Brunt Boggart Page 2

  The trap had been set, but would the Wolf come? They watched and they waited, shivering and coughing behind the dark crouching bushes.

  “Tain’t coming,” mumbled Hamsparrow.

  Larkspittle chided him. “He won’t come at all if he hears you chittering.”

  “Shshsh, stop your racket,” Crossdogs commanded.

  They kept quiet. They waited. They waited and listened, but there wasn’t a sound.

  “Maybe there ain’t no Wolf after all,” Larkspittle stuttered. “Maybe Old Mother Tidgewallop is right.”

  “Then who is it steals all the food from the larders and drinks all the wine from Snuffwidget’s cellar? Who is it breaks the fences down?” Hamsparrow reminded him. “Tain’t none of us.”

  “And none of us steals away sisteren, neither. Specially not yours,” Longskull said quickly.

  “Stop your chattering,” Crossdogs cut in. “Something is coming.”

  A snap of a twig.

  A light padding footstep.

  A smell on the breeze.

  “Wolf!”

  “Wolf!”

  “Wolf!” they all whispered, gripping their sticks and flourishing staves.

  “Down, stay down,” Crossdogs snapped tersely. “He won’t come by the trap if he hears all your noise.”

  They watched and they waited but no Wolf could they hear.

  “He’s gone.”

  “Let’s go after him. Let’s chase him back here to the trap.”

  They moved through the wood, smelling out Wolf. Padding and pausing, loping and stalling. Listening to the wind. Then they saw the shadow again, just the way they did before – running and skittering in between the trees. The rustle of leaves, the cracking twigs. The howl.

  Then a shadow running through the shadows, a figure hunched and hurrying. This time they gave chase – beating sticks, swinging axes that glinted silver in the moonlight. Their own jaws set and snarling, teeth bared, dribbling spittle. Baying and howling they ran through the wood, chasing the shadow, chasing the Wolf, back and forth through the brambles and nettles, back and forth, back and forth till they came to the clearing where they had laid the trap.

  The Wolf-shadow broke out into the moonlight, heading straight for the branches with the grass strewn on top which hid the pit beneath. With a snap the trap gave way and the darkness swallowed him up. Crossdogs stopped and waved the others back. They all stood still and silent, ranged around the edge of the clearing. Then slowly they advanced towards the pit, holding up torches to see what they would see.

  Larkspittle ran forward.

  “Wolf! Wolf!” he spat.

  But Crossdogs grabbed him quickly.

  “Stand away. Keep back. If Wolf is cornered he’ll be twice as dangerous.”

  They waited. Watched in the shadows, in the torches’ flickering flames. But Wolf made no move. Wolf made no sound. So then they stepped forward, staves at the ready, to peer down into the bowels of the pit to see the Wolf creature thrashing round at the bottom. Thrashing then whimpering. Whimpering then howling.

  “Wolf!”

  “Wolf.”

  “We have him now.”

  Crossdogs stepped right up to the mouth of the pit. He raised his hand and paused.

  Hamsparrow leaned forward.

  “Tain’t no Wolf,” he exclaimed. “Tis a Boy!”

  “Tis a Boy…”

  “Tis a Boy…”

  The others whispered in puzzlement.

  “What is a boy doing in the Wolf Pit?”

  “How did he get there?”

  “Twas Wolf we chased through the woods.”

  “Sure enough – I saw him.”

  “I saw him too.”

  “Maybe he’s a shape-changer, like the old’uns told us.”

  Crossdogs shook his head.

  “No – maybe just boy. Just boy like me and all the rest of you.”

  Crossdogs dropped into the pit and held out his hand to the skinny bundle of bone and rags that was cowering there, wide-eyed and shivering. Crossdogs tried to grab him but the Boy just flinched away.

  Crossdogs spread his hands and whispered gently.

  “Come on. Come on. We ain’t going to hurt you.”

  He waved to his companions.

  “Put down your sticks and staves.”

  One by one the boys dropped their weapons.

  “Put out your torches.”

  The clearing was plunged into a sudden eerie darkness. The Boy darted past Crossdogs as if he might run. Scrabbled at the sides of the slippery pit, but then slithered back down. His shoulders shook with sobbing. This time he did not resist when Crossdogs took his arm and pulled him to his feet. Hamsparrow and Bullbreath leaned down and slowly they raised him out of the pit. He stood there looking at them, blinking in the moonlight. His breath was quick and even from the chase. The boys all gaped at him. He was boy, right enough. Same age as them. Dressed in a strange mess of rags and pelts and bits of dried leaves. His face was grimy, just like them, and strands of whisker were beginning to appear, except that maybe his had grown longer, more straggly.

  Longskull strode forward. “What’s your name?” he demanded. “What are you doing, hiding out here? Are you the one? Are you the one who steals food, steals wine and breaks all the fences? Are you the one who took Larkspittle’s sister? I know you must be. You may not be Wolf but you look like Wolf. If look like Wolf then act like Wolf.”

  Longskull swung round, addressing his companions.

  “And if act like Wolf then is Wolf, true enough. And if Wolf, then I say killum. We come here to kill Wolf, and this be Wolf now!”

  He grabbed up his stave, but Crossdogs and Hamsparrow held him back.

  “Tain’t no Wolf, Longskull. Tis boy. You can’t be killing one of our own.”

  Larkspittle and Scatterlegs threw their arms round the Boy. His eyes were wide, bewildered, as he knelt at the edge of the pit they had dug – one moment minded to dart away, the next too scared to move. And as he shivered in the moonlight, he looked at them and they just looked at him.

  “Who are you?” Crossdogs asked.

  WolfBoy’s eyes were wide and soft. He opened his mouth. No sound came out. He pointed at the woods, at the darkness. At the trees. He pointed at the wind, and then at himself. Crossdogs shook his head.

  “I am Crossdogs,” he said. “Who are you?”

  The Boy shook his head, just as Crossdogs had done.

  “I am Crossdogs. This is Hamsparrow, this is Bullbreath. This is Larkspittle, Longskull, Shadowit and Scarum. And this is Scatterlegs over here.”

  The Boy listened, shuffling, his eyes darting from one to another, his lips reading Crossdogs’ words, shaping the names. Then he smiled. Slowly he started to make a sound. It was not a howling. It was not a wailing. It was a soft voice, gentle and high. It did not seem to be his own. It was a lost voice he remembered as his eyes roamed up to the stars:

  “Coddle me, coddle me,

  My darling son.

  I’m leaving you here

  Till the crying is done.

  Back in the village

  They’ll look at you strange,

  But here in the forest

  You’re safe from their gaze.

  Coddle me, coddle me,

  My darling son.

  I’m leaving you here

  Till the crying is done.

  I’ll bring you sweet milk

  And I’ll fetch you fresh bread.

  The trees are your chamber,

  Green moss is your bed.

  Coddle me, coddle me,

  My darling son.

  I’m leaving you here

  Till the crying is done.”

  And then he sat down. Sat down on the ground and wrapped his arms around his head and curled like a baby sobbing. His body shook, but he did not cry.

  “Tell us more,” demanded Bullbreath.

  “Who are you?” quizzed Shadowit.

  “Where did you come from?” Larkspi
ttle asked him.

  “Why are you here?” Hamsparrow prodded.

  “Is it you who steals food from the village?” Longskull snarled darkly. “Is it you drags sisteren into the wood?”

  But the Boy just covered his ears to the gibbering.

  “Stop, stop. He’s confused. One at a time,” Crossdogs commanded. Then he turned to the Boy and started again, speaking very soft, very slow.

  “I’m Crossdogs,” he gestured. “Who are you?”

  He paused while the Boy sat up. He had stopped shaking now and opened his mouth, moving his lips. He was trying to make words. They all craned forward silently, waiting to hear what he would say. And what did he say? I’ll tell you. He sang the song again. But slower, lower, more in his own voice. More like the voices of the boys. They waited till he’d finished and then stepped away, confused.

  “It’s a trick,” hissed Longskull. “How do we know he’s not dangerous? We set a trap for him. How do we know he’s not trapping us? I say we kill him still. Still while the moon is high.”

  “No, no,” Crossdogs insisted. “He’s no Wolf at all. He’s Boy – you can see that. He’s Boy, same as us. Take him back with us. The old’uns will know. They’ll know what to do. Take him back to the village.”

  So they took the Boy, who was Wolf, who was Boy, all the way down the long path home. And on the way they tried again to tell him their names, and the Boy tried again to say them, but all that would come from his trembling mouth was the song that he’d learnt so long ago. And by the time they got back to their homes round the hollow in the middle of the Green, the boys knew every word.

  And the Boy who was Wolf who was Boy, where did he stay in the village? I knew that you’d ask me, and I’ll tell you. He stayed with Old Granny Willowmist, whose house had been empty for many a year. He stayed there and she loved him like a son, and all of the old’uns loved him too. And all the girlen as well. Straight away next day they crowded round to see him, this BoyWolf the boys had brought home.

  “Isn’t he pretty?” Moonpetal crooned.

  “What shall we call him?” Scallowflax mused.

  “Call him Greychild,” Old Willowmist had suggested. And from that moment on, Greychild was his name. And all the girlen wanted to touch him and stroke him and run their strong fingers through his long matted hair.

  But Greychild was scared. His dark eyes were staring. Where was he gazing? Back to the forest, back to the sky. Back to the trees and the fields. He skittered and scatted this way and that, running round the village while the girlen chased after him, trying to tug at his raggedy clothes.

  “Look at him go,” muttered Longskull. “He knows his way around. He’s been here before, let me tell you. Tis him that drank the wine from Snuffwidget’s cellar and knocked all the fences down.”

  “Maybe so, maybe so,” said Crossdogs. “Course he’s been here. He had to get food. But don’t mean he’s Wolf. Only boy, same as us. Same as us he came from here. Someone took him out to the woods. Someone left him there. Someone used to take him food. ‘I’ll bring you sweet milk and I’ll fetch you fresh bread’ – just like it says in the song. That’s why he sings it – it’s all that he knows.”

  Way over on the village green they heard laughing and singing. The girlen had caught Greychild and sat him in the middle of the mossy hollow and they’d twined his hair with flowers and covered his cheeks with kisses and now they were trying to mend his clothes and wrap a long shawl around him. And Greychild had stopped running. He seemed to be pleased, he was smiling. And he was teaching the girlen the song, till they were all singing it too.

  “Tain’t natural,” muttered Longskull. “He shouldn’t be here.”

  And some of the old’uns agreed.

  “Tain’t natural,” they said. “He’ll just bring bad luck. Look at him there with the girlen, hugging and kissing with eyes like the moon. Tain’t natural at all.”

  “Where did he come from?”

  “He came from the wood.”

  “How did he get there?”

  “Nobody knows.”

  “Let’s take him back,” said the men. And the men were bigger than the boys. They drove the girlen away, screaming and shrieking back to their houses. And then they turned to the Boy who was Wolf who was Boy, who was Greychild. The crows in Black Meadow scattered and cawed, flapping their wings in the darkening sky. Then the men took up cudgels and stood round the Boy with fists huge as stones and dull loathing in their eyes.

  “Stop!”

  Who was that? Quick as fox, Crossdogs leapt between the men and the Boy, between the Boy and the men.

  “Stop!”

  “Out of our way,” snarled Oakum Marlroot, who stood head and shoulders above the rest of them. “Who are you to be meddling? You’re a spit of a boycub, you ain’t one of us.”

  Crossdogs stood up straight and proud, as tall as any of them.

  “You know who I am. I’m Crossdogs. I am son of Redgut, Slipadder’s son. This is our Boy. We brought him here: Hamsparrow and Bullbreath, Larkspittle and Longskull, Shadowit, Scarum and Scatterlegs. Tain’t none of your business. When we thought there was Wolf – old’uns, young’uns, girlen – who was it went to go get him? Was it any of you? No, it was us boys. You were too busy in the taverns and the fields. You were stinklazy, gutted up by the fire. This is our Boy. This is Greychild. We brought him here. He’s one of us now. Old Granny Willowmist has taken him in. Put down your cudgels. Leave him alone.”

  Even the yard-dogs were silent. The leak of the waterbutt stopped dripping. The rooster in the scrat-pen ceased crowing. A cloud crept in front of the sun. But as it stole on, the light tumbled down on the buttercups twined in Greychild’s hair and one by one the men dropped their staves and trudged off sullenly while the old grannies stood and watched as they leant on the steps in front of their houses.

  Old Nanny Nettleye folded her arms.

  “Look at him – look,” she said. “Shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be there.” She nodded her head towards the wood and spat. “Shouldn’t rightly be anywhere.”

  “But he’s here now. Now he’s here,” Willowmist insisted.

  “Sure he’s here. You’ve took him in. You always were too soft. He don’t belong here. Don’t belong nowhere. I says send him back.”

  “Can’t send him back if he don’t belong nowhere. Where’s your sense, you great lumpen? He came from here, as much as you or me. Look at him now, running with the girlen, wrestling with the boys. He’s one of us, sure enough.”

  “Then what was he doing in the woods?” Old Nanny Nettleye quizzled. “All by himself – all of this time? How did he get there?”

  “How did he get there?” Willowmist reasoned. “How do you think? Nobody lives there. And he ain’t no acorn, no child of the trees. Somebody left him there.”

  Silverwing’s mother came sidling over.

  “My sister had a baby. None of you knew. None of us said. Nobody knew whose baby it was. She never said any one man. She just waited round the woods at night when that feeling came on her, just like the girlen do now, and all the boys would go there. Nothing seems to change. Then she grew bigger and bigger, and then the baby came. No-one would come to help her, we were all too ashamed. One day my sister went out to the woods and then the baby was gone. We never saw it again.”

  “Coddle me, Coddle me, my darling son…”

  They heard the girlen singing, sitting in a circle holding up their hands, clapping and slapping along with the song, while Larkspittle’s sister held her baby and looked on. Greychild was rolling and tumbling in the dust, spitting and gnawing, laughing and falling as he wrestled with the boys.

  “We would watch our sister every night, stealing off to the woods again. At first we thought she was back to her old ways, waiting to meet the boys, the boys who would be men. But no – she did not run with them. Every night she took a basket, covered with a soft linen cloth. And sometimes we noticed that milk was missing from the top of the pantry shelf. And
sometimes bread and later tatties and sometimes turnips and apples too. But no-one said anything. Baby boy was gone and she was gone too, some while after. Died of the shivering fever.”

  The old’uns nodded, listening, thinking. Figuring it all through. Greychild was playing chase with the boys, fleetfoot down the alleyways in between the houses.

  Old Nanny Nettleye pointed.

  “In and out and up and down. He seems to know his way around. And twelve moons back the first food went missing and then Snuffwidget’s wine. And then all the fences got broken down.”

  “And then boys said there was Wolf.”

  “There was Wolf, there was Wolf,” muttered Longskull, as his long chin quivered, his long nose twitched and his pointed ears flushed with anger. “This ain’t no Wolf. This just boy. I could snap his neck with a twitch of my thumb. But must be Wolf in that wood. I could feel it. I could smell. Could sniff it in the wind. Crossdogs ain’t no wolfslayer. Look at him now. First time he takes us there and finds this boy he kids us it’s Wolf. But not Wolf. Won’t killen. Says his work’s done. Tain’t done at all. Must be Wolf, Larkspittle. Who else took your sister into the woods? Who else give her that child?”

  Longskull was talking to Larkspittle. Longskull was twisting Larkspittle’s arm high up his back. Longskull was shoving his fist in Larkspittle’s face.

  “All your fault. It’s all your fault. Want to take better care of your sister. Shouldn’t let her roam off into the woods. Anything could happen when there’s Wolf about.”

  Larkspittle whimpered, a muted smothered moan. Then a shadow came.

  “Let him go.”

  Longskull looked up. Crossdogs stood over them as they wrestled on the ground. Far off in the houses they heard a baby cry.

  “You be so sure there be Wolf,” Crossdogs declared, “then you go there and finden.”

  Longskull stood up.

  “Wolf – there was Wolf,” he snarled. “Come Hamsparrow, come Bullbreath. Come all you boys. Don’t need Crossdogs no more. He can’t find no Wolf. Can only find Boy. Come all of you. Come with me. Blow horn. Gather staves, sticks and stones. Come with me. There was Wolf. Wolf is there. Wolf is there.”

  And the boys all came. Came as he called. And what did Greychild do? It wasn’t him they were looking for now. He watched as the boys all rattled their sticks and waved their long staves and blew on the horn, and uttered a cry: