Harklights

by Tim Tilley

  Papa Herne is cradled in my hands. When he comes round, he takes a shuddering breath and we all sigh with relief. Nissa and Nox hug him, sobbing.

  My eyes glisten with tears.

  When they’ve finished hugging, I tell Papa Herne about the explosion and Old Ma Bogey and the Well.

  “You did good, Wick,” he says. “I knew you would.”

  “I wouldn’t have been able to do it without help from my friends. Thanks for saving me, back there in the yard,” I say to Nissa. “Old Ma Bogey was going to shoot me.”

  “I know you’d have done the same for me,” she says with bright eyes.

  Petal finds the fire buckets. We put out the fires in the Machine Room. The Machine is beyond repair. There’s no way it will ever run again.

  While Nox, Nissa and the rest of the orphans are in the kitchens, celebrating by breaking into the pantry and gorging themselves on Bridger’s chocolate and tins of peaches, I head through the ruins to Old Ma Bogey’s office. Papa Herne rides in my shirt pocket, Petal and Bottletop walking behind us. It’s strange to think that Old Ma Bogey is really gone. I don’t think it’s really sunk in yet. I keep expecting her to appear with her beating stick or a gun.

  “She had files on us,” Petal says. “We’ll be able to find out who we are.”

  When we reach the office, Petal lifts a rattling bunch of keys from her pocket and unlocks the door. I push it open.

  There’s a smell of smoke inside. A wooden filing cabinet stands by the window. The top is grazed with a huge charred mark; a trickle of thin smoke rises from its seams.

  We rush over. Just as I’m about to reach for the top drawer, Petal says, “Careful, the handle might be hot.”

  Bottletop hands me his oil rag. “Here – use this.”

  I wrench the drawer open. Thick black smoke rolls out. What’s left of the files are still burning. I pull out a sheaf of brittle black pages. I can just about make out the faint lettering before they crumble to ash.

  Smoke stings my eyes before they crowd with tears. Papa Herne coughs.

  “G-gone,” sobs Petal.

  Bottletop hugs her.

  “Old Ma Bogey must have set fire to them when she heard I was coming back, just in case I got this far,” I say, my voice hard-edged.

  I wipe my eyes, closing the top drawer and pulling open the bottom one. It’s divided into a grid of different sections. In each square sits a small object. Thimble, coin, bottle top. “The things she used to name us.” I glance over the scorched remains of fabric swatches and what looks like a lantern wick. “But how are they going to tell us anything?”

  Petal and Bottletop give blank stares, then Petal says, “Now we’ll never find our parents.”

  “Why would we go looking for them?” says Bottletop. “They abandoned us.”

  I nod, close the drawer and swallow the lump in my throat.

  Papa Herne looks up at Petal and Bottletop. “You could come an’ live with us in the forest. All of the orphans. We got plenty of space… You don’t have to give me an answer now, take yer time to think on it.”

  Petal and Bottletop nod mutely, their eyes pricked with tears.

  Guilt rises in me like the smoke from the cabinet. I clear my throat. “Sorry you got caught when we escaped,” I say to Petal. “I meant to come back sooner—”

  Petal smiles. “I know I said to escape without me, but I’m glad you came back.”

  She throws her arms around me and hugs me, being careful of my grazed shoulder. “I’ve been telling stories about you and your magic stag, going off on adventures.”

  I hug her back awkwardly, heat rising in my cheeks. “Careful of Papa Herne.”

  “Yeah, sorry,” says Petal, stepping back.

  Papa Herne beams up at us from my shirt pocket. “I’m alright. No harm done.”

  “Come on,” I mutter. “There must be something useful we can find in here, something about us.”

  I put Papa Herne down on the desk, next to Old Ma Bogey’s beating stick.

  We search the office, pulling open drawers and cupboards. There’s a ledger listing the stock of matchboxes, a notebook filled with dozens of sketches for Old Ma Bogey’s mechanical beetles and Timber Goliaths, broken pen nibs, a dried bottle of ink. But there are no more orphan records, no tin soldiers, none of our old clothes or any of the other things that were confiscated.

  I hesitate. The words to tell Papa Herne about the dead Hob in the bell jar are on my tongue, but I have to get them out. “Remember I told you there was a dead Hob. He’s, um, in here.” I pick up the bell jar and knock it against the edge of the desk. The glass breaks and falls away like eggshell.

  Papa Herne swallows as I set the base of the bell jar down. He unfastens his Forest Keeper cloak, throws it over the dead Hob, then takes off his hat and holds it to his chest. “I don’t recognize him, but he’s a Hob all the same. We’ll take him back to the forest, where he belongs. Give him a proper burial.”

  Petal picks up the beating stick and brandishes it as if it’s a sword.

  “Well that’s going down the Well,” I say without thinking.

  She frowns. “Why?”

  “Because of all the beatings.”

  Petal examines the stick. “It’s not the stick’s fault. I don’t think it wanted to hit anyone. Maybe it could become something new – the Story Stick.”

  “I don’t know. I still think we should get rid of it.” I reach out a hand. “Can I have it?”

  Petal is about to hand the stick over, then she pulls back and grins. “You’re going to throw it – I know it!”

  “No, I’m not.” I match her grin. I can’t hide anything from Petal. “Okay, I am.”

  “Wick, Petal!” cries Bottletop just then. “You should come and look at this!”

  We rush over to where he stands by a glass display cabinet. I say nothing, daring to hope he might have found something with our real names on.

  The glass of the cabinet is covered in thick dust, but Bottletop has wiped a patch clean.

  I catch a glimpse of tiny winged figures pinned like butterflies. I’ve seen figures like them before. At the Wandwood Tree. Different, but the same.

  Papa Herne calls over from the desk. “What is it?”

  “Wood sprites,” I say.

  Papa Herne crosses to the edge of the desk. “I want to see them.”

  Bottletop turns the brass catch and lifts the glass lid.

  I bring Papa Herne over to the cabinet. He jumps off my hand and lands on the velveteen cushion. He leans forward, examining the row of five pale green figures with their outstretched dragonfly wings. Next to them is a row of three pairs of human-sized spectacles with hexagonal green lenses. The lenses are just like the one at the Wandwood Tree, the one that made the invisible wood sprites visible. I have the vague feeling I’ve seen the spectacles somewhere before, but the memory fizzles like a wet match.

  Petal and Bottletop are spellbound by the pinned winged things.

  I’m dazed too. How can we see them without the lenses?

  “They can’t be dead,” Papa Herne’s voice rises in disbelief. “Wood sprites are spirit. They never die. They must be in a deep sleep. Hibernating.” He pulls the pins out of them. Then he shakes one gently, trying to wake them, but they don’t move. “You can’t be dead.”

  A bolt of cold runs through me.

  Papa Herne’s face is full of sorrow as he climbs onto my hand. Bottletop goes to close the glass lid, but Petal stops him. She’s still clutching the beating stick. We stand with our heads bowed for a minute or so, then Bottletop, me and Papa Herne slowly head for the door, but Petal stays by the cabinet.

  “Wait!” Petal cries out suddenly. “They’re breathing!”

  There’s a papery sigh as we turn back. The sprite opens their eyes.

  “They’re still alive,” gasps Bottletop.

  “What…happened?” the sprite says in a rasping voice.

  “Someone pinned…” I clear my throat and start
again. “Someone caught you and pinned you.”

  The sprite closes their eyes again and their tiny brow furrows. “Boggett,” they say, their voice barely above a whisper. “He was a friend…of nature…but he hurt us.”

  The other sprites slowly awaken too.

  “What’s happening to them?” says Petal, touching my elbow. “They’re turning see-through.”

  Papa Herne grins. “They’re getting better.”

  I pick up a pair of the spectacles and try them on. The sprites are solid again. I tap one of the lenses. “These let you see them.” I pick up the other pairs and hand them to Petal and Bottletop.

  “These are just like the spectacles the man’s wearing—” says Petal.

  “What man?” I cut in.

  Petal pushes the spectacles up to the bridge of her nose. “You know, the one in the photograph on the main stairs. The one we think is Old Ma Bogey’s father.”

  A memory of the photograph burns brightly in my mind. “You’re right.” I lean close to the sprites. “Did Boggett build a treehouse in the forest?”

  The sprites clutch their throats.

  “Shall I go get some water?” says Bottletop.

  “Good idea,” replies Papa Herne.

  Bottletop returns with a glass tumbler and sets it down on the side table.

  “Thank you,” chorus the sprites as they dive into the water without disturbing the surface.

  We watch them in awe as they linger in the water. They don’t look as if they are drinking, they just stay still.

  Then the sprites pass through the glass and back into the air. A healthy apple-green colour returns to them – their faces look less drawn, their eyes brighter. I know they must be getting better because they become as talkative as the ones at the Wandwood Tree. High, silvery voices. Words that run into each other. “Boggett and his daughter – do not matter any more – they’re gone—”

  It feels good to hear this. But I still have questions about who Old Ma Bogey’s father was and what he did.

  “How is the orchard – and garden – our beautiful garden—”

  “Gone,” says Papa Herne.

  The sprites look at each other, confused. “But it is not winter – the garden should be filled – with flowers—” They loop in the air, diving, rising, one trailing another, until I can’t tell who leads and who follows. They seem upset at the loss. Then they chatter, bright with the memories of how beautiful the garden must have been. “The orchard – and the garden – we can bring them back—”

  “Where’re you going?” I say, as the sprites break their loop and fly across Old Ma Bogey’s office.

  “To find our friends – we have been asleep – for far too long—”

  Papa Herne’s face shines as his smile grows. “They’ll be back.”

  I smile too, remembering the tree by the sunlit fox that was covering an old wound with new bark. Nature has ways to repair itself.

  As Petal cleans and bandages my grazed shoulder, Nissa and Papa Herne sit with me on a small stack of Everstrikes matchboxes.

  “Papa,” says Nissa, “did you mean what you said about training me to be a Forest Keeper?”

  Papa Herne nods.

  “Then I do want to train. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted.”

  His shining eyes and wide smile tell me he couldn’t be happier.

  After a while, a flock of bird-riders arrive. It’s the rest of the Hob tribe.

  We gather in the canteen, Hobs and orphans, eating a victory feast. Cold meats from the meat safe. Bread, cheese and honey from the larder. Jam tarts, crumpets, raisin cakes and Fry’s chocolate from the pantry. There’s everything but porridge. The Hobs sit on handkerchief picnic blankets among the food. They eat bread and cheese off tiny plates from a doll’s house Wingnut found in Old Ma Bogey’s bedroom, and button plates which Tiggs wants as treasure.

  I sit with Bottletop and Petal on one of the benches. Across from us are Papa Herne, Mama Herne and Nissa. Wingnut draws chalk pictures with Nox and a group of orphans coo over Baby Tiya. Further down the table, another group play with Linden and Tiggs.

  I try honey for the first time. It’s thick and sweet and tastes of the scent of flowers. I don’t think I’ve eaten anything that tasted better.

  “Liquid gold,” says Papa Herne.

  I have a warm feeling from sharing the Hobs with everyone and not having to hide parts of me.

  “Thanks for helping us stop Old Ma Bogey,” I say to Bottletop.

  He smiles. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “How’d you get out of packing matchboxes?”

  “Padlock.”

  “Padlock?”

  “He told Old Ma Bogey that a broken machine part couldn’t be fixed. I told her he was wrong.”

  “You said that?”

  Bottletop nods. “I used to fix machines in another factory, before I came here. Old Ma Bogey gave me a chance and I fixed it. After that, she made me work in the Machine Room. I didn’t know you were back until I saw you with her. And when she said you were planning on smashing the Machine – well, it got me thinking.”

  “More than that,” I say. “You did something – something amazing.”

  While we eat, Petal goes outside to get some fresh air. It’s not long before she’s back, eyes wide as if she’s seen a ghost. “You’ve got to come and see this! Quick!”

  We race through the hall, orphans carrying Hobs.

  When we reach the yard, there’s a cluster of tree-stags behind the main gates. Half Crown is there at the front of them. The gates squeak their complaint as the tree-stags push against them.

  Excited chatter erupts among the orphans. “It’s that thing—”

  “I thought I was dreaming—”

  “Told you it was real,” says Petal to the others.

  “They want us to them let in,” I say.

  We race over to the gates with Old Ma Bogey’s keys. The key for the gates is the easiest to find. It’s the largest one, the colour of a storm cloud.

  As soon as the key turns in the lock, the tree-stags push through the gates and stampede into the yard. Somehow, we don’t get trampled as they circle round the yard, wooden hooves kicking up dry dust.

  “What do they want?” yells Petal.

  “I don’t know,” I murmur.

  The tree-stags spread out, each of them stopping in different places. Then Half Crown circles round them and waits by the orphanage.

  Green light shimmers in the air around all of the tree-stags except for Half Crown. One by one, they transform: turning and twisting, antlers to branches, back into trees. The orphans stare, stunned into silence.

  “Did you do this?” I say to Papa Herne.

  “No.”

  I put on the green spectacles. Tiny winged figures flit through the air around them.

  “The wood sprites came back,” I say.

  Petal and Bottletop look through the other pairs, then pass them around to the rest of the orphans.

  Across the grey sky, a low dark cloud speeds towards us. As it gets close, I realize it’s a cloud of birds – thousands and thousands of them.

  “What’s happening?” whispers Bottletop as the yard is plunged into shadow.

  “The forest is coming to Harklights,” says Papa Herne from my shirt pocket.

  A small flock of sparrows fly out of the dark cloud above us and swoop down with wood sprites alongside them. The sparrows scatter leaf-mould and peat moss from their claws, then return to the bird swarm. The sprites stay behind, zigzagging like dragonflies over the ground.

  “I don’t see how a handful of soil is going to do anything,” says one of the orphans.

  Papa Herne says nothing.

  Almost immediately, another wave of birds swoops down. Buzzards, sparrowhawks, red kites, crows, alongside rooks, doves and countless others. All of them drop a rain of soil and small plants.

  Some of the orphans duck, others run back inside for safety, as if we’re under attack. But Pet
al, Bottletop and I know different.

  “They’re putting the garden back,” whispers Petal, shielding her eyes.

  I nod, with a massive grin on my face.

  Before long, the yard is carpeted with a thick layer of black soil, and is beginning to look like a garden again. More wood sprites appear, joining the others.

  “Why didn’t you ask the sprites to help you with the Monster?” I say to Papa Herne.

  “They don’t fight. They only help things grow.”

  The gathered sprites hover and hold their hands out, palm down, over the new garden. There’s more green light, rising, rushing, shimmering. Grass and moss grow. Trees unfurl their leaves. Clusters of blossom buds burst, their flowers like fireworks. White and pink and pink-white. Petal is right, the cherry blossom trees do look like clouds.

  Petal claps her hands. “We are going to have so much fruit!”

  One of the wood sprites flits towards us with a robin holding Papa Herne’s lost staff in its beak.

  “You will be needing this,” says the wood sprite.

  “Thank you.” Papa Herne bows his head and takes his staff.

  As the cloud of birds leave, the hair on my arms stands up.

  Wingnut whistles and says, “That was unexpected.”

  “You can say that again,” says Petal.

  There’s a break in the grey clouds. Shafts of brilliant sunlight lance down. We explore the new walled garden. The moss and grass is a thick green carpet fringed with ferns, shrubs, bushes and banks of sweet-scented flowers. Nox smiles when I tell the orphans to keep to the grass paths and not to trample any of the plants.

  Half Crown gives rides to the orphans and Hobs. Others climb in the trees or sit under the blossom or watch butterflies.

  Wingnut, Petal, Bottletop and me cover the Bottomless Well with planks of scorched wood from the Machine Room. Just before we drag the last plank across, I stand on the edge and look down.

  I feel a huge wave of relief wash through me.

  Old Ma Bogey has really gone.

  It’s all over.

  No more beatings. No more packing matches.

  Petal moves close and stands by my side. “You’re right, the beating stick should go.”