by Tim Tilley
“Havenwood Forest is home to all sizes,” says Papa Herne with warmth in his voice.
“It’s true,” says Nissa.
I glance at the Hobs. A mother, a father, two daughters. The shape of a family. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. And this might be the only chance I’ll get. Something Petal said about opportunities comes back to me: Take them if you find them.
I creep over to Petal and tap her shoulder. She wakes quietly. Her eyes widen when she sees the Hobs on the window sill.
“This is Petal,” I say, bringing her over to meet them. “She helped. Can she come with us?”
“Of course,” says Papa Herne.
Nissa grins and presses her hands together.
“Go where?” says Petal.
“New home,” I whisper. I can hardly believe I’m saying the words. “We’re getting out of here.”
Petal hesitates, her eyes gleaming. “What about the others? Can they come too?”
I glance back at the rest of the packsmiths, some asleep in the arms of chalk-drawn parents. I feel a pang of guilt about leaving them.
Papa Herne scratches his head. “I’d like to take them all with us, but what about that lady? The one who’s not yer mother. Would she let them go? I don’t think we could get them all out without her noticing.”
“No,” I say sharply. “And if she caught us, everyone would be punished.”
Petal glances back at the other orphans too. “It would be too risky…”
“This could be it,” I say. “Our only chance.”
Petal nods, then takes a breath and holds it. “Alright, yes.”
Papa Herne smiles up at me and Petal. “That’s settled. I don’t think our leaf-rope will hold yer weight. Have you got something stronger?”
A bone-deep fear grips me when I think how far it might be to the ground – how far I would fall if I slipped. “I’m not…I can’t climb.”
“We can use the stairs,” says Petal.
“Alright,” says Papa Herne. “We’ll meet you outside by that old tree.” I must look worried, scared or both, because he adds, “Don’t worry, you won’t have to climb over the wall.”
Petal and I know where all the creak points are on the main stairs. Flint taught us before he got kicked down the Bottomless Well for hiding Old Ma Bogey’s iron thumb. A wave of excitement runs through me as we creep downstairs, stepping through moonlight and shadow.
I can’t believe we’re going to escape.
Never come back if you get a new home.
That’s part of our secret oath. I never dared hope we’d find a new home together.
I wonder if the Hobs know of a secret tunnel that goes under the yard wall. Or maybe there’s a secret door, like in Petal’s stories.
Creeak.
I wince as the stair tread groans under my foot. “Watch where you step,” whispers Petal. “Don’t make another noise or we might get caught.”
It’s not that easy. The problem with creak points is once you step on them—
Creeak.
—there’s no going back. Not without making another sound.
Petal and I wait, listening to the grandfather clock tick-tocking away each moment.
No one comes for us.
We take our time on the next steps, tiptoeing slowly.
At the bottom of the stairs, we put our boots on and step onto the tiles of the hall floor. We cross over to Old Ma Bogey’s drawing room, where she sleeps in a high-backed chair. We need to find the keys for the front door. Of course, it’s locked. And there’s not one or two locks, there’s twenty-six. That’s twenty-six different keys.
The drawing-room door is ajar. Taking a deep breath, I gently push it open. I’ve never been in before. The contents of the room are edged with orange light from the dying fire ticking in the grate. Old Ma Bogey’s high-backed armchair looms next to an enormous fireplace.
We sneak across the half-lit drawing room, passing a gramophone and a large cabinet with wire mesh panels. Old Ma Bogey is fast asleep, sitting upright. Her grey hair is still scraped into a tight bun, but instead of a jacket she wears a housecoat. Scratch is asleep on her lap.
Petal and I can’t help but look at her right hand. She’s still wearing her iron thumb.
We go back to hunting for the keys. Petal searches the large cabinet, while I search the table next to Old Ma Bogey’s chair. There’s a collection of Machinarium journals and a bottle of sleep tincture.
The bunch of keys isn’t here. But I have a good idea where they’ll be.
I hold my breath and slip a hand into one of Old Ma Bogey’s pockets.
She stirs and twists in her seat.
We freeze.
Scratch jumps off her lap and slips into the shadows.
For a moment, I think Old Ma Bogey’s going to wake up and grab my hand, but she sighs and her steady breathing continues. With quiet relief, I pull my hand out and try the other pocket. The keys aren’t there either. There’s only a handful of silver crowns and sixpence coins, a sweet covered in fluff, and some hairpins.
We carry on searching the room. Petal looks through a small bookcase. Mounted on the wall above it is Old Ma Bogey’s crossbow. Alongside it, over the fireplace, rests her prized double-barrelled shotgun. The one she cleans and oils and uses to shoot the birds that land in the yard and on the roof. I creep across the room to search the mantelpiece. But before I reach it, I step on something soft.
There’s an almighty yowl and I realize the black shape I’ve trodden on is Scratch.
Old Ma Bogey wakes in an instant. Her cold grey eyes fix on me, then Petal. “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?” she roars.
We bolt for the door, glancing back to see Old Ma Bogey out of her chair. I pull back the curtains from the two window sills flanking the front door, frantically searching for the keys. They’re not there.
“NO ONE gets away from me!” snarls Old Ma Bogey. She appears in the doorway of her drawing room and raises her shotgun.
We duck.
There’s a deafening crack. One of the side windows explodes behind me.
Without thinking, I yank the curtain from its rail to cover the jagged edges, then launch myself through the broken glass. Petal tumbles through after me.
We land uncut on the bare earth outside, get to our feet quickly and run. The Hobs are past the tree, more than halfway across the moonlit yard. They look frozen in shock. The acorn baby bawls at the top of her lungs. I don’t think they’ve heard a shotgun firing before.
I put Old Ma Bogey’s bad shot down to the fact she’s just woken up. Next time we won’t be so lucky.
“Run for your lives!” I shout.
“She’s coming!” cries Petal.
The Hobs snap out of their daze and scurry towards the wrought-iron gates, slipping through the bars.
I try to pull them open, but they’re locked. The gates are always locked, unless there’s a delivery.
Another crack.
Buckshot explodes by my feet, ripping up a spray of dusty soil.
Petal and I panic. We run to the one place that can shield us from Old Ma Bogey’s gun – the gnarled old tree.
“Come out, you little toerags!” screeches Old Ma Bogey. “I know you’re there.”
I chance a quick glance to see where Old Ma Bogey is, but she fires again. Buckshot whistles past my ear.
I glance over to the Hobs, who are waiting on the other side of the gates. Papa Herne stands next to his daughter and Genna, who’s calming her baby. They glance at each other as if they can’t make up their minds whether to wait for us or leave.
“Don’t go,” I mumble in a quiet voice. I feel the hope of a new home fading. Maybe they didn’t really mean it when they said we could live with them.
I look up at the gnarled tree, which is bent over like a broken-backed man. It’s an easy climb – if I was any good – but there’s no way its branches can offer us any shelter. If Old Ma Bogey can pick pigeons off her roof, then she could easily shoot us out of a tree
.
I look back to the gates. The Hobs are gone.
“No,” sobs Petal.
My heart shrinks. I feel crushed, but I’m not surprised they left. No one from Harklights ever found a new home before, so why did I think we’d be any different?
There’s the sound of more breaking glass.
I chance another look.
Old Ma Bogey smashes the jagged shards with the butt of her shotgun. Then she climbs through the window and marches across the yard. Her iron thumb pushes more cartridges into the loading chamber. I’ve never seen her so full of fury. It won’t take long for her to either grab us or shoot us. We only have the gnarled tree to run around and no other place to hide.
As she draws close, a trembling starts in my legs. Petal squeezes my hand. I press my back against the ragged bark. This can only go two ways. Wait to be caught or give ourselves up.
Just as I’m about to step out with my hands raised, the tree creaks and groans. It sounds like it’s going to fall. I wonder if it’s going to land on Old Ma Bogey and pin her to the ground.
I crouch down and stare up in awe. The tree is wreathed in a wash of dancing green light, shot through with greenish white sparks, like the Northern Lights have got snagged in the branches. A trail of this extraordinary light twists all the way to the main gates. Papa Herne stands there, holding a twig tipped with light.
I gaze at him, open-mouthed.
“Magic,” says Petal, her voice full of brightness.
I never believed in it. Not like Petal. I thought it was all conjuring tricks and fairy stories used to sell things. But it’s real – it’s happening right now.
The gnarled tree shudders and trembles. It doesn’t fall. Instead it’s twisting, transforming. The bent-over trunk thickens and two prong-like branches grow lower until they touch the bare earth and shape into hooves.
Petal and I watch, transfixed.
The roots at the tree’s base writhe up and twist into another set of hooves, while the loftier branches become a rack of antlers. It’s turning into a creature of twisted roots and bark and branches.
When fully-formed, the tree-stag creaks and raises his wooden head, just as Old Ma Bogey raises her double-barrelled shotgun.
We brace ourselves behind the tree-stag, but I know we’re a clear shot for Old Ma Bogey now. I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for her to bark a command or shoot.
Hooves drum the bare earth like a beating heart.
I flick my eyes open to see the tree-stag bravely charging Old Ma Bogey. She stays rooted to the spot, the barrels of her gun gleaming in the moonlight.
In a flash, the tree-stag ploughs into her, knocking her shotgun from her hand. She falls to the ground, her scream echoing around Harklights’ walls. Packsmith faces appear at the dormitory window. Lamplight shines from Padlock’s room.
In the yard, the tree-stag circles and charges towards us.
We stand aside so he can pass by freely, but he stops and kneels down, lowering his crown of antlers, willing us to climb onto his powerful back.
Petal climbs up easily and reaches down a hand. “Wick, get on—”
My feet don’t move. Fear shoots through me.
“I can’t,” I struggle to say. “I’ve never been any good with heights.”
“It’s not that high.”
I know she’s right, but it doesn’t make any difference. All I can think about is the Bottomless Well. Standing by the dizzying edge. What a long way down it is.
Petal tries to pull me up, but it’s as if my feet are made of lead. As she jumps down, Padlock appears in the yard. He races over to where Old Ma Bogey lies.
“Quick!” cries Petal.
Somehow, with her help, I clamber onto the tree-stag’s back. Once I’ve found a good grip on his mane, the tree-stag charges off – without Petal.
Maybe he doesn’t realize she’s been left behind.
“No, wait!” I cry, holding on tightly. I don’t know how to make the tree-stag stop. I clamp my legs to his sides as I’m thrown back and forth. I try digging in my heels but it doesn’t work. “We need to get Petal!”
As the tree-stag circles the yard, Old Ma Bogey grabs her shotgun again and lifts it awkwardly where she lies. Then she unleashes a shot.
BANG.
I flinch.
The shot narrowly misses me and hits one of the tree-stag’s antlers, blasting part of it away.
The tree-stag doesn’t slow – instead, he gallops faster.
I squeeze my eyes shut and concentrate on not falling off. When I open my eyes again, we’re set on a collision course with the yard wall. I brace myself and grip tighter.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Padlock grab Petal’s arm. She twists and turns, trying to pull away. “Let go of me!”
I feel torn inside. I want to help, but I can’t. There’s no way the tree-stag is stopping. I wonder if he’s going to try and crash through the wall, but then he springs into the air, leaping impossibly high. We go up, up, up and over.
We land on the other side of the wall with a crash of hooves and a spray of dry soil. We’re on an empty dirt track. Beyond, in all directions, is moonlit meadowland – rising and falling and stretching as far as the eye can see. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen outside the orphanage. I’ve always known it’s in the middle of nowhere – a forgotten corner at the edge of Empire, but I never realized there was so much open space.
I feel a burst of excitement. We made it. But it quickly fades.
My heart sinks.
Petal didn’t make it.
I look up at the wall etched in moonlight, then at Papa Herne, who’s standing on the track with Nissa and Genna. “We need to go back for Petal.”
On the other side of the gates, Old Ma Bogey is back on her feet, raging obscenities about her injured left hand.
“I’m sorry,” Papa Herne says. “Our wild magic can only transform nature. It won’t do a thing on a brick wall or those cold-iron gates. They’re man-made. Yer lucky you had a tree in the yard before, but there’s nothing there I can use now to help her.”
Petal is still struggling to get free from Padlock. “Wick!” she cries. “Get away before she catches you!”
“I can’t leave you,” I cry out.
“One of us should get away!”
“Padlock – open the gates!” barks Old Ma Bogey. She grabs Petal’s hand, squeezing it with her iron thumb.
“Quick,” cries Petal. “You have to go for the both of us!”
My stomach tightens. To escape and leave your friend feels worse than trying to escape and getting caught. It’s the sort of punishment Old Ma Bogey would come up with.
The bunch of keys rattles wildly as Padlock searches for the right one.
“I don’t think we should hang around,” says Papa Herne. He looks up at the tree-stag and makes a clicking sound with his tongue. “Come on, we must go.”
“We can’t go…” I start to say, but my words trail off. The little man in the bell jar on the mantelpiece in Old Ma Bogey’s office was definitely a Hob. I picture a row of bell jars filled with my new friends.
Padlock is still rattling the gate keys as the tree-stag lowers his head and the Hobs climb up into his rack of antlers.
“Get them! Don’t let them get away!” barks Old Ma Bogey, as she drags Petal across the yard.
The Hobs wind leaf-rope around themselves and the antler prongs, strapping themselves and the acorn baby in.
My heart almost breaks at leaving Petal behind. “I’ll never forget you!”
“I’ll never forget you too!” she yells, as she’s dragged into the darkness of the house.
The tree-stag straightens his neck and crosses the lane to the meadow before breaking into a canter, then a gallop. I grip onto the bark tufts of his mane like before. We race through the moonlit sea of wild grass. Despite my sorrow, the rush of cold air is exhilarating. I breathe in deep and it’s as if I’m breathing for the first time. I look to the Hobs strapped to t
he tree-stag’s antlers, then glance back across the silver-blue meadow.
Blazing stars glisten and wink overhead. I can’t believe this is happening, that I’m finally away from Harklights – that I’m riding on the back of some kind of magical tree-creature.
I grip the tree-stag’s bark mane tighter.
Magic is real.
Behind us, Harklights keeps shrinking.
My stomach tightens again. I feel awful that Petal got caught. If I’d been able to climb onto the tree-stag, we’d have both got away, and we’d be escaping together. “I’ll come back,” I murmur, “and rescue you.”
I turn and look ahead, along with the Hobs. I wonder where they’re taking me and what their home is like. Do they live in treehouses? Or something like my matchstick buildings?
The dark shape of the forest looms closer on the horizon, an ever-rising wall of trees.
The tree-stag slows to a trot. As we enter the forest, the acorn baby is asleep again. The trees are massive, rising higher than the Harklights factory, and there are more than I can count. Ancient trees with gnarled bark and widespread leafless branches. Towering pines that are sentries over the forest. Petal would like it here. She always liked stories with forests in them.
We ride for a long time in silence, listening to the night-time sounds. In the moonlight, Papa Herne points out a hedgehog – something I’ve only seen in newspaper pictures. An owl hoots. It’s followed by a screech-cry that turns my blood cold. I clutch the tree-stag’s mane more tightly.
“Foxes,” whispers Papa Herne. “Up to their crafty ways.”
Nights at Harklights are quiet. After the Machine is switched off at six o’clock, the only sound is the grandfather clock in the hall. But out here, the forest’s silence keeps breaking. I wonder how the Hobs are able to sleep.
I take a deep breath, filling my lungs again with fresh air and the smell of what must be earth and leaves.
“What’s the tree-stag’s name?” I ask Papa Herne.
“He don’t have one. You should call him something.”
“He should be called Half Crown. Petal always said finding them was lucky.”