by Paul Stewart
Twig trembled. Was this the place the caterbird had meant when he told him his destiny lay beyond the Deepwoods? He wiped the beads of water away from his face and leaped over a wide crack in the rock. As he landed, his ankle buckled under him. He yelped, collapsed and rubbed at the throbbing joint tenderly. Gradually, the pain grew less acute. He hobbled to his feet and tentatively placed his weight down.
‘I think it's all right,’ he muttered with relief.
Out of the sulphurous mist came a reply. ‘I am glad to hear it, Master Twig,’ it said.
Twig gasped. This was definitely not the wind playing tricks. It was a voice. A real voice. More than that, it was a familiar voice.
‘You have travelled far since you strayed from the woodtroll path,’ it continued, lilting, slightly mocking. ‘So very, very far. And I have tracked you every step of the way.’
‘Wh … who are you?’ stammered Twig, peering into the grey swirling mists. ‘Why can't I see you?’
‘Oh, but you have seen me often enough, Master Twig,’ the wheedling voice continued. ‘In the sleepy morning of the slaughterers’ camp, in the sticky corridors of the gyle goblin colony, in the underground cavern of the termagant trogs … I was there. I was always with you.’
Twig went weak at the knees. He was confused, frightened. He racked his brains, trying to make sense of the words he was hearing. He had heard the soft insistent voice before, that much was certain. And yet…
‘Can you really have forgotten, Master Twig,’ came the voice again, and the air hissed with a nasal snigger.
Twig fell to his knees. The rock was cold and clammy to the touch; the mist grew thicker than ever. Twig could barely see his hand in front of his face. ‘What do you want of me?’ he whispered.
‘Want of you? Want of YOU?’ The voice broke into raucous laughter. ‘It's what you want of me, Master Twig. After all, you did summon me.’
‘I s … s … summoned you?’ said Twig, the faltering words weak and muffled in the dense fog. ‘But how? When?’
‘Come, come,’ the voice complained. ‘Don't act the innocent little woodtroll with me. “Oh, Gloamglozer!” it said in a desperate voice that Twig recognized as his own. “Please. Please. Please. Let me find the path again.” Do you deny you called me?’
Twig trembled with horror as he realized what he'd done. ‘But I didn't know,’ he protested. ‘I didn't mean…’
‘You called me, and I came,’ said the gloamglozer, and there was a menacing edge to the voice now. ‘I followed you, I looked after you. More than once I led you out of the perilous situations you had got yourself into.’ There was a pause. ‘Did you not think that I was listening, Master Twig?’ it went on, more gently now. ‘I'm always listening: listening for the stragglers, the loners, the ones who don't fit in. I help, I guide, and eventually…’
‘Eventually?’ Twig murmured.
‘They come to me,’ the voice announced. ‘As you have come to me, Master Twig.’
The mist thinned once more. It floated in the air like flimsy twists of cobweb. Twig discovered that he was kneeling next to the edge of a cliff. Inches away from him the ground fell away into pitch blackness. Behind him were the rolls of pungent cloud, and in front … Twig cried out in fear and alarm. In front, hovering over the void, was the hideous grinning face of the gloamglozer itself. Calloused and warty, with thick tussocks of hair sprouting out of its long snarling face, it leered at Twig and licked its lips.
‘Come to me,’ it coaxed. ‘You called me and here I am. Take that final step, why don't you?’ It held out a hand towards him. ‘You belong with me.’
Twig stared back, unable to tear his gaze away from the creature's monstrous face. Two horns curled to thin sharp points; two yellow eyes fixed him in a hypnotic stare. The mist grew still thinner. Around the gloamglozer's shoulders was a greasy grey cloak which fell away into nothingness.
‘One small step,’ it said softly, and beckoned. ‘Take my hand.’ Twig stared down at the bony taloned fingers. ‘That's all it takes – for someone like you, Master Twig – to join me,’ the voice continued seductively, and the yellow eyes grew wide. ‘For you are special.’
‘Special,’ Twig whispered.
‘Special,’ the gloamglozer repeated. ‘I knew that from the moment I first heard your call. You had an overwhelming longing; an emptiness inside which you yearned to be filled. And I can help you. I can teach you. That's what you really want, isn't it, Master Twig? You want to know. To understand. That's why you left the path.’
‘Yes,’ said Twig dreamily. ‘That's why I left the path.’
‘The Deepwoods aren't for you,’ the gloamglozer went on; flattering, insistent. ‘Not for you the huddling together for safety, the hiding in corners, the fear of everyone and everything outside. Because you are like me. You're an adventurer, a traveller, a seeker. A listener!’ Its voice became hushed and intimate. ‘You too could be a gloamglozer, Master Twig. I can instruct you. Take my hand and you'll see.’
Twig moved a step closer. His ankle jarred. The gloamglozer – still hovering in mid-air just beyond the Edge – trembled. Its monstrous face contorted with pain. Tears welled in the corners of its yellow eyes.
‘Oh, what a time you've had of it,’ it sighed. ‘Constantly on the look-out. Never out of danger. Always frightened. But the tables can be turned, Master Twig. If you'll just take my hand.’
Twig shuffled awkwardly from one foot to the other. There was a rattle and a clatter as a flurry of dislodged rocks bounced down into the chasm. ‘And look like you?’ he said.
The gloamglozer threw back its head and roared with mirthless laughter. ‘But have you forgotten, my vain little one?’ it said. ‘You can look how you will. A mighty warrior, a handsome prince … Anything. Imagine it, Master Twig,’ it went on enticingly. ‘You could become a goblin or a trog,’ and as it spoke Twig found himself face to face with a succession of characters he recognized only too well. There was the gyle goblin who had led him from the colony, the flat-head who had helped him out of the mire, the trog who had tripped Mag and pointed the way to the air shafts.
‘Or how about this one,’ the gloamglozer purred. Twig stared back at a red-faced individual with fiery hair. ‘Didn't I hear you thinking how nice it would be to stay with the slaughterers?’ it wheedled. ‘Or perhaps you'd prefer to be a banderbear,’ it said, shifting its shape again. ‘Big, powerful – no-one messes with a banderbear.’ It sniggered unpleasantly. ‘Except wig-wigs, of course.’
Twig shuddered. The hovering creature knew everything. Absolutely everything.
‘I've got it!’ the gloamglozer cried, turning itself into a squat brown creature with knotted hair and a button nose.
‘A woodtroll. You could go home. You could fit in. Isn't that what you wanted all along?’
Twig nodded his head mechanically.
‘You can be anyone, Master Twig,’ the gloamglozer said, resuming its own form. ‘Anyone at all. You can go anywhere, do anything. Simply take hold of my hand, and all this shall be yours.’
Twig swallowed. His heart beat furiously. If the gloamglozer was right, he would never have to be an outsider again.
‘And just think of the things you'll see,’ the gloamglozer purred enticingly. ‘Think of the places you could go, shifting your shape, appearing as others want to see you, always safe, listening in corners; always one step ahead. Think of the power at your command!’
Twig stared at the outstretched hand. He was standing at the very edge of the cliff. His arm moved slowly forwards, brushing against the spiky hammelhornskin waistcoat.
‘Go on,’ said the gloamglozer, its voice like oil and honey. ‘Take that step forwards. Reach out and take my hand. You know you want to.’
Yet Twig still held back. It wasn't as if all his encounters in the Deepwoods had been bad. The banderbear had saved his life. So had the slaughterers. It was they, after all, who had given him the jacket that had caught in the bloodoak's gorge, which now bristled so s
harply. He thought of his village and Spelda, his own dearest Mother-Mine, who had loved him like her own since the day that he was born. Tears welled up in his eyes.
If he accepted the gloamglozer's tantalizing offer, he would not really turn into them. No matter what I look like, he thought. Instead, he would become what they all feared most. A gloamglozer. No. It was impossible. He would never again be able to return. Never. He would have to remain apart, aloof – alone.
‘It is fear which makes us reluctant to be on our own,’ the gloamglozer said, reading his thoughts. ‘Join me, and you need never be frightened again. Take my hand and you will understand. Trust me, Master Twig.’
Twig hesitated. Could this truly be the terrible monster that all the forest dwellers so feared?
‘Have I let you down so far?’ the gloamglozer asked quietly.
Twig shook his head dreamily.
‘Besides,’ it added, almost as an afterthought. ‘I thought you wanted to see what lay beyond the Deepwoods.’
Beyond the Deepwoods. The three words rang round inside Twig's head. Beyond the Deepwoods. Twig held out his hand. He stepped over the edge.
With a screech of terrible laughter, the gloamglozer grabbed Twig's wrist, its talons biting into his flesh.
‘They all fall for it,’ the gloamglozer cried triumphantly. ‘All the poor little goblins and trolls, waifs and strays; they all think they're special. They all listen to me. They all follow my voice … It's pathetic!’
‘But you said I was special,’ Twig cried, as he dangled from the gloamglozer's bony grasp over the yawning space below.
‘Did I really?’ the gloamglozer sneered. ‘You little fool. Did you honestly think you could ever be like me? You are as insignificant as all the rest, Master Twig,’ it said scornfully. ‘You are nothing. NOTHING!’ it screeched. ‘Do you hear me?’
‘But why are you doing this?’ Twig wailed desperately. ‘Why?’
‘Because I am a gloamglozer,’ the beast cried out, and cackled wickedly. ‘A deceiver, a trickster, a cheat and a fraud. All my fine words and fancy promises count for nothing. I seek out all those who have strayed from the path. I lure them to the Edge. AND I DISPOSE OF THEM!’
The gloamglozer released its grip. Twig screamed with terror. He was falling. Down, down, he went, over the Edge and into the bottomless depths of darkness below.
· CHAPTER FOURTEEN ·
BEYOND THE
DEEPWOODS
Twig's head spun as he tumbled through the air. The uprush of wind set his clothes billowing and snatched his breath away. Over and over he rolled. And all the while, the gloamglozer's cruel words echoed round and round his head.
You are nothing. NOTHING!
‘It's not true!’ Twig howled.
The side of the cliff blurred past him like a streak of smudged paint. All that searching. All the trials and tribulations. All the times he had thought he would never make it to the end of the Deepwoods alive. To find his long lost father, only to lose him again – and then, worst of all, to discover that the whole treacherous journey had been a part of a cruel and complicated game devised by the deceitful gloamglozer. It was so, so monstrously unfair.
Tears welled in Twig's eyes. ‘I'm not nothing. I'm not!’ he wailed.
‘I'm not nothing. I'm not!’ Tears welled in his eyes.
Further and further he fell, down into the swirling mist. Would he fall for ever? He screwed his eyes shut.
‘You're a liar!’ Twig screamed back up to the top of the cliff.
Liar, liar, li … The word bounced back off the rock.
Yes, thought Twig, the gloamglozer is a liar. It lied about everything. Everything!
‘I am something!’ Twig called out. ‘I am someone. I am Twig, who strayed from the path and travelled beyond the Deepwoods. I AM MEEEEEEE!’
Twig opened his eyes. Something had hap-pened. He was flying, not falling, high above the Edge, in and out of clouds.
‘Am I dead?’ he wondered out loud.
‘Not dead,’ replied a familiar voice. ‘Far from it. You still have far to go.’
‘Caterbird!’ cried Twig.
The caterbird's talons tight-ened their grip around Twig's shoulders; its great wings flapped rhythmically through the cold thin air.
‘You were at my hatching, and I have watched over you always,’ it said. ‘Now you truly need me, here I am.’
‘But where are we going?’ asked Twig, who could see nothing but open sky.
‘Not “we”, Twig,’ said the caterbird. ‘But you. Your destiny lies beyond the Deepwoods.’
With that the talons released their grip and, for a second time, Twig was falling. Down, down, down and…
CRASH!
Everything went black.
Twig found himself running down a long dark corridor. He dashed through a door into a dark room. In the corner was a wardrobe. He opened the door and stepped into the deeper darkness inside. He was looking for something; he knew that much. There was a coat hanging from a hook inside the wardrobe. Twig felt for the pocket, and climbed into the even deeper darkness inside. It wasn't here, whatever it was he was looking for, but there was a purse at the bottom. He opened the clasp and jumped into the even-deeper-still darkness within.
Inside the purse was a piece of cloth. Its touch was familiar. He felt the chewed and twisted corners. It was his scarf, his shawl. He picked it up and held it to his face, and there – staring back out of the darkness of the material – was a face. His face. It smiled. Twig smiled back.
‘Me,’ he whispered.
‘Are you all right?’ asked the face.
Twig nodded.
‘Are you all right?’ it said again.
‘Yes,’ said Twig.
The question came a third time, and Twig realized the voice was coming not from the scarf, but from somewhere else. Somewhere outside. His eyelids fluttered open. In front of him loomed a huge red hairy face. It looked concerned.
‘Tem!’ Twig exclaimed. ‘Tem Barkwater.’
‘The very same,’ nodded the sky pirate. ‘Now will you answer me – are you all right?’
‘I … I think so,’ said Twig. He pulled himself up onto his elbows. ‘Nothing broken, at least.’
‘How is he?’ Spiker called.
‘He's OK!’ Tem shouted back.
Twig was lying on a soft bed of sailcloth on the deck of the sky ship. He pulled himself up and looked round. Apart from the Stone Pilot, they were all there: Spiker, Stope Boltjaw, Slyvo Spleethe, Mugbutt (chained to the mast), Hubble and, standing closest of all, the captain, Quintinius Verginix. Cloud Wolf. His father.
Cloud Wolf stooped and touched Twig's scarf. Twig flinched.
‘Easy,’ said the captain in a low voice. ‘No-one's going to hurt you, lad. Seems we're not to be rid of you after all.’
‘Never seen anything like it, cap'n,’ broke in Tem Barkwater. ‘Just dropped out of the sky, he did – straight onto the aft deck. This is strange sky we're in and no mistake …’
‘Stop your chattering,’ the captain said harshly. ‘And get back to your posts, all of you. We must make Undertown by nightfall.’
The crew dispersed.
‘Not you,’ said the captain quietly, laying a hand on Twig's arm as he, too, made to leave.
Twig looked round. ‘W … why did you leave me?’ he asked, his mouth dry, his voice cracking.
The captain stared back, his mask-like face betraying no emotion. ‘We didn't need an extra crew member,’ he said simply. ‘Besides, I didn't think that a pirate's life was for you.’ He paused. There was clearly something weighing on his mind.
Twig stood there waiting for the captain to speak again. He felt shy, awkward. He chewed the inside of his mouth. The captain's eyes narrowed as he leaned forwards. Twig shuddered. The man's breath was warm and noisy at his ear, the side whiskers tickled his neck.
‘I saw the shawl,’ he confessed, so that only Twig could hear. ‘Your scarf. The one that Maris – your
mother – made. And I knew you were … After all those years.’ He fell silent. His lower lip was trembling. ‘It was more than I could bear. I had to get away. I … I left you behind. For a second time.’
Twig squirmed. His face was hot and red.
The captain placed his hands on Twig's shoulders and stared into his eyes. ‘It will not happen a third time,’ he said softly. ‘I shall never abandon you again.’ He wrapped his arms around the boy and hugged him tightly. ‘From now on our destinies lie together,’ he whispered urgently, ‘And you and I shall ride the skies together. You and I, Twig. You and I.’
Twig said nothing. He could not. Tears of joy welled in his eyes; his heart was beating ready to burst. He had found his father after all.
Abruptly, the captain pulled away. ‘But you'll be a member of the crew, just like all the rest,’ he added gruffly. ‘So don't you go expecting any special favours.’
‘No, f … captain,’ said Twig quietly. ‘I won't.’
Cloud Wolf nodded approvingly, straightened up and turned on the others, who had been watching, perplexed. ‘Come on then, you idle rabble,’ he roared. ‘Show over. Raise the mainsail, lift the grappling rope, and let's get out of here.’
A chorus of ‘aye-aye, cap'n's filled the air as the sky pirates set to work. The captain strode towards the helm with Twig beside him, and took the wheel.
Together at last, they stood side by side as the sky ship soared into the air and away, beyond the Deepwoods.
The captain turned towards his son. ‘Twig,’ he said thoughtfully, his eyes twinkling. ‘Twig! I mean, what kind of a name is that for the child of Quintinius Verginix, captain of the finest sky pirate ship that ever sailed the heavens blue? Eh? Tell me that.’
Twig smiled back. ‘It's my name,’ he said.