Harklights

by Tim Tilley

  New beginnings and hope… I think back to one of the stories Petal told us years ago. It had been one of the worst days at the orphanage. Old Ma Bogey had lost her temper during Quota Inspection, smacking two of the orphans round the head so hard that they dropped to the floor. Then in the afternoon, when she caught them passing secret messages to each other, she threw them down the Well. That night, in the cold dark dormitory, amongst the tears, Petal told us about the Phoenix, the firebird that sang to the sun as it rose on the horizon every morning. When it got old, it burst into flame, burned itself up and was born again from its own ashes.

  I tell Papa Herne the story as we glue pieces of the wall together.

  “A story of hope,” he says when I finish. “We all need those. The Phoenix bird sounds a lot like the sun. In midwinter, the sun goes down to its lowest point on the horizon, but it comes back again, rising up. It never really dies.”

  I dip another twig in the pine sap and press it against the row of others.

  “Making these homes is a way of making new hope. Singing to the sun.” Papa Herne adjusts his hat. “Speaking of which…” He holds up a wooden loudhailer and turns to the other Hobs. “The Bring Forth party should have been today, but well – we shouldn’t let things hold us back. Spring celebration is a time of new beginnings, new growth. We’ll have the celebration tomorrow, just before sundown!”

  The Hobs cheer.

  Hearing Papa Herne talking about hope stirs courage in me. I breathe deeper, stand taller. The more I think about courage, the more I realize just how strong I already am. If I’ve been brave enough to escape from Old Ma Bogey – and face my fear of heights – then I’m ready to go back to Harklights. I don’t want to wait for her to come and find me.

  The Hobs whisper with excitement as they carry on building.

  Tomorrow night. After the party. That’s when I’ll return. Half Crown will carry me back over the wall, when everyone is asleep. Somehow, some way, I’ll get into the house, gather up Old Ma Bogey’s guns and crossbow and beating stick and throw them down the Well. Then I’ll find Petal. Part of me wants to bring all the orphans – except Padlock – to Oakhome. Papa Herne said he wanted to take them all when we escaped before, so maybe I can find a way to make it happen. I’m sure he’ll be happy to see everyone, but I’m not sure what Nox will say.

  Eventually the Hobs stop working and prepare dinner and feather beds for the night by the fire.

  I sit with Nissa at the edge of the clearing. She’s choosing small rocks for her catapult.

  “The stag came from the North,” she says. “Where the Monster comes from.”

  “I think I know who the Monster is,” I say.

  “Old Ma Bogey?”

  “Yeah. She’s got guns.”

  Nissa’s eyes go wide. “How could I forget?”

  “But if she’s coming for me, then why was she in the North shooting a stag?”

  She gives me a curious look. “What makes you think she’s coming for you?”

  “Because she takes things away from people. It’s what she does. She doesn’t want me to have anything, least of all a new home.”

  Nissa sets her jaw. “We can stop her. If she’s not in the forest, we can go back to Harklights.”

  “It’s dangerous.”

  “Course it’s dangerous,” says Nissa. “But it’s dangerous doing nothing too.”

  My stomach is wound tight. I wonder if I should tell Nissa my plan. If I do, she’ll want to come with me. I rub the back of my neck. “I don’t know. Last time, I nearly got shot when I tried to get away from her. And Petal got caught. It’s a bad idea.” I say this as much to myself as to Nissa.

  Nissa gives me a hard stare, then her eyes narrow. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “Like what?”

  “You’re already planning to go back, aren’t you?”

  I look away. “I was, er, I’m just…” My words are hollow. It’s obvious I’m hiding something.

  “You’re as bad as Papa Herne,” says Nissa, sounding wounded. “I thought you were my friend! You’re supposed to tell me things, not hide things from me.”

  “I do tell you things. I…” I don’t know what to say. Then the words come to me. “You’re Papa Herne’s daughter. What would he say if I let you come along and something happened?”

  “I know I’m his daughter,” says Nissa, raising her voice. “But that don’t make me any different from anyone else or stop me wanting different things.”

  There’s a growing silence between us.

  “I know all about wanting different things,” I say in a low voice. “Back at Harklights, it’s what we all dreamed of. New parents. New home. New lives to live. You’d be brilliant if you came with me, but if something happened it’d cost me living with the Hobs…and I can’t risk that.”

  Nissa sighs deeply. “Yer right.” She rests her hand on the catapult tucked into her belt. “When are you going?”

  “Tomorrow night.” It feels strange hearing my thoughts turned into words. They feel more real.

  “I don’t like it.” She sets her jaw again. “But I won’t say anything to Papa.”

  After dinner, Papa Herne and I go out into the forest for a walk, carrying a human lantern the Hobs found. We head west, away from Oakhome along Hawk Path, into the lowering light. We’re surrounded by the evening chorus – the chook-chook-chook and chirrup of blackbirds, the warble of a lone robin. The air is cool. Papa Herne stands in my sweater pocket, clutching the pocket edge as if it’s a handrail. We pass the high ridge bank of birch trees and a tangle of overgrown brambles. My fear that Old Ma Bogey is coming hasn’t gone away. It’s still there, waiting for me in the quiet moments between words.

  As we walk, Papa Herne points things out to me and tests me on my Forest Keeping. “What does a robin’s distress call sound like?”

  “Tic-tic.”

  “What d’you give a sick rabbit?”

  “Willow bark or willow water.”

  “In which quarter of the forest are the warrens?”

  “North-East.”

  “Yer doing very well,” says Papa Herne. “One day, you’ll know every inch of this forest.”

  I stare at the trees touched by lantern light.

  “I’d like that,” I say. I want to know everything about my new home.

  Papa Herne touches the silver oak-leaf clasp of his cloak. “You’ll be a great Forest Keeper like me an’ protect the forest.”

  When it’s dark, bats swoop in the air above us, drawn to the storm of insects circling the lantern. After a while, Papa Herne nods to one of the wooded slopes under the forest moon. We follow a winding path up through the trees to a tall rocky outcrop. The outcrop is a series of uneven boulders with flattened tops, each like a rough step on a giant’s staircase.

  I climb, making my way up slowly, placing the lantern in nooks that become handholds and footholds. I don’t feel so afraid as I did up the tree – it’s not a long way down to the next step. Papa Herne says nothing, but I still hear his words of encouragement ringing through me.

  When we reach the crest – a rock ledge like an upturned flat iron – we are nearly level with the surrounding treetops. Wooden towers, steeples and spires spread out in all directions.

  There’s a warm glow in my chest, like a second sun. “I couldn’t have done this without you,” I say.

  “I did nothing,” Papa Herne replies. “You did all the climbing.”

  I blow out the lantern and sit on the ledge under the blanket of stars. Their cold light blazes brightly, like glittering jewels. I know they’re the same stars as the ones I saw at Harklights, but they seem brighter here, and there are more of them. I tilt my head back and wait to see if I can spot a falling star.

  Hoo.

  The low hoot breaks the silence. It comes from a cradle of branches close to us.

  “It’s alright,” says Papa Herne from my shirt pocket. “She’s one of the eagle owls. They can’t talk o
f course, but they’re great listeners. I come up here sometimes an’ tell them the things on my mind.”

  The owl’s head pivots towards us. Her eyes are huge dark pools that stare deep into mine. Something passes between us. I’m in awe, caught under her spell. Magic isn’t just tiny babies, tree-stags and wood sprites. It’s moments like this.

  “Owls are night kings an’ queens,” says Papa Herne, “an’ they’re hunters.”

  The owl blinks and turns her head to study something on one of the lower branches.

  Papa Herne clears his throat. “So, what d’you think of Havenwood Forest?”

  “It’s brilliant. These have been the best days of my life. The forest lessons, the climbing, the fireside stories. It feels as if I’ve been here for weeks and weeks.”

  “I’m glad you came to live with us. I wanted to show you what a family could be. Families aren’t just blood, they’re where the heart takes root.”

  Papa Herne’s words thrum through me, doubling my happiness. He spreads his arms and gives me a hug. It’s tiny, but just what I need.

  After sitting for a while under the stars, Papa Herne says, “Best get back. We need to be up before sunrise.”

  “Why so early?” I reply.

  “You never seen dawn in the forest. The tide of night turns, the sun rises an’ washes over everything with its light.”

  I make the climb down inch by inch. It’s easier this time, as if my hands and feet somehow recognize the rough edges of rock. The wild wonder of the owl still holds me and won’t let go.

  Everything is pink-grey and blue-grey in the early morning light. Even though it’s before dawn, some of the birds are starting their chorus: blackbirds, song thrushes, robins and wrens. Papa Herne stands on Half Crown’s antlers as we ride through the forest quietly listening. The air is still cool, but this time there’s a thin mist weaving in and out of the leaves.

  As we approach an old oak, Papa Herne points up. When he said the Hobs had found a human dwelling in the forest, I’d assumed it would be on the ground. I didn’t expect it to be this – a cobbled-together treehouse, cradled in branches, a good fifteen feet or more off the ground. I remember my thought about another orphan escaping and staying in the forest.

  “Did you ever see anyone?” I ask.

  “No. It’s always been empty. I think whoever stayed must have left a long time ago.”

  I climb down from Half Crown and walk closer to get a better look. The treehouse has different sized windows that look as if they’ve come from barns, huts, tool sheds and shacks. Each of them is shut. The old door set into one side is open and there’s a small balcony and a rope ladder hanging down, not to the ground, but close to some of the lower branches. On a sign near the door are large printed letters:

  I walk right up to the oak. “This is where you got the human things, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. D’you want to use the ivy to help you climb up?” asks Papa Herne as I put him down on an old stump.

  “No, I’ll be fine.” But a wave of fear rushes through me as I stand by the trunk.

  “Go slowly,” says Papa Herne. “Take yer time. Find a hold an’ test it. Remember to breathe.”

  At Harklights, everything was fast-paced, working in rhythm to the speed of the Machine. A race against time. Here, the forest has a different rhythm. I follow Papa Herne’s instructions. Even though my heart is thumping, it’s with excitement as much as fear. I’ve never felt so alive.

  I climb slowly, finding nubs of bark and knotholes to help me. In the forest, I can be another Wick, a new Wick, a better version of myself. Someone who opens up to his friends. Someone who’s not afraid of heights.

  Papa Herne calls up through his wooden loudhailer. “You can do it. Go easy.”

  I take strength from his voice.

  This time, I don’t slip. Each step I take, I’m sure of my holds.

  I reach the ladder and climb its rungs to the wooden platform. I steady myself and glance down at the forest floor below. That warm blaze of achievement engulfs me again, filling me with a glow. It feels as if I’ve unlocked something inside myself. I look out at all the trees I’m ready to climb, all the trees that are waiting just for me. Now it feels as if there’s no place in the forest I can’t go.

  “I can see why you do this,” I call down.

  “Why’s that?” asks Papa Herne.

  I take a deep breath. “Because it makes you feel like a giant. Like you could take on anything.”

  “Go in, have a look round. We’ll wait here!”

  My heart thuds as I step inside. The treehouse is a single dusty room. A table stands in the middle, surrounded by tea-chest seats. At one end of the room, a thin curtain hangs down. At the other is a chipped washstand and a small stove.

  The floor is littered with old dry leaves and bird mess. Lots of bird mess. Papa Herne is right – it doesn’t look as if anyone has been here in years.

  As I cross the room, the floorboards creak. Propped up on the small table is a tent of folded notepaper.

  A note. With my name on it. Wick. Small, careful letters written in ink.

  I wonder how long it’s been there and who left it.

  I pick it up. My fingers are as steady as a well-trained packsmith, but inside I’m trembling.

  I open the note.

  I close the note with a huge grin on my face. I wonder when he came to put it up here. The grin fades as I notice an empty box of buckshot cartridges. Close by, under a tin of pipe-leaf, is a black leather-bound notebook. It’s empty, except for a third-class ticket for the Liverpool and Manchester Railway. Next to it is a copy of The Empire Times. It’s old. From twelve years ago. I flick through the pages. One of the advertisements catches my eye. It’s full-page. My reading skills are rusty so I go over the words slowly:

  There’s an etching of a family – father, mother, son, daughter – in a drawing room with comfy chairs arranged around a huge fireplace. The son is crouched forward, lighting a neat stack of logs and twisted paper with an Everstrikes match. His father, who looks to be an older version of him, crouches by his side, an encouraging arm around his shoulder. The mother and daughter sit in the chairs and hold their hands up, clapping with delight. Everyone is smiling and there’s light in their eyes. The boy’s smile is broadest. It looks as if he’s proud to be the one lighting the fire for everyone. On the hearthrug by his feet is a long fork resting on a plate piled with crumpets.

  My stomach feels tight, as if it’s trying to keep hold of all my feelings and stop them escaping.

  This is what people think of when they see Harklights? Happy families?

  I close the newspaper quickly, trying hard to pretend I’ve not seen the advertisement. It doesn’t work. I can’t shake the picture. Do my parents ever think of me at Harklights? Or did they forget I was ever abandoned? Do they hold new children in their hearts now, and light fires with them in a new home?

  At the back of the treehouse, behind the thin curtain, are a couple of low bunks with overhead cupboards. There’s a trunk on the floor nearby with an open lid. Inside are some clothes: white collarless shirts, a cotton scarf, pairs of stovepipe trousers. As with the sweater, the clothes are a bit too big for me right now, but they’re things I could grow into. I hold up one of the shirts. There’s a shirt pocket to carry Hobs in, but some of the buttons are missing. Genna must have taken them as treasure for Tiggs.

  In one of the cupboards I find stacks of tins, thirty or more. All of them filled with peaches. I take out four and chuck them in a leather haversack I find, along with the notebook, some of the clothes and a tin-opener from the kitchen area.

  There’s a steep ladder leaning, unfixed, against the back wall. I climb it cautiously, heart fluttering, and step out onto the roof. I keep away from the edge as it’s a long way down. From here, the whole forest stretches in all directions. To the north is open heath and, beyond, a ridge of tree-covered hills. To the west are mountains.

  In the east, the sun rises a
t the edge of the sky. The first rays catch the treetops, crowning them in glowing gold. A thin column of dirty grey smoke winds into the air.

  Harklights.

  My stomach sinks. It’s not that far.

  I can’t see the factory or the chimney, but the smoke is enough to start the roar and rumble of the Machine in my head again.

  As Papa Herne and I return to Oakhome, the image of the grey smoke of Harklights shadows my thoughts. If the Machine is on, then the orphans must be working already. We never start work this early. Something must have happened. Is this a punishment for something? My jaw tenses.

  I was right. It has to be tonight. It’s time I stopped her.

  I turn the plan over in my mind. I’ll climb the wall of the orphanage and find an open window. And if there’s not one, then I’ll climb up onto the roof and wrench off the roof tiles – make my own window. We’ll rescue Petal and the other orphans. And if Old Ma Bogey wakes up and I see her, I’ll tell her she needs to invent a new Machine that doesn’t need orphan workers, not waste her time making stupid mechanical beetle toys. And if she tries to stop us or threatens us with her shotgun again, I’ll tell her I’ll come back with a gang of wild animals and let them run riot through the house and factory.

  I must be tense because Papa Herne turns around on the palm of my hand and says, “Are you alright? What is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  I don’t want any of the Hobs to get hurt. I’ve put them in enough danger as it is. Luckily no one got hurt when the stag destroyed Oakhome. I can’t risk anything happening to them again.

  I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Actually, I was thinking I could climb some more trees on the way back.”

  Papa Herne raises an eyebrow. “How many were you thinking of?”

  I shrug. “How long have we got?”

  Everyone joins in with the preparations for the Bring Forth celebrations that mark the beginning of spring. Nox and Genna lead mouse-drawn carts packed with planted bluebells, primroses and snowdrops, parking them alongside the clearing. Carts filled only with soil stand either side of the half-built house. Others arrive, laden with honey cakes, seed bread, sweet violet flowers, sorrel leaves, daisies, birch water and birch syrup.