Harklights

by Tim Tilley

  His disappointment doesn’t change the way I feel.

  “I know I’m big,” I say to Papa Herne, “but I want to live with the Hobs and be part of the forest. I want to help and learn where magic comes from.”

  The sprites wheel through the air, their silvery voices almost chanting now. “Wild magic – is the force – that makes everything grow—”

  A picture of the barren earth at Harklights blooms in my mind. No wonder there was no magic and nothing grew there – it’s an awful place.

  I close my mind to the memory, let it fade. “Don’t you, um, have any spell books? Things to learn from?”

  The sprites change their flight. They swoop low, then carousel around us.

  “Nature does not need books – only a staff or a wand – to focus the power—”

  I wonder if magic could shrink me to the size of the Hobs. “Can magic make things smaller?”

  Papa Herne frowns. “No, but you don’t need to be small. As I said before, the forest is home to all sizes.”

  “It is true – all sizes – goodbye, Wick—”

  The wood sprites rise up in the air above us and glide through the tree trunk as Papa Herne thanks them. We sit there for a few moments, then I glance to the tree-cave opening. “What about Nox?”

  “Don’t worry about him. He don’t trust humans. He’s always been like that, but he might change, given time.”

  I wonder what will happen if he doesn’t.

  As I crawl out from the Wandwood Tree, the forest seems different. The birdsong isn’t louder or quieter and the light is more or less the same. But I know there are wood sprites now – unseen, invisible things.

  Nox stands by his blackbird, arms folded. “So he’s staying?”

  “Course Wick’s staying,” answers Papa Herne, his voice rising. “Long as he’s not destructive—”

  “An’ if he is, then he goes?”

  Papa Herne nods solemnly. “He goes.”

  Nox grumbles again as he climbs into his saddle.

  “I’m gonna take Wick on a tour of the forest,” adds Papa Herne. “Can you check on what we discussed earlier?”

  “I’ve not forgot.” Nox picks up his reins and flicks them. His blackbird lifts its wings, then takes off, flying north.

  Papa Herne watches till Nox and his bird are out of sight. “I think he’s annoyed that the wood sprites didn’t give him the answer he wanted. He wanted them to say you were like every other human, or the destructive ones.” He pauses, and looks up at me. “But you aren’t – or at least you don’t have to be. Come on, let’s go. We’ll go back the way we came, then take Badger Path.”

  After a while, Papa Herne says, “We can stop here. Look.”

  He points to a thick tree with a hole at its base and a slope of scratched-out soil. A moment later, a fox cub appears, snuffling the air. His eyes are button-bright.

  As Papa Herne climbs off my hand, other cubs appear. I’ve never seen animals like them. Their heads have black-and-white stripes, like humbugs. “What are they?”

  “Badger cubs.”

  The three cubs clamber out of the hole and come close. Papa Herne walks up to them. They are huge next to him, like elephants standing by a man. He takes a flat leaf out of his jacket, holds it to his mouth and blows. A shrill whistle sound comes from the leaf. It startles me, but the cubs seem used to it.

  A few moments later, a hare scampers out of the bushes and slows as it approaches us. Papa Herne tilts his hat. The hare nods in return, then lies down next to the cubs. Instantly they nuzzle the hare and begin feeding.

  “Lost their mothers,” Papa Herne says, watching them feed. “An’ so us Forest Keepers look after them, make sure other animals feed them.”

  “Forest Keepers?”

  Papa Herne tugs at his green cloak, which is clasped with a silver leaf. “Yeah. We’re known by our cloaks. We take care of the forest. Patrol it an’ protect it. Nature takes care of us by giving us food an’ water an’ a home. It’s only right we take care of it in return. We might not be very tall, but small actions can make big differences.”

  “Why do you wear cloaks?”

  “Cloaks are the cornerstone of Forest Keeping – a symbol of protection.”

  “How many Keepers are there?”

  “There’s me, Nox an’ Genna. The other Hobs are Home Keepers – they stay an’ look after Oakhome. They gather extra stores for the winter, in case any of the animals are low on food. Mostly it’s nuts an’ dried fruits.”

  The cubs have stopped feeding. I hold my hand out and the fox sniffs it cautiously.

  “These are our Hob traditions. It’s important to keep them, honour them, hold them tight.”

  The cubs bump their heads against my hand.

  “Ah, I see you’ve got a way with animals,” says Papa Herne. “There’s a streak of wild in you.”

  Their soft coats slide under my fingers. I wonder if the cubs like me because they somehow sense that I know what it’s like to be abandoned.

  “You got the makings of a Forest Keeper, Wick.” Papa Herne strokes the badger cubs and fox cub. “They love their bellies to be scratched,” he says as they roll on their backs.

  As we rub the fur on their bellies, Papa Herne smiles.

  My heart feels as light as paper.

  “Now the first thing you need to know about Forest Keeping is Forest Law. It’s two unbreakable rules.” He holds up his tiny hand and counts them off. “Number one, protect the forest. That means keeping things safe from harm, looking after sick birds an’ animals, moving tree saplings to give them a better chance. Number two, never harm a living thing. That means things like not snapping live branches, or killing things. That’s it. They’re not many, but they cover everything.”

  A coldness creeps into me and I can’t help thinking of how Old Ma Bogey got rid of orphans who didn’t follow her rules. I shake my head and try to think about something else, to focus on the magic of my new home. “Are tree-stags how you usually get around the forest?”

  “No.”

  “It must take you ages to walk everywhere.”

  “It does, but then we found a human boy to carry us.” Papa Herne’s face breaks into a smile. “I’m joking. Usually we ride on the backs of birds, foxes or badgers, but it’s much easier to talk to you if you carry us.”

  I smile. Then I think of how big some of the animals are, how dangerous they could be to the Hobs. “Are you friends with all the animals in the forest?”

  Papa Herne stops looking me in the eye. His smile fades and he becomes rigid. “Yeah, every single one.” His voice sounds forced. I wonder if he’s hiding something, but I can’t think what.

  He clears his throat. “Right, we best be off.”

  “Where are we going?” I pick him up and stroke the cubs one last time.

  “We got other places to see.”

  We walk off down the path and head through a mess of rust-coloured bracken. I stop to pick up a small rock. It’s squarish, flattened, like a jigsaw piece. Then I notice an indent in the path the exact same shape. I put the rock back where it belongs – it fits perfectly.

  I’m struck by the quietness of the forest. There’s no Machine thundering through the day. But there’s a low hum. I look up, trying to see where it’s coming from.

  “What is it?” says Papa Herne.

  “Buzzing.”

  “Honeybees,” he replies. “You ever seen bees before?”

  I shake my head. I’ve only seen pictures of them in the newspapers.

  “Well, that needs to be changed.” Papa Herne pulls on my thumb. “Come on, turn round, there’s a change of plan. How’s yer head for heights? There’s a tree you need to climb.”

  I’ve been terrified of heights ever since I can remember. At the orphanage, there were nights when I’d wake up drenched in sweat. I’d have nightmares of falling down the Bottomless Well. Just like Flint and Ratchet and many others. Falling for ever and ever.

  But I don’t wa
nt to disappoint Papa Herne, not on my first day in the forest. It’s clear he has no problem with heights as he’s being carried in the palm of my hand. It must be like standing on a roof or the prow of a ship to him.

  When we reach the tree I’m supposed to climb, the air above us is filled with a loud humming. I look up and see something hanging from one of the high branches, like an overgrown nut. It’s so high up, fear tingles through my toes.

  As I put my free hand on the bark, my palms break out in a sweat.

  “I don’t think I can climb. I’m no good with heights.”

  “It don’t matter,” says Papa Herne. “We can try another time.”

  There isn’t any disappointment in his words, but I can’t help feeling as useless as a wet match.

  “Let’s go back to Oakhome, I got some things to do. You can go off with Nissa, Linden an’ Tiggs, an’ play.”

  Play. The idea feels strange. I know it’s something children enjoy, but at Harklights playing and games were forbidden. We were only allowed to sit about in the yard or the dormitory, looking at pictures, listening to Petal or drawing with chalk.

  On the way back, we come across a group of hens digging around in the old leaves.

  “They’re looking for seeds an’ insects,” says Papa Herne.

  Above the hens, high in the bare branches, are what look like more nest-homes. There are dozens of them. My toes ache just at the thought of how far up they are. I ask Papa Herne if there’s another tribe of Hobs who live there.

  Papa Herne blinks hard a few times. He tugs at the collar of his cloak to get more air. “Hmm. No, it’s mistletoe. It’s a plant that grows with a tree, like we grow with the forest.”

  I’m starting to get the feeling that Papa Herne is holding something back.

  He tugs at his collar again and won’t meet my eyes.

  He’s acting a little strangely. I want to ask him if everything is alright, but I don’t want to upset anything. So I swallow the question as it climbs in my throat.

  When we get back to Oakhome, several Hobs are using a thimble to water small pieces of fabric with moss growing on them. Another group are carving wooden tools using a horn-handled razor and a nail file.

  Mama Herne and Finn are preparing tonight’s meal. Nissa is helping, but after Papa Herne whispers something in her ear, she brightens, puts down her miniature kitchen utensils and comes over.

  “What games d’you know?” she says. “We got lots of winged seeds. Can you play whirligigs?”

  I scratch my neck. “We weren’t allowed to play games at Harklights.”

  “Oh,” says Nissa. Her face falls in disappointment.

  “I, er, did like seeing the animals today.”

  Nissa’s eyes light up. “Then we could go an’ see the frogspawn. It’s come early. That means it’s spring.”

  “Frog what?”

  “Frogspawn. It’s their eggs.” Nissa glances across to Linden and Tiggs. “Only, we’ll have to take those two with us.”

  I glance over to the young Hobs, who are chasing each other around some slow-moving snails. Linden only comes up to Nissa’s shoulders and Tiggs is even smaller. The snails, nearly as tall as Tiggs, are leaving thick tracks of slime. The young Hobs are careful not to tread in it.

  “Let’s do it,” I say.

  “Come on, you two,” Nissa calls to Linden and Tiggs. “We’re going to the deer pond!”

  Both of them stop. Tiggs lets out a moan. “But I want to stay an’ play with my snails!”

  “You can play with them again later,” says Nissa evenly.

  Linden jumps over a trail of slime and runs over to Nissa. Tiggs picks up something from the ground and follows. He stands alongside the others and stares up at me. “Tuff is coming too.”

  “Tuff is his toy squirrel,” says Linden before I can ask. “He goes everywhere with him.”

  “I wanted to tell him about Tuff!” Tiggs knocks into Linden and holds up a tiny carved squirrel. “Carry us in yer hand, like you carried Papa Herne.”

  “If it’s no trouble,” adds Linden.

  I put my outstretched hand to the ground and pick them up carefully.

  “You’ve got buttons!” adds Tiggs. “Genna finds them for me. I collect them – they’re treasure.”

  “Where does she find them?”

  Tiggs shrugs. “I dunno.”

  “Where d’you think yer going?” says Mama Herne.

  “The deer pond,” replies Nissa, peering down from my hand.

  Mama Herne frowns and folds her arms. “You know yer supposed to stay round here.”

  Nissa’s shoulders drop. “But it’s not far, Mama. Wick wanted to see the frogspawn. He’s never seen it before.”

  Mama Herne considers this for a moment. Then her frown disappears. “Alright, but you be careful an’ be back before sundown.”

  “We will,” chorus the Hob children.

  “Nissa, don’t you go using that catapult,” adds Papa Herne. “An’ keep an eye on the boys, both of you.”

  Nissa nods.

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll take care of them.”

  We leave the clearing and head south along a thin worn path. Along the way, Nissa and Linden make bird whistles with their hands and call down a family of sparrows from the trees. I try to whistle but I can’t get it right. Neither can Tiggs.

  The deer pond isn’t far. The murky surface is a darkish mirror, reflecting bare branches and sky and clouds. By the edge is a scatter of lily pads and a lumpish clump of jelly.

  “Frogspawn!” says Nissa.

  I carefully put the Hob children down and they race over to the water’s edge.

  “There are hundeds,” says Tiggs.

  “Yes, hundereds,” says Linden.

  “Won’t be long before they hatch into tadpoles,” says Nissa. “Then they become little frogs with tails. I love watching them. When they’re young, they’re always changing.”

  “I can’t wait for them to turn into froggers,” says Tiggs, clapping his hands. “Then we can play hopper!”

  I lie on my front to get as close to the frogspawn as the Hobs and take in all the details. It’s beautiful – the bubbles of jelly are like clear berries with black seeds in the middle. I run my hand over them, then lift my dripping fingers out of the water. The droplets make circles in the water, circles that grow bigger and bigger.

  After several minutes, two insects come darting out from the reeds and drift closer.

  “Pond skaters,” says Nissa.

  “They walk on water,” I say, surprised.

  “Skate,” corrects Nissa. “They’re amazing.”

  I smile. “Everything is amazing here.”

  We watch the pond skaters dart across the mirrored surface. Their outstretched feet make little dents on the water. Linden and Tiggs jump around, pretending to be frogs.

  “Tiggs! Come away from there!” says Nissa, when he gets close to the lily pads. “I don’t want you falling in the pond. You can’t swim, remember?”

  “Yeah,” echoes Linden. “Be careful!”

  I smile and sigh. I’m pleased the Hobs let me stay. More and more, the forest feels like it could be a home. I think I might be happy here.

  Linden and Tiggs return to playing frogs away from the water’s edge. I catch my reflection in the still surface. An orphan boy looks back at me: underfed, angled cheekbones. I might have escaped Harklights, but it feels as if it’s left its mark, engraving me on the inside. I wince at my reflection, then look away, up at the trees that surround the pond. Their moss-covered roots, trunks and branches are soothing to my eyes. Something amber-coloured glows with sunlight on one of the trees. It looks like a forest jewel.

  “Is it honey?” I say to Nissa as I walk over, carrying her in my hand.

  “Tree sap. Papa calls it Nature’s Glue.”

  “Hmm. That gives me an idea.” I press a finger against the nugget of tree sap until it bursts. Oozes. Then I set Nissa down and grab several twigs an
d glue them together the same way I glued matches.

  Nissa glances up at me. “What are you making? Is it a hut? It’s really good.”

  “Thanks.” It feels awkward and strange. As if I’m showing Nissa a wound that hasn’t healed. “I used to, er, make model buildings. They were my dreams of homes made real.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  My throat is dry as paper. “They were places I hoped that one day I’d get to live in.” As Nissa watches me add another twig I feel my cheeks flush. “I never let any of the others see them, except Petal.”

  I can’t believe I’m saying all this. The walls I put up to protect myself are falling down.

  “It’s okay to keep things for yerself, you know,” Nissa says. “I mean, I don’t go around telling everyone I want to be a Forest Keeper—”

  “You do?”

  Nissa’s eyes go wide. She’s said more than she wanted. Now it’s her turn to blush. “I, er, yeah…since always.” She sighs and glances over at Linden, who’s running after Tiggs. “Linden wants to be a Home Keeper, like his father. Bake bread. Grow food. Gather firewood with the help of foxes. I want to be like my father too, but I’m not allowed.”

  “You want to be Hob leader?”

  Nissa’s flush deepens. “I didn’t mean, I – he wants me to help look after Linden an’ Tiggs. But I want to protect the forest an’ look after the animals. He only let me come along to rescue Tiya as a one-off…”

  Nissa pulls a tiny rock from a pouch tied to her belt. She takes a deep breath, holds the catapult up, draws back on the elastic and aims. Then she fires.

  Crack.

  The rock hits a pine cone on the forest floor, sending it skittering away.

  I glue another twig into place. The twig-hut grows as I tell Nissa about my life at Harklights: Flint’s wicked smile after he stole Old Ma Bogey’s thumb-guard, Petal’s dark eyes twinkling as she told stories, Wingnut’s chalk drawings of the places he remembered. I get a warm feeling thinking about them. Even though I don’t know if any of the orphans snitched on me to Old Ma Bogey, I still miss them. Broken pieces of family put together. The closest thing to a family I have ever known. Maybe they’re thinking of me too. Maybe they’re wondering if I’m okay, beyond the wall. I hope no one else has gone down the Well.