Harklights

by Tim Tilley

  Papa Herne nods. “Half Crown it is then.”

  The tree-stag’s wooden ears tip back as if he approves.

  Some way ahead of us, small pinpricks of light appear, like a secret cluster of stars in the forest.

  As we draw closer, I realize the lights are coming from tiny rounded windows set into huts built of twigs and sticks, moss and leaves. Each hut looks like two bird nests on top of each other, one upturned. Most of the huts nestle at the foot of several mighty trees in a circular clearing, but some of them perch on low branches. There’s a small fire in the centre. A Hob woman and man sit by it, their faces lit by firelight, like newspaper pictures yellowed by the sun. By their wide-eyed surprise, I guess they don’t see big people very much.

  “Here we are,” says Papa Herne. “This is Oakhome. Wick, I’d like you to meet Mama Herne an’ Finn, Tiya’s father.”

  “We were so worried,” says Mama Herne, getting up as we approach. She looks motherly and kind.

  “Mama,” cries Nissa, “look what we brought back!”

  Mama Herne peers up at me and smiles. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Thank the forest you found Tiya,” says Finn, standing too.

  “She were taken inside a human building,” Papa Herne continues. “Wick looked after her, kept her safe.”

  Genna hands the acorn baby to Finn. My heart hurts as they hug. I want to know what it’s like to belong and be loved.

  Finn’s voice wavers. “Thank you.”

  “I was happy to help,” I reply as Half Crown kneels down and I climb off, relieved to be back on the ground.

  Papa Herne, Nissa and Mama Herne talk quietly. Mama Herne glances over at me with a sad look. I guess he’s telling her about how I was abandoned.

  I walk over to get a closer look at one of the nest-homes. It’s made of twigs and moss and feathers woven tightly together. I can’t tell if it’s been glued. I kneel down and peer through the window into a single room. Next to a nest-bed is a polished miniature table, a stack of different-sized acorn bowls and a tiny jar somehow filled with fireflies. On the floor is a miniature carpet runner, which I realize was once a tapestry bookmark. Above the bed hangs a halfpenny stamp of the old king.

  “Where’s he gonna sleep?” I catch Mama Herne saying.

  I rub the back of my neck, feeling awkward, like a new orphan. I wonder if Papa Herne and Nissa were too quick to invite me and Petal to live with them, that they didn’t think it through. And now, here in the forest, it’s clear things aren’t going to work out.

  This is what a home looks like, I think, looking at the huts.

  “He can sleep here by the fire for tonight,” says Papa Herne.

  Mama Herne smiles and touches her lips. “Yeah…there’s that blanket. It’s mostly all there.”

  “I’ll go get it,” says Papa Herne. “An’ lots of leaves from the underground store.”

  “I’ll come along too!” cries Nissa.

  They climb again onto Half Crown’s head. Papa Herne makes a clucking sound with his tongue.

  I watch them leave the circle of firelight and pass into moonlight, turning the colour of cold stone.

  “Come, sit yerself down,” says Mama Herne, patting the leaves next to her. There’s a Hob-sized book by her feet. Its pages are filled with tiny handwriting.

  I sit carefully, so there’s no danger I’ll break anything. It feels strange to be by a fire, next to the tree-homes, when my model homes burned only hours ago.

  “I can read,” I say, peering closer at the tiny book. “I learned at Harklights. Ratchet taught us in secret at the end of our shifts. It was three years before Old Ma Bogey found out.”

  Mama Herne closes the book. “What happened?”

  I can still picture Ratchet falling down the Bottomless Well. I claw at my throat, but the words don’t come.

  Mama Herne gets up. “Don’t you worry on it,” she says. “Some things are best left buried, that’s what Papa Herne says.”

  There’s a blackened pot resting on a flat stone close to the fire. She scoops a cup of its contents out for herself, then gestures for me to take the pot. “It’s milk an’ honey an’ camomile flowers. It’ll give you a good night’s sleep, just you see.”

  As I drink it, all of the tiredness of the day – and the fear and excitement of the night – catch up with me. I glance up at the nest-homes in the trees. “Why are some of the Hob homes on branches and the others are on the ground by the fire?”

  “A few of us like to live high up,” says Mama Herne. “You get a different view of the world.”

  Minutes later, Papa Herne, Nissa and Half Crown return with a bundled blanket resting in Half Crown’s antlers. As the tree-stag draws closer, I notice the felt blanket has small pieces missing. The cut-out shapes are of trousers and jackets and boots.

  “Sorry about the missing pieces,” says Papa Herne. “We’ll patch it up for you. But for now, you can make do with these. They’ll keep you warm.”

  Half Crown lowers the blanket bundle and unrolls it with his wooden snout. Inside is a heap of dry papery leaves and a wool sweater. The sweater is oversized, something I could grow into next year. There’s a smell of earth as I pull it on. I gather the leaves and blanket around me, then lie down by the fire, listening to the soothing hiss of burning wood.

  “I’m sorry about yer friend, an’ all the others we left,” says Papa Herne. “But it were too dangerous. Make no mistake, we might not have got away. Not in one piece anyways.”

  I can’t find the words, but it feels as if part of me is still at Harklights, left behind with Petal.

  “You’ll like it here,” adds Papa Herne. “Tomorrow, you’ll get to meet the rest of the tribe an’ I’ll show you the forest.”

  I nod vaguely, wondering how the other Hobs will react. My eyelids grow heavy, then the fire and the forest slip away as sleep washes over me. For the first time ever, I’m not scared. I feel safe here, sheltered and protected, surrounded by a fortress of trees. It’s how I imagine a home might feel.

  I wake with a cry and sit bolt upright. Something small and warm and furry is trying to nestle into my armpit.

  “Don’t mind the dormice.” Papa Herne smiles as the mouse scampers away. “They’re friendly. We use them as bed warmers.” He perches on a branch nearby. His felt clothes – blue-silver in moonlight, gold in firelight – look different now in the morning sun. It’s as if they’ve been coloured by the forest. Bark-brown tunic and trousers, stone-grey hat, forest-green cloak. “Did you sleep well? You missed a beautiful dawn chorus.”

  “Yes, thanks.” I don’t know how long I’ve slept, but it’s the best sleep I ever remember. The other orphans must be up already. I hope Petal is alright, hope Bottletop managed to get the hang of being a packsmith.

  “Are you hungry? Mama Herne has made breakfast.”

  I catch a whiff of it then. Cooked eggs and mushrooms, like the stuff Old Ma Bogey cooks and keeps for herself and Padlock.

  I scramble to my feet and brush off the leaves that have stuck to the smoke-grey sweater. The leaf bed was so much more comfortable than the floorboards. For once, cold hasn’t crept into my bones.

  The clearing is much bigger in the daylight, the sky-reaching trees much taller. A group of Hobs sit round the small fire, quietly eating from tiny plates and drinking from acorn bowls. There are more of them than I saw last night, thirty or so. All of them have the same nut-brown eyes and dark hair as Papa Herne. They look like one big family.

  I kneel down so I’m not so giant-sized. I pull the sleeves of the sweater down to cover my knuckles.

  “This is Wick, everyone,” says Papa Herne. “The human boy I were telling you about.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” answer the Hobs in a broken chorus.

  Papa Herne smiles. “Here, let me introduce you to everyone. This is Nissa, who you met last night… An’ that’s Genna an’ Finn an’ their children Linden, Tiggs an’ baby Tiya.”

  Finn holds a hand to
his chest and adds, “Truly, we can never thank you enough for looking after her.”

  My heart feels full.

  I nod as Papa Herne introduces all the Hobs, but I don’t think I’ll ever remember all their names.

  “An’ this is Nox.” Papa Herne gestures to a bearded Hob sitting back from the fire circle. He wears the same green cloak as Papa Herne and Genna, but his acorn-coloured eyes don’t have any of their glittering warmth.

  He scowls and says, “What are you doing bringing a grown human to Oakhome? They’re nothing but trouble an’ bring destruction. What if other humans come looking for him?” He glances around at all the Hobs, looking for others who agree with him.

  Papa Herne looks crossly at Nox. “Wick were abandoned. No one’s coming for him. An’ he’s just a boy, he’s not grown up.”

  “But he will be,” Nox fires back in a crotchety voice. “We don’t want humans here.”

  A murmur runs through the Hob tribe. I glance at their tiny nest-homes. They look fragile, like they would easily break if I accidentally stood or sat on them. I was right before, I am too big. I don’t belong. I feel the eyes of the Hobs watching me, and swallow the knot in my throat. “Maybe I should go.”

  “Yeah, go,” says Nox. “Yer bound to tread on young shoots an’ seedlings.”

  “Yer not going anywhere,” Papa Herne says to me, then he turns to Nox. “He kept Tiya safe from harm—”

  “That’s right,” adds Nissa.

  “—so we should hear what the wood sprites have to say about this.” Papa Herne rubs his chin. “They can see his future. We’ll take him after breakfast.”

  This is met with a chorus of agreement from some of the other Hobs.

  Nissa looks stunned by the idea.

  I wonder what the wood sprites are. Are they like Hobs?

  Mama Herne is holding a tiny fire-blackened pan, sizzling with pieces of fried mushroom. Finn stirs the contents of a broken-topped hen’s egg, which goes up to his waist, with a spoon that looks as if it’s been carved from a bit of pine cone. He ladles out some of the cooked egg into an acorn bowl and adds a few grains of salt.

  My mouth waters at the delicious cooking smells. And it’s then that I realize I’ve not tasted anything but Old Ma Bogey’s porridge in my whole life. It’s true, I’ve imagined other foods, but never actually eaten anything else.

  Mama Herne flips out the mushrooms onto a flat piece of scrubbed slate. “We don’t have a plate your size. It’s the best we could come up with.”

  “It’s perfect,” I say. I scoop up the mushrooms and pieces of egg and shovel them into my mouth. I close my eyes as the flavours burst over my tongue. I chew slowly, then swallow. The food is as good as it smells. No, it’s even better.

  “Would you like some more?”

  I nod eagerly.

  “Finn, Nissa,” says Mama Herne. “Go to the cold store an’ get me some more dried mushrooms an’ loaves of bread.”

  “How many?” says Finn.

  “All of them. Bring them in the wheelbarrow.”

  Both Finn and Nissa look shocked for a moment, but then they smile.

  Minutes later, they return. The wheelbarrow, made from carved wood and an old cotton reel, is stacked with loaves of bread, each the size of the acorn-cradle.

  “Go on, have as many as you like,” says Mama Herne.

  I take seven and eat them slowly, savouring the taste. The bread is so delicious I could wolf down the entire wheelbarrow-full, but I don’t want to eat all of the Hobs’ food.

  I finish the tiny loaves, using the last one to mop the mushroom juices up.

  Nissa’s jaw drops at the sight of the empty slate. “You are hungry. Didn’t they feed yer at the other place?”

  “Not like this,” I say through a mouthful of food, careful not to spray bits of it everywhere. I swallow and relish the mushroom-egg-bread taste. Porridge made with water and medicine might have given me all the minerals and stuff I needed, but it’s not a patch on real food.

  “Nox don’t want to be carried,” says Papa Herne as I pick him up on the palm of my hand. “He’ll make his own way to see the wood sprites.”

  He nods towards what looks like a small hangar, nestled in the roots of a tree – something I’d not noticed last night. A blackbird, wearing a polished wooden saddle, sits under the shade of the hangar’s curved bark roof. Nox climbs into the saddle before taking up the reins. Then the blackbird gets up, spreads its wings and takes off.

  “Follow the winding earth track,” says Papa Herne. “It’s a path.”

  “Like the one we came in on last night?”

  “Uh-huh. We call it Fox Path.”

  We leave the clearing and follow the path. Along the edge, green spears break through the dead leaves. We pass between towering trees, which must seem even more enormous to Papa Herne. There are no leaves yet, but I imagine them moving gently in a breeze, sunlight winking through the canopy overhead. I wonder if there are any cherry blossom trees. I’ve never seen one, but Petal likes to include them in her stories. She says the flowers are like clouds and the berries are sweet.

  Apart from the bird calls, the forest is silent. Peaceful. There’s no clock ticking off the minutes. No roar and rattle of the Machine.

  Papa Herne’s talk fills the silence as I walk. He goes from telling me how bees make honey, to primroses being the first flowers of spring, to the time his father went on an adventure downstream in a small wooden boat. I carry him upright in my fist, like I’d hold a candle, until my hand goes all clammy. Then I put him in my pocket next to my fast-beating heart.

  After twenty minutes or so, we approach an ancient-looking ash tree. It stands far taller and wider than the other trees that grow close by, or the ones at Oakhome.

  “We’re here – this is the Wandwood Tree,” says Papa Herne. “Home to the wood sprites.”

  The tree is hollow, bark has peeled away from one side and there’s a foot-long gash at the base of the trunk. Nox’s blackbird perches on a moss-covered root.

  There are strange drawings on the peeled wood. Carved lines with patterns and mazes.

  “Woodworms make them,” says Papa Herne.

  I put Papa Herne down and he walks straight through the opening, which to him must be like a big cave. He disappears inside. I crouch down, get on my knees and peer in.

  The tree is hollowed out, but it’s not empty. There’s a low wooden table resting on a woven mat that covers the floor. Next to it is a papery thing with cubbyholes. Some of the cubbyholes are filled with dried flowers and scrolls and what look like small stones. On one of the walls is a shelf. Behind it, rising up, are more woodworm drawings. One is of a tree-man crowned with ivy and ferns and branches. Surrounding him is a whole forest of trees, birds and animals. All of this is lit by a shaft of sunlight, which reaches down from an opening, high up in the hollow trunk.

  Nox sits cross-legged on the floor. He looks at us and says gruffly, “See you made it.”

  The place smells of wood and dry leaves.

  “Come in, Wick,” says Papa Herne.

  At the edge of my eye, something flickers. I sense a presence just out of sight.

  I hunker down on all fours and squeeze into the hollow. The top of the opening scrapes against my back, but I manage it. I straighten up and sit cross-legged on the matted floor, careful not to squash either of the Hobs. I glance up at the high ceiling, where wooden stalactites and a family of sleeping bats hang down, their wings like folded umbrellas.

  On the shelf is a green glass lens shaped like a hexagon.

  “This is where we come to sit an’ get advice. The wood sprites are our guides.”

  I look up at the bats again. “Are they the wood sprites?” I whisper.

  Papa Herne picks up the glass lens. It’s as big as a serving tray in his hands. “Here, try looking through this.”

  I put the lens to my eye and jump up in shock, banging my head hard against one of the wooden stalactites.

  We’
re not alone. Three winged figures – not much smaller than Papa Herne – glide through the air in front of me.

  “Wood sprites,” Papa Herne says.

  My eyes water at the dull pain in the back of my head. The wood sprites have slender blue-green bodies, wild dark-green hair, dragonfly wings – and they are half transparent. I watch them in awe. I wish Petal could see this.

  The wood sprites start to talk in high silvery voices that follow on from each other in bursts. “Papa Herne – great to see you – and who is this—”

  They sound as if they are three people in one.

  “I’m Wick.” I suck air through my teeth as I feel the bump that’s forming on the back of my head.

  Nox makes a noise, clearing his throat. “Papa Herne found the boy outside the forest last night an’ brought him home to live with us.”

  “A human boy – living – with the Hobs—” The sprites smile broadly at each other, exchanging meaningful looks. Only I don’t know what the looks mean. And it doesn’t seem as if Papa Herne or Nox do either.

  “We came to ask about Wick,” says Papa Herne. “Nox says humans are destructive an’ we wanted to see what you thought about him living with us.”

  “Not all humans are destructive – humans have two sides – they can help or hurt—”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and think of all the miniature matchstick models I built. Then I think about Old Ma Bogey burning them to ashes.

  “The boy’s future is not decided – it is up to him to choose his own path – as it is for all of you—”

  I open my eyes. The sprites hover close to my face, watching me intently.

  “Choices – make us into – who we are—”

  This is their answer?

  Papa Herne rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Well, I say we give him a chance.”

  I feel a shining bubble of excitement rise inside me. I want to burst out laughing, but I keep it in.

  Nox covers his mouth and makes a grumbling sound. Then he gets up from the mat and leaves.