The Last Reckoning

“We should go together,” Rye muttered. “It would be safer.”

“I’ll return before dusk tomorrow,” Abby said. “And I’ll stay on the Wend. If your father is heading south that’s the path he’ll take. But if he’s lingered nearby he may find his way to this Hollow. It’s better that you remain here to meet him.”

Rye frowned, unconvinced.

“Lottie, you’ll be in charge while I’m gone,” Abby said with a playful wink. “Keep an eye on these two until I return.”

Lottie gave Rye and Mr Nettle a watchful glare. “I’ll try,” she said solemnly. “Them’s a lot of work.”

“Indeed,” Abby agreed with a smirk.

“Rye, is that you who be stinky?” Lottie chimed, already relishing her new role. “Leave your boots outside when you step in bear plop.”

“Mind your own beeswax,” Rye said.

“Me no beeswacker,” Lottie objected. She leaned down and crinkled her nose towards Rye’s feet, as if smelling something foul under her heels. Rye shifted away so that Lottie’s horns wouldn’t poke her in the arm.

Rye didn’t protest against her mother any further.

“Now eat,” Abby said, placing a bowl on the table for her. She gestured for Rye to sit. “None of us can afford to skip any more meals.”

But Rye’s stomach was already a twisted stew of excitement and anxiety. She looked to Lottie and Mr Nettle, who huddled over their own well-cleaned bowls. Lottie’s dirt-streaked cheeks were less full than they once had been and her soon-to-be four-year-old body had begun to stretch like an eager seedling.

“Lottie, you and Mr Nettle can finish mine.”

Lottie and Mr Nettle brightened, but they gasped in surprise as the bowl was snatched from the table.

A furry creature the size of a raccoon scurried high up the stretch of the tree trunk growing through the wall. The thief was fawn-coloured, with a long, ringed tail and saucer-like eyes that blinked down at them nervously.

“How do they keep getting past the Rill?” Abby said in frustration.

“The brindlebacks are crafty little pests,” Mr Nettle groused with a tug at his beard. “A branch high up in the forest canopy must have grown over the Rill and intertwined with the oak’s own limbs. I’ll have a look tomorrow and cull it back.”

“Bingle-blacks!” Lottie huffed, and clenched her fists.

“Maybe he won’t eat it,” Rye said, looking up hopefully. “They don’t like roots, do they?”

The brindleback held the bowl with his long black fingers, sniffed its contents with a wet, pointy snout, then cocked his head. Rye opened her hands in case the little bandit dropped it. Instead, he attacked it savagely with tiny teeth. Lottie and Mr Nettle groaned in disappointment.

When he was finished, the brindleback dropped the bowl down on to the floor with a clatter and disappeared into a hole in the wall.

Abby sighed and stared at the hole. “Well, that’s it for supper, I’m afraid. Let’s get you girls to sleep while the forest still allows it.”

The howls and cries came earlier and earlier each night – this time not long after the O’Chanter girls had huddled together in their blankets. Near and far, unseen voices of the woods seemed to call to one other as they surrounded the Hollow. Some spoke in wolfish growls, others in throaty warbles that sounded more like the clucking tongue of a hag than the beak of a raven or vulture. And yet the most unnerving sound wasn’t a voice at all but the plod and slither of something heavy dragging itself through the dried leaves and dead pine needles that carpeted the forest floor. With its arrival the rest of the nightmarish choir went silent, and the restless creeper circled the Rill over and over without crossing, dull teeth clacking as it went.

Abby sang softly in Lottie’s ear until, eventually, the slithering lurker abandoned its vigil, and its unnerving sound ebbed and faded into the distance. With the Hollow once again consumed by the silence of the massive trees, Lottie finally drifted off. Rye only feigned sleep, performing her best fake snore.

She listened as her mother gathered some supplies in the darkness, and when Abby headed for the tree house steps, Rye whispered loud enough for her to hear.

“You’ll be back tomorrow, Mama?”

Abby paused. “Of course, my love,” she said, and Rye heard her kiss her fingertips. Abby’s hand fluttered in the air as if releasing a butterfly. Rye pretended to catch it.

Abby’s silhouette disappeared and Rye pulled a blanket tight under her chin in an effort to sleep. She pinched her eyes tight, and tossed. Then turned. And tossed some more. But sleep proved elusive.

Before long, the glow of Rye’s lantern wound its way down the oak tree’s spiral steps. It passed over the mossy turf of the Hollow, then tumbled to the ground with a metallic clank.

“Pigshanks,” Rye whispered, regaining her footing after stumbling over a root. She peeked back at the tree house to see if she’d woken anyone.

The windows remained dark. The only sound now was Mr Nettle’s snoring wafting from the porch in the limbs above. The Feraling still insisted on sleeping outdoors.

Rye set the lantern down at the edge of the Rill.

She crouched along the interior bank of the peculiar little stream, careful not to wet her feet. The lantern light flickered off the water against her face.

Rye didn’t know why animals and other creatures of the forest could never cross the Rill. Mr Nettle had told her it was one of those mysteries that was just accepted and understood, like the knowledge that trees would shed their leaves and feign death during winter, only to be reborn again come spring. The O’Chanters, Mr Nettle and other humans might splash through without consequence, but without the aid of bridge or branch, the narrow stream seemed as daunting as an ocean to the forest beasts. Whatever the reason, the Rill had made the Hollow a safe haven for the O’Chanters – and whoever had originally built the tree house long ago.

Rye took a deep breath. And waited. But not for her mother – Abby was probably already on her way down the Wend.

Finally, after many minutes, she heard a sound. Not like the restless predatory voices – but the faintest rustle of leaves and pine needles in the distance. She squinted and peered forward into the gloom. Then she saw them – two glowing yellow eyes watching her from the shadow of a twisted trunk.

Rye didn’t move. The Hollow might provide sanctuary, but she still knew better than to cross the Rill after dark.

Instead, she toed the edge of the embankment, extending her hand as far across the stream as she could reach. She nearly lost her balance and had to brace herself just as the black beast emerged from the darkness.

The burly shadow padded forward and settled on the other side of the water. It opened its mouth, lantern light flickering off its sharp white teeth. It licked its whiskers. Rye smiled.

“Shady,” she whispered, and was just able to graze his thick mane with her fingertips. He pushed his head into her hand and shared a thankful rumble that sounded like a purr.

Rye had assumed she would never see her beloved family pet again – not that you could really call Nightshade Fur Bottom O’Chanter a pet any more. Rye had grown up believing Shady to be nothing more than an abnormally large house cat. However, he was in fact a Gloaming Beast, a mysterious breed of creatures with a predisposition to hunt Bog Noblins. True to his nature, Shady had disappeared into the forest last spring in pursuit of his favourite prey. But not long after the O’Chanters had returned south and found the Hollow, she was shocked to discover that he had found them.

Shady kept his distance, and never crossed the Rill, but he had stopped by the edge of the Hollow each of the last few evenings. This was as close as he’d ever let Rye get, and the first time he’d let her pet him since their days together back in Drowning. His fur was velvety in her fingers, and she remembered the many nights he’d spent keeping her lap warm – and protecting her.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispered.

His bushy tail batted the night air.

Rye’s other hand fingered something in her pocket. She slowly brought it out, and Shady pulled away abruptly, dropping himself on to his side several paces away. He gave her what looked to be a disappointed glare.

“Sorry,” she said, and examined the worn leather band strung with runestones in her hand. It was the collar Shady had worn all those years he’d lived with the O’Chanters. She gave him a sheepish shrug. “Wouldn’t it hurt your feelings if I didn’t at least try?”

There was a rustle from among the trees. Shady turned his chin to the forest with interest, but no alarm. His rough tongue licked a paw so thick it looked like it could belong to a bear cub.

“Who else is out there, Shady?” Rye whispered. “What else is out there?”

Shady just blinked his yellow eyes in reply.

Rye sighed. “Oh how I wish you could talk.”

He stretched and casually strolled back to where another pair of eyes now waited. Rye knew it must be Gristle, the Gloaming Beast that had set out into the forest with Shady many months before. She seemed to want nothing to do with Rye or the Hollow.

Both Shady’s and Gristle’s eyes flickered, just an instant before an animalistic, beast-baby wail pierced the still air like an unseasonal wind. Rye jumped to her feet. The eerie sound came from close by, and she knew very well what had made it. It was the cry of a Bog Noblin. Quite possibly the one she’d encountered with the huntsman. She stepped back from the edge of the Rill.

Shady narrowed his eyes, glanced over his shoulder at Rye, and darted into the trees.

“Be careful out there,” Rye called. “And keep an eye on Mama.”

But Shady and Gristle had already disappeared into the darkness.

THE NEXT DAY, the hours seemed to crawl. Rye sat in the moss at the edge of the Rill, her arms wrapped round her knees. She’d paced the Hollow’s perimeter much of the morning, watching and listening for any sign of Harmless. But if he was still out there, the breeze brought no whisper of him. There was no sign of Abby either.

The only sign of life on the forest side of the Rill was Mr Nettle. He’d set the rowan-branch bridge across the stream and stood on the opposite embankment, his hands on his hips and his round belly jutting over his belt. Mr Nettle stared up at the limbs high above, trying to work out how the brindlebacks were getting over the Rill. He chewed his beard and scratched the curly hair that stuck up from his head. Lottie was using his horned skullcap like a makeshift net, trawling the gently flowing water, her small cage at her side.

“I think I see it,” Mr Nettle muttered, squinting. “That’s quite a branch that’s worked its way into the oak. No wonder those furry nuisances are making it across.”

He walked over the bridge, lifting it up after he’d crossed. He peered down and frowned as Lottie drained water through the hollow eye sockets of his skullcap.

There was little that the youngest O’Chanter could offer in her family’s search for Harmless, so instead she usually busied herself by searching the underbrush and streams for something that might replace her long-lost pet lizard, Newtie. Mr Nettle had helped twist branches and slender twigs into a remarkable replica of Newtie’s former wire birdcage. One day she had cheerfully filled it with some fireflies, two orange-bellied salamanders and a knotty-looking toad of poor temperament collected from the forest. But by the time she’d made it back to the Hollow, the salamanders had devoured the fireflies before disappearing themselves and all she was left with was a rather bloated, immobile toad that had apparently eaten itself into an early demise. She’d had even less success since then, and now the cage remained empty.

Mr Nettle dropped himself down on to the ground next to Rye.

“I’ve dwelled in these woods my whole life,” he said, following her gaze to the forest, “and I can tell you that staring at the trees won’t hurry along whomever you are waiting for.” He cocked his head back towards her. “It’ll just blur your vision.”

Rye looked over and smiled sadly.

Mr Nettle crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue. Rye giggled.

“Oh,” he said, pressing his fingers to his eyelids, “I think I’ve made myself dizzy.”

“I’ll be glad when Mama’s back, and I can do more searching and less waiting,” she said impatiently.

“The forest moves at its own pace,” Mr Nettle said. “Live here long enough and you learn to take what it offers and ask nothing more. Those who try otherwise don’t live here long at all.”

Rye, Abby and Lottie had met Mr Nettle during their earliest days Beyond the Shale. They’d discovered a glade similar to the Hollow situated further north along the Wend. The tiny shelter there was run-down and looked to be abandoned, but they’d found Mr Nettle living in its remains. He didn’t say much at first but was eager to join them when they were leaving. They were lucky to have found him when they did. If not for Mr Nettle’s intimate knowledge of the forest, Rye doubted they would have lasted this long Beyond the Shale.

“What is Harmless like?” he asked, when Rye once again turned her impatient eyes to the shadows of the pines.

Rye pursed her lips in thought. Truth be told, she’d only really known Harmless for less than a year herself. It seemed like every time she began to get a clear picture of him, she uncovered some additional detail that blurred her vision like a half-remembered dream. That, or he up and disappeared altogether.

“He’s difficult to describe,” Rye began. “He listens more than he speaks, but he’s always answered every question I’ve asked of him. He can be funny and playful.” She raised an eyebrow at Mr Nettle. “Too much so if you ask my mother. But he’s been called an outlaw – and worse.”

Rye recalled some of the names Harmless had been tagged with: Grey the Grim, Grey the Ghastly, and, by the Bog Noblins, Nightmare and Painsmith. From what she had heard, those names had been well earned.

“And yet,” Rye continued, “whenever he’s near I feel safe. And the only reason he is out there –” she nodded towards the trees with her chin – “the only reason he exiled himself once again, to be hunted by Bog Noblins and men even more dangerous … was to protect me.”

Mr Nettle crossed his arms and furrowed his brow. “It sounds like what you have there … is a father.” He gave her a tight smile. “Their ways are riddles to all of us, whether we’re twelve or fifty-two.” He pushed himself to his feet and brushed off his crimped wool trousers with his palms.

Rye buried her chin in her hands and narrowed her eyes at the forest once again.

That evening, after finishing the remains of a sparse supper Abby had left behind for them, Rye and Lottie climbed into their blankets.

“Mama should have returned by now,” Rye whispered to Mr Nettle.

“I’ll keep an ear out,” he replied quietly. “Nothing to be alarmed over. You and your sister try to get some rest.”

Mr Nettle bid them good night and retired to his nest of loose bedding on the tree-house porch. But Rye was alarmed. Her mother wouldn’t leave them waiting without good reason.

“Buggle snug?” Lottie asked, tucking Mona Monster, her hobgoblin rag doll, tight under her arm. Mona’s polka-dot fabric was more grey than pink these days.

“Of course, Lottie,” Rye said. “We can do snuggle bug.”

Rye wrapped her own arm round Lottie and pulled her close, Lottie burying her head in Rye’s shoulder. Lottie had allowed Rye to tame her unkempt hair into a long red braid after a colony of ants had taken a liking to some sap stuck in her locks. It still smelled like pine pitch and cook smoke, but Rye didn’t mind. She just held her little sister tight until they both settled into a rhythmic breathing and eventually fell asleep wishing Abby was there with them.

Rye woke disoriented by the first voice of the night’s choir. Lottie’s eyes were still shut, her mouth open and drooling on Rye’s chest. The voice came again. But this was no growl or slither of an unknown beast. She recognised it as the sound of a far more ordinary animal – the whinny of a rather unhappy horse.

Pulling her arm free, Rye rushed out on to the treehouse porch. From the shadows of the oak tree’s boughs she looked down upon the Hollow. To her disappointment, it was neither Abby nor Harmless. Instead, on the opposite side of the Rill, four hooded men struggled with a horse laden with packs. In the light of their lanterns, she saw the frightened animal buck and rear back as one man tried, unsuccessfully, to yank it by the reins across the shallow stream.

“Worthless mule,” he cursed, splashing through the shallow water and on to the banks of the Hollow to improve his leverage. The others pushed at the horse’s rump without success, and nearly got kicked for their trouble.

“Who are they?” Rye whispered to Mr Nettle, who had joined her at the railing.

“I don’t know. Surely they’ve come down the Wend. But I don’t like their manner one bit.”

The man in the Hollow lowered his hood and raised his lantern, peering up at the branches.

“Who’s up there?” he called. “I can hear you warbling. Come down this instant. We seek shelter for the night.”

Rye and Mr Nettle stepped away from the railing, deeper into the shadows. They exchanged uneasy glances. Lottie stumbled out to join them, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Mona Monster was still tucked under her arm.

“Come down, I say,” the voice bellowed, “before I burn you out of your tree.”

The man’s ashen face reflected in the lantern light, his dark eyes squinting as he struggled to see them.

Rye heard Mr Nettle suck in his breath.

“What is it?” Rye asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But these men smell of danger … and death.”

Rye dared to return to the railing, trying to get a better look at the four visitors.

“Wait here,” Mr Nettle ordered urgently. “And be absolutely quiet. You too, Miss Lottie.”

Lottie turned an imaginary key at her lips.

“Innkeeper!” the hoodless man demanded, his black lips curling. “I’m readying the torches!”

“Coming,” Mr Nettle called. “One moment!” He gestured again for Rye and Lottie to stay put as he hurried off to the winding stairs.

Rye leaned over the railing. The man in the Hollow had smudged black face paint running from his lower lip, over his chin, and down his throat, where it split and curled at the end, like a long tongue. He gestured to his companions, two of whom left the horse and slogged through the Rill. In the light of their own lanterns Rye saw that, under their hoods, their faces were also pale and ashen, eyes and lips streaked black. She gasped.

“Mr Nettle,” she called in a desperate whisper. “They’re Luck Uglies!”

Or to be more precise, they were Fork-Tongued Charmers.

But Mr Nettle didn’t hear her. He had already climbed down to meet them.

“What are you, some sort of troll?” the Fork-Tongued Charmer asked, as Mr Nettle padded out on to the Hollow. He thrust his lantern in Mr Nettle’s face, and Mr Nettle shielded his eyes with his hand and adjusted the horns on his skullcap.

“No …” the man went on, a look of recognition in his dark eyes. “I’ve seen your kind before. I didn’t know there were any Feralings left. I thought you’d all been boiled by superstitious woodsmen and eaten for good luck.”

“Fortunately, I’ve proven to be unappetising so far,” Mr Nettle said with mock cheer and a shrug. “Here, allow me to assist you with your steed. I think she’ll be more agreeable with the help of this.”

Mr Nettle gathered the rowan-wood platform and laid it over the Rill. The other Charmers watched him with grim faces under their dark hoods, towering over the smaller man as he gently took the reins and coaxed the reluctant horse over the makeshift bridge and on to the Hollow.

“My name’s Nettle,” he said, affecting a steady voice. “And what should I call you and your companions?” he asked the hoodless man.

“I am Lassiter,” the Fork-Tongued Charmer said, lifting his arm so that his lantern light might catch the boughs of the oak above. He eyed the old buildings suspiciously. Rye was still watching from the porch and stepped in front of Lottie, easing her back into the shadows.

“These are my brothers, doom, despair and destruction,” he added, flicking his chin over his shoulder. “They ride with me wherever I go.”

The other Charmers laughed at his quip, although Lassiter’s attention remained focused on the guesthouse built in the tree. He squinted upwards through the shadows.

“Whose establishment is this? Are you the only one here, Feraling?” Lassiter asked with a crooked glance.

Mr Nettle hesitated. “Yes … just me at the moment.” He stroked the nervous mare’s muzzle with his hand. “The master of the inn and his hunting party should be returning shortly.”

“Master of the inn?” Lassiter said, his black lips curling into a smirk. “And what is this innkeeper’s name?”

“Ab— that is … Able,” Mr Nettle said, catching himself mid-sentence. “You may have heard him called Able the Imposing. Or Able the Awe-Inspiring,” he added quickly. “He’s a legend. A giant among men.”

Rye cringed as she listened. Too much, Mr Nettle. He was not a practised fibber.

“I’ve never heard any such names,” Lassiter said, glowering at Mr Nettle. “I’ll look forward to meeting this master of tree houses upon his return. This is the shabbiest flophouse I’ve ever seen, but we’ve travelled far and long. Fix us a room and a hot meal while we wait.”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, but there’s not much I can do to help. We’re all out of food.”

“A guesthouse without food?”

Mr Nettle bobbed the horns on his head with a nod.

“Are you out of rooms too?” Lassiter looked up at the smaller cottages nestled in the boughs of the oak.

Mr Nettle chewed his beard for a moment. “Yes, yes, full up.” He gave Lassiter and the other glaring Charmers an apologetic smile.

“And yet you just told me you were all alone,” Lassiter said flatly.

“Right,” Mr Nettle said slowly. He pursed his lips. “I did. What I meant was … well …”

“Pigshanks,” Rye whispered to herself.

Lottie must have recognised the severity of Rye’s expression. She didn’t say a word about Rye’s colourful language, just crossed her index fingers and rubbed them together in Rye’s direction. Tsk tsk.

Rye put her own finger to her lips, reminding Lottie to keep hushed, and led her quietly inside where she began helping her with her boots and cloak. The voices below were muffled, but Rye could make them out through the gaps in the tree-house floorboards.

“Perhaps you meant to say that the guests are all out with the hunting party?” Lassiter snarked.

“Yes, exactly,” Mr Nettle said enthusiastically. Rye could hear the misguided relief in his voice. Life in the forest had made Mr Nettle resourceful, but he had no ear for sarcasm.

“Do you know who we are, goat boy?” Lassiter demanded, his voice rising.

Rye threw her arms through the sleeves of her coat and was still pulling on her boots as she ran back to the porch railing.

“Certainly,” Mr Nettle said, blinking his eyes. “You’re Mr Lassiter, and that’s Mr Doom, and Mr Gloom and –” he tapped a finger on his chin before waving at the fourth man – “Mr Desperation, was it?”

Lassiter unsheathed a blade from the scabbard at his hip. He clutched a handful of Mr Nettle’s vest.

“We’re Fork-Tongued Charmers – and no greater nightmare than us roams this forest. We have searched this forsaken wood far too long in pursuit of our quarry, and now, at long last, he’s been found and we are on our way home.”

Rye bristled. Their quarry? Surely he meant Harmless.