There,’ she said, placing it on the floor. ‘Now come and sit in front of me.’
Reluctantly, Twig did as he was told.
Mag took a soft grey lump of spongy rootfibre and washed him with water she'd fetched from the lake earlier, and perfumed with roseroot. Next, she patted him dry and drenched him in a dark, spicy powder. When Twig sneezed, Mag wiped his running nose for him with a handkerchief.
It's the indignity of it all! Twig thought, as he turned his head angrily away.
‘Now, now!’ Mag chided him. ‘We wouldn't want Mumsie to hear that you've been a naughty pet, would we?’
Twig fell still, and remained so as Mag picked up a wooden comb, and began to tease the tangles from his matted hair.
‘You've got nice hair, Twig,’ she said. ‘Thick and black…’ She tugged vigorously at a stubborn knot. ‘But very tangled! Why under Earth did you let it get into this state?’ She tugged again.
Twig winced. His eyes watered, and he bit into his lower lip until the blood came. But he didn't make a sound.
‘I brush my hair twice a day,’ said Mag, throwing back her bright orange mane with a toss of her head. She got closer to Twig. ‘Soon,’ she whispered, ‘it will fall out. Every single hair. And then I, too, will turn termagant. Just like Mumsie.’
Twig nodded sympathetically.
‘I can't wait!’ Mag exclaimed, to his surprise. ‘A termagant. Can you imagine, my little Twig, darling?’ She lay the comb down. ‘No,’ she said, ‘of course you can't. But then that's because you're a male. And males—’
She stopped to uncork a small bottle, and poured some thick yellow liquid into the palm of her hand. It was sweet, yet pungent, and as she rubbed it into Twig's hair his scalp tingled and his eyes began to smart.
‘— can't be termagants.’ She paused again. Then, selecting a small bunch of hair from the rest, she split it into three thin locks, and began to plait it. ‘Mumsie says it's all because of the root. The Mother Bloodoak,’ she said reverently.
Twig shuddered at the very mention of the bloodthirsty, flesh-hungry, tree, which had so nearly taken his own life. He stroked his hammelhornskin waistcoat gratefully.
‘It's that pinky root we saw on our way here, Twig,’ she went on as she threaded beads onto the finished braid. ‘Do you remember? The one I told you never to eat. It's poisonous for males, you see? Deadly poisonous,’ she said in a hushed whisper. ‘Though not for us females,’ she added.
Twig heard her chuckle as she separated a second bunch of hair.
‘It's the rootsap that makes Mumsie and all the others so big and strong. “When the Mother Bloodoak courses red, the termagants shall all be fed.” That's how the saying goes.’
Twig flinched. ‘When the Mother Bloodoak courses red…’ That was something he knew all about. His stomach churned queasily as Mag continued to braid and bead his hair.
‘Ooh, you are beginning to look pretty, Twig,’ said Mag. Twig grimaced. ‘Of course,’ she went on thoughtfully, ‘the trog males aren't happy with the situation. Horrible, scrawny, sneaky, weedy, weasely individuals that they are,’ she said, screwing up her nose in disgust. She sighed. ‘Still, they have their uses. After all, someone has to cook and clean!’
Thank Sky I'm just a pet, thought Twig.
‘They tried to sabotage everything once,’ she went on. ‘Before I was born. Apparently, all the males got together and tried to burn the Mother Bloodoak down. The termagants were furious. Beat them black and blue, they did. They haven't tried anything since!’ she added, and laughed unpleasantly. ‘Useless bunch of wasters!’
Twig felt three more beads being knotted into place.
‘Anyway,’ said Mag more quietly, ‘these days the main roots are well guarded…’ Her voice trailed away. ‘There!’ she announced. ‘Turn round and let me look at you.’
Twig did so.
‘Perfect!’ she said. ‘Come on, Twig, darling. Let's go and see about that breakfast.’
Time passed, as time does, though in the unchanging trog cavern it was difficult to tell how much. Certainly Mag seemed to be forever clipping the nails on his fingers and toes. And the last time she had groomed his hair she commented more than once on how long it had grown.
Pampered and petted by Mag and the other trog females, Twig's life with the termagants was pleasant enough. Yet he found the subterranean world oppressive. He missed fresh air and the bite of the wind. He missed sunrise and sunset. He missed the smell of rain, the sound of birdsong, the colour of the sky. Most of all, he missed the banderbear.
The curious thing about living underground – beneath the Deepwoods, with its terrors and dangers – was that it gave Twig time to think. With the banderbear, there had been no need to think at all. There was always food to be foraged; there were always sleeping places to be found. Now, with everything on hand, Twig had nothing to do but think.
When he had first arrived, Mag seldom let Twig out of her sight. Lately, however, the novelty of having a new pet seemed to have worn off. Mag had fitted him with a collar and taken to tethering him to her bed whenever she went out without him.
The rope was long enough for Twig to go anywhere he wanted within the papery capsule, and even allowed him to get half-way down the stai
rs outside. But each time he reached the end of the rope, and the collar tightened around his neck, Twig was reminded that he was a prisoner, and his heart longed to return to the Deepwoods above.
Perhaps he would finally find the path and return home to his family. Spelda would be overjoyed at her son returning from the Deepwoods. Even Tuntum might smile, clap him on the back and invite him on a tree-felling trip. Everything would be different. He'd fit in this time, try harder, he'd do what woodtrolls do, think woodtroll thoughts, and he'd never, never, stray from the path again.
The collar chafed his neck. Then again, he thought, wouldn't he be just as much a prisoner if he did go back? Forever trying to be like a woodtroll but never quite belonging.
He thought of the caterbird. What had become of it? ‘So much for watching over me,’ he muttered bitterly. Your destiny lies beyond the Deepwoods, it had told him. Twig snorted. ‘Beyond!’ he said. ‘Beneath more like, with my destiny to remain the pampered pet of a spoilt child. Oh, Gloamglozer!’ he cursed.
There was a rustling outside the trogcomb. Twig froze. I must stop talking to myself, he thought. One of these days, I'll be found out.
The next moment, Mag came bursting into the capsule. She had a folded length of brown paper over one arm. ‘I've been told to prepare myself,’ she announced excitedly.
She lay the paper out on the floor and began drawing. Twig nodded towards it and looked puzzled.
Mag smiled. ‘Soon, Twig, darling,’ she said. ‘I will have this tattooed on my back.’ Twig looked down at the picture with more interest. It was of a massive muscular termagant; legs apart, hands on hips, and with a ferocious expression on the face. ‘We all do,’ she explained.
Twig smiled weakly. He pointed to the picture, then at Mag herself and back at the picture.
‘Yes,’ said Mag. ‘It's me. Or will be.’
Twig pointed to himself and cocked his head to one side.
‘Oh, Twig,’ she whispered gently. ‘I'll always love you.’
Twig sat back, reassured. At that moment, however, there came from outside the sound of heavy footfalls. Twig's feeling of well-being dissolved and he began chewing the corner of his scarf. It was Mumsie.