Brunt Boggart Read online

  “Wolf must die. Wolf must die!”

  Greychild clutched at Crossdogs’ arm.

  “Hush,” whispered Crossdogs. “They mean you no harm.”

  And Greychild stood and watched as the boys ran and ran, ran with their sticks and their staves and their stones. Ran and ran with their loud hunting horn. And they ran and they ran, beating their way, lighting torches, swinging axes – their jaws set and snarling, teeth bared, dribbling spittle. Ran and ran after Longskull, all the way to the edge of the wood.

  “Wolf must die! Wolf must die!” Longskull cried.

  “Wolf must die!” the boys replied, as they raised their weapons high to the sky.

  “Into the wood!” Longskull commanded.

  “Into the wood, into the wood,” chorused Hamsparrow, Bullbreath, Larkspittle and Scarum.

  “Into the wood,” echoed Scatterlegs.

  Deep in the wood was a rattle of crow wings. Deep in the wood a fox’s voice wailed. Deep in the wood the dark shadows beckoned.

  “Into the wood,” croaked Longskull again and turned to look at the boys. The boys who stood behind him, brandishing stones and sticks and staves. He looked into their moon-struck eyes.

  “Into the wood, Longskull,” Larkspittle told him.

  And Longskull ran. Ran and ran into the darkness of crackling branches. But the boys turned around and marched back, back to Brunt Boggart. Not a big village, not a small village. Just a middling village, much like this place used to be.

  Snuffwidget and the Crowdancers

  Let me tell you… Let me tell you… as Snuffwidget woke in his cottage he could taste a taste dark as thunder deep at the back of his throat, sharp as ginger, sickly as cinnamon. He stumbled across the cluttered room and stood in the doorway, shivering. In the street outside, dull puddles squinted between the ruts, but the rain had gone and the dust was slaked. Snuffwidget stretched and turned to look round his room. It was full with barrels of wines and potions brimming with goodness. Goodness of bluebells and tatties and clover. Goodness of honey and heather and dew.

  Snuffwidget had been brewing potions and wines for all the folk in Brunt Boggart for as long as he could remember. He used to help his Grandmother, old Corbin Night-thorn, used to help her gather the goodness, used to help her stir the brew, used to help her fill the barrels, then tap out the ferment into old stone bottles – and then sit on the doorstep and sell’em. Oh yes, Snuffwidget knew everything that old Corbin Night-thorn knew. Or almost everything. All except one thing. Old Nanny Corbin had one special brew, they called it Night-thorn’s Morning Sunrise. People would queue round the houses to buy it when word went out that she’d brewed a new brew. It was a special recipe all of her own, though some say she got it from her grandmother – and she got it from her grandmother before her.

  She would pick forest berries, just before daybreak and mix them with elderflower, nutmeg and basil and simmer them with honey in a big mixing vat. And when it was ready and when it was bottled, mothers would use it as a healing potion, fathers drank it to bring back their strength, while children would clamour at the doorway for Snuffwidget to sell them a glass for a penny, mixed with fresh water from Old Mother Tidgewallop’s well. Back in Nana Night-thorn’s day they would line up down the street to taste her new brew, but now bottles of Morning Sunrise sat covered in cobwebs on Snuffwidget’s shelves. He tried his best to make it just the way that his grandmother had, just the way that she’d whispered it to him as she lay on her dying bed – but it never came out the same.

  Mothers complained that as a cure it was no use at all. They used to take a spoonful for dropsy and coughs but now they said they might just as well drink water from the muddy ditch out by Oakum Marlroot’s fields. Fathers said it took more strength to open the bottle than ever the brew gave them back. And little’uns would rather play hopscotch in the dust than line up for a glass.

  Snuffwidget didn’t know what to do. The other potions and wines all sold well enough, but anyone could make them. Corbin Night-thorn’s Morning Sunrise had been his pride and joy. He had waited all his years to be the one who brewed it, but now it just came out wrong. He was sure there must be something Nanny Corbin had not told him. She must have forgotten one last ingredient – but it was too late for her to tell him now.

  Snuffwidget looked at the barrels and sighed and went back to stand in the doorway again. The street was silent, no-one had woken – then out of the alleys which leaked between the shadows, the dancers tumbled one by one by two by two – dressed in tatters, dressed in rags, their masks askew and dreaming still. They danced in silence, their heavy limbs dragging to the beat of the drum which sounded out from the distant field: footstamp and handclap, twisted wrist and backsnap. Snuffwidget looked on, his fingers twitching. Snuffwidget stood in the doorway and listened, his spindle limbs thrilling to the echoing rhythm, watching as the dance moved on, waking the morning between the squat houses, crawling away down Brunt Boggart’s narrow streets and out to the waiting fields.

  Snuffwidget watched the procession move off – Hamsparrow, Ravenhair, Scatterlegs and Silverwing, Scarum and Moonpetal, Shadowit and Dewdream. He remembered seeing them grow, all of them little’uns, younger than him. Remembered them struggling and fighting and running, roaming the backstreets and tossing up pennies as they chased the sun; the days sharing sweets under the shadows of the chimneys, the nights stealing secrets when the starlight had gone. Now every morning Snuffwidget watched them leaving, out to the field by the Fever Tree. They left every morning and trailed back in the evening, just as the sullen sun was sinking. They trailed back decked in night-dark feathers, flowers dangling from their brightly-patched tunics, streaked with daubs of tawny clay. They came back laughing, weary from dancing, spinning words in broken whispers which Snuffwidget could never understand.

  He turned around and started to count the bottles, just as he did every morning. Then he sluiced his face with a shudder of water scooped from the bucket in the corner. He paced up and down the dusty room and began to sieve the sediment of fruit which had mulched overnight, and then poured the clear liquid again and again. But his hands were trembling and he set the jug down. He could still hear the rhythm of the distant drum, beating from the Echo Field. Snuffwidget’s limbs were shuddering and shaking. The sunlight was calling from the open door.

  He hauled on a shirt and paused to snatch a scrag of mottled feathers and twist it through his hair. And then he ran. He raced, gawkish and squinny-limbed, away from the house where Nanny Night-thorn had lived. He raced down the clumsy-footed street, following the trail of the morning dancers, following the beat of the drum as he stumbled between dull-eyed houses. Dogs appeared at bleary windows, clawing the shredded curtains, singing in twisted shrivelled voices. Snuffwidget ran, skittering between the crawling puddles, glints of thunder still reflected in their sheen. Snuffwidget ran, away from the suffocating stench of the village, out to the mud-slicked lanes.

  He could hear the beat of the drum, pounding from the Echo Field. He could hear the trudge of the morning dancers slipping between the cross-tracked ruts. He pounded on, his legs mud-splattered, till round the next bend he spied them, stumping sullenly between silent hedges, stumbling through slurry and overgrown ditches.

  Snuffwidget called out – but they did not hear him. They just gazed ahead, their eyes glazed with hunger, clutching gouts of silent thunder, lured by the rhythm of the beckoning drum. He tagged on at the back of the procession, prancing and pirouetting, spinning round and round. But the others still did not notice him as they trudged on, mulligrubbing and muttering till they came to the gate of the field. The field was filled with a fever of poppies, red as boar’s blood, swaying and beckoning. In the corner beside a stricken tree crouched the figure of the hooded drummer, his long hands moving in a blur of shadows, beating out the pulsing rhythm under the blackened branches.

  Snuffwidget watched as the dancers moved around the field, plucking the heads from the wafting poppies, smearing t
he petals across their faces, across their arms and over their bodies, stuffing the redness into their mouths, choking on the heady nectar, until the petals dribbled out again, through their nostrils, through their ears. Red tears trickled from swollen eyes.

  Snuffwidget watched. He saw how the dancers gorged on the poppies. Saw how Ravenhair tossed her tresses and how Hamsparrow pursued her. Saw how Ravenhair seemed to encourage him, even though Snuffwidget knew what everyone knew, that Ravenhair yearned after Crossdogs. Snuffwidget watched Silverwing flutter her eyes at Scatterlegs while Moonpetal danced a slow dance, winding herself around Scarum, wrapping him in ribbons. And Shadowit and Dewdream, they just lay there in the ditch and giggled as they covered each other all over in a bed of petals, warm and red.

  Snuffwidget watched, then joined the dancers, joined their swirling dervish dance, a frenzy trance, driven by the rhythm of the crouching drummer in the corner of the Echo Field. Then one by one the dancers stumbled, tumbled into the arms of the waiting ditch. The drumbeat slowed. Slowed to walking, slowed to heartbeat. Dark crows flapped across the field, shadows black against the scarlet poppies. They sat in lines along the fences, perched on thorn bushes, massed on hedge tops, ranged along the branches of the Fever Tree. Their heads nodded in time to the rhythm of the drummer as his hands beat slower, slower than breathing, slower than dreaming. Then the drumbeat stopped and the dark crows rose, spiralling high above the poppies then swirling downwards, lower and lower till they plunged to the ditch where the dancers lay.

  Snuffwidget screamed. He felt his body rack and shake. He screamed out names he could not remember. He clenched his fists and arched his neck. One huge crow straddled over his face, drawing sharp claws across his flesh. Snuffwidget screamed, but no sound came. No sound left his muted lips as the crow flapped and strutted, clattering its jet-black wings. Snuffwidget screamed, but no sound came as the crow lurched down with baleful beak and plucked away his eyes.

  Snuffwidget writhed and shuddered, then in the ditch he slept. Slept in blinded, wild-eyed sleep, slumped against the other dancers – propped up next to Hamsparrow and Scatterlegs, lolling into Silverwing, toppling into Moonpetal’s lap. Snuffwidget slept, lost in the depths of the ditch at the end of the Echo Field, the heads of the poppies drooling their redness, while the drummer played on and on.

  Snuffwidget dreamt dreams he had never dreamt before. Dreamt he was flying, a crow himself, high above treetops, plunging down to skim just above the reach of the hedgerows, swooping over the rough stone walls. He could see. Could see the scrawny-tailed cats who glowered at him from the dank shadows of backyards. He could feel the breath of the ravaging dogs who snarled at his tail feathers as he twisted away. He could smell the dew of the morning’s awakening turning sour as it seeped into moss-festered walls.

  In a clearing in a forest, he saw a house crouching, walls of grey silence spun with silver webs. The door opened slowly and out stepped a woman, taller than her shadow, her hands reaching up for the sun. Her hair was long and black, spilling across her shoulders, cascading in rivulets down towards her waist. She wore a gown of darkness, darker than the night, darker than the darkness sealed in a cellar for an age of sleepless years. Her house was surrounded by a ring of moon-white stones and as she walked around them she reached inside her dress and placed a bright red seed on the top of every one.

  Snuffwidget settled his feathers and gazed at the woman. He knew that she was beautiful. He knew he wanted to embrace her and kiss her full on the lips, but as he hurried forward he heard his dark wings clattering and saw her face turn from the hack of his bone-sharp beak. Snuffwidget flapped away and perched on the branch of a nearby tree. He tried to call out to her, but he knew she could not hear him. Only the broken darkness of his rough and rusty “caw”. Instead he sat and watched her, his head on one side. He could see that she was singing but he could not catch the words.

  He sat with his head cocked, watching as she continued, placing a bright red seed on top of every milk-white stone. Then when she had completed the circle of her house she went back inside and closed the door. Snuffwidget hopped down from the tree and strutted round the clearing. Then he flew up onto the window-sill and peered in through the glass.

  She was combing her hair in front of the mirror and as he watched the movement of her long pale hands he was struck by something familiar about the way she was standing, the rhythm of her arm, the way she tilted her head. For a moment he blinked and imagined her hair not black but silver – and knew that this could be none other than his own grandmother, Corbin Night-thorn. Except that he knew this could not be, for old Nana Corbin was long since dead. But this was her, and she was alive. And she was not old, she was here and young.

  He could see her eyes smiling at him, just the way his grandmother had, and he could see that she was singing, but he could not hear her song. He felt his head spinning and he hopped down from the window. He hopped out to the circle of milk-white stones and pecked at one of the bright red seeds that Corbin Night-thorn had placed there. The seed was sweet – sweeter than honey, sweeter than dew, sweeter than the rainbows that float in the river and run to the ocean when the moon is still new.

  Snuffwidget rose with the seed in his beak and felt himself flying away from the clearing, high over the forest, away from the house, away from Corbin Night-thorn and her ring of milk-white stones. He soared and he soared till the sun scorched his feathers and then he dropped down towards the Echo Field once more, where the drummer still beat out his rhythm in the corner, hunched in the shadow beneath the Fever Tree. And the poppies still nodded, their heads torn and ragged, their petals strewn across the dancers who lay sleeping in the ditch.

  Snuffwidget woke. Felt the weight of the crow who perched on his face. Felt the clutch of the claws which clung to his neck. Felt the pulse of his eyes as they opened soft and gentle as the crow pulled back its beak then slowly flapped away.

  Snuffwidget could see. See daylight and field. See drummer and poppies. See the lengthening shadow of the Fever Tree. Could see Hamsparrow and Ravenhair, Scatterlegs and Silverwing. Could see Scarum and Moonpetal, Shadowit and Dewdream. Then the drumbeat stopped. Darkness was crawling. All around the field, sleepers rose from the ditch, reaching out to pluck fresh fistfuls of poppies, frail petals spilling from their mouths to the ground.

  Bedraggled down the rutted lane, the procession struggled home, decked in crow-black feathers, their masks askew, flowers dangling from their tunics, streaked with daubs of tawny clay. Back to Brunt Boggart, back to the alleys, back to the warmth of their homes.

  Snuffwidget stumbled in through his door, sleepy and tired from the long dreaming day. His head was spinning, his pockets still stuffed with fading poppies. He slept long and dark. He dreamt of his dreams. Dreamt of the crow and Corbin Night-thorn’s cottage. Dreamt of the poppies and the straggle of dancers. Dreamt of the drummer out under the tree.

  Snuffwidget woke early next morning. The sun shone brightly in through the window and his head felt as clear as a fast flowing stream. He sprang out of bed and opened the door to let in the light and the blackbird’s clamouring song.

  The Crowdancers were leaving already. One by one, by two by two, silent as shadows as they wandered off along the lane in their ragged tunics still smirched with clay and feathers. Snuffwidget sat on the step and watched them disappearing, out beyond the edge of the houses. He could feel the drum-beat throbbing as if it was inside his head. His fingers twitched restlessly and his toe tapped out of time. But he didn’t want to dance. The sleep was stealing into his head and he could taste dark thunder at the back of his throat, just as he had the day before. He could see the dreams in front of him, more real than the dusty room. Could see the crows come pecking, could feel the tug in his arms, as if they were wings. Could see the cottage in the woods and Corbin Night-thorn come to the door. Could see her face smiling, could feel her eyes turn on him. Could read her lips as she spoke.

  “Where is the seed?” she seemed
to be saying. “Where is the seed that I put on the stone? Was it you who took it, Snuffwidget Night-thorn?”

  Snuffwidget stood up. His hands were shaking.

  “Oh, Nana Night-thorn, I didn’t mean to. I’ll find it in my pocket, you know that I will. I’ll find the seed in my pocket and then I’ll bring it back.”

  Snuffwidget thrust his hand in his pocket to find a pebble, a string, a rusty old key. A dead moth, a penny, a dry shrivelled leaf. But the seed wasn’t there. Then he put his hand in the other pocket, thrust deep and groped along the lining. There in the shadow of the shadows, there was the bright red seed that had lain on the stone in the woods outside Corbin Night-thorn’s cottage. But how could he take it back to her? He would have to go with the dancers. He would have to go to the Echo Field and dance around the Fever Tree. He would have to lie in the dreck of the ditch and wait for the crows to come. He would have to give them his eyes again and see what he would see.

  Snuffwidget rushed around the room, grabbing up his coat and pulling on his boots.

  “But what if the crows don’t come?” he asked himself as he tied his laces tight. “Or what if they do and they take me somewhere else? What if I never see Nana Night-thorn again?”

  “Stop!” Her voice came again.

  “Snuffwidget, there’s no need to bring the seed to me. The seed is for you. Take care of it. Plant it in your garden. Tend it and water it well and see what will grow.”

  Snuffwidget looked around. He could hear Corbin Nightthorn’s voice though no-one was there. But he did what she said. He took the tiny seed out into his garden, the little plot of dark black earth out at the back of his cottage, where he reared his spinach, his turnips and his tatties, where he tended his long white parsnips and his sweet green beans.