The Dreamsnatcher (14 page)

N
ight fell fast. The flames of the campfire licked the sticks and the logs burned black like glowering eyes. After they’d eaten the watery
gruel Brunt had thrust inside the cage, Moll and Alfie watched Skull and Gobbler, armed with pistols and knives, tear from the clearing. And before long, just as Alfie had said, Skull’s boys
began to drink around the fire.

Alfie nodded. ‘Now’s our chance.’

Reaching through the bars, he slotted the rabbit bone into the lock. He turned and twizzled it this way and that. Moll winced at its scratching, but Skull’s boys wouldn’t hear; they
were drinking hard now, clattering mugs of beer together and trading dirty coins. Alfie fiddled on, twisting the bone at every angle, working the lock free.

Then just like that:
click
.

He pushed the door gently and it nudged open. Moll’s heart leapt, but then she looked down. ‘We’ll never get past Brunt and the others – they’ll see! And what about
the vapours? I—’

All of a sudden there were shouts from the fire. Moll gripped Alfie’s arm in horror.

‘I can see it again!’ Brunt was shouting. ‘Over here, lads!’ He leapt up from the fire and ran to the far end of the clearing, calling the other boys to him. They all
peered into the trees.

Moll’s heart hammered inside her. ‘What are they looking for?’

But Alfie was grinning. ‘I don’t know, but it’s going to give us a clear run. Go! Now!’

Moll twisted out of the cage, clinging to the bars then hauling herself up on to the roof. Her pulse raced in her throat as she scampered across the dome and leapt into the tree. Alfie followed.
A magpie shuffled on a branch above them, staring down with beady eyes. Moll’s heart rose; Mooshie had always said magpies brought good luck – and right now they needed it.

More commotion at the opposite side of the clearing: shouts, pointing, the boys edging further into the trees. Moll and Alfie were in with a fighting chance and they slipped from the tree down
to the ground.

Alfie bit his lip. ‘They’ve moved the cobs to the other side of the camp.’

‘We’re not going for Raven now,’ Moll whispered. ‘We’d risk everything. We’ll come back after we find the amulets.’ As soon as the words were out, she
knew it was another promise she planned to snap.

Alfie nodded. ‘Can you run?’

Moll shot him a scornful look. ‘Can I run? I was born running.’

Like fleeting shadows, they sped between the trees, on and on, away from the clearing and towards the heath. And all around them the darkness grew as night deepened. Somewhere above the trees
there might have been a moon, but the branches blocked the sky, warding off its light. Within seconds, vapours curled out of the shadows, a mist of faceless black. Moll’s blood raced.

Alfie gripped her hand and yanked her on. ‘Don’t let them know you’re scared!’

The vapours swam before them, whirling round their heads, moaning in their ears. Moll squeezed Alfie’s hand as they swamped her face, plucking at her lips, snatching the air from her
lungs. She closed her eyes and thought of Gryff and Siddy, of Mooshie and Oak.

And, when she opened her eyes, the vapours had shrunk back a little. They swelled together again, drawing close. But this time Moll thought of the Bone Murmur and her parents and, as she and
Alfie bounded over fallen logs and stumps, the vapours faded once more.

‘Keep going!’ Alfie cried, letting Moll’s hand go so that they could tear over the bracken and push past the low-hanging branches.

Moll dug deep inside herself.
Help us, wind spirits
, she pleaded.

Wind seemed to gust out of nowhere, drowning the moans of the vapours. Moll surged forward into its power, feeling her courage grow. The wind rushed round her, channelling through her hair, and,
one by one, the vapours crumbled into trails of black thread. Moll and Alfie ran on, smiles spreading over their faces, until gradually the trees began to thin.

Alfie punched the air. ‘We did it!’

Moll grinned and then, to her surprise, she found herself wishing her parents had been there to see her escape. She ran on. ‘What’s behind Skull’s mask?’ she panted. The
question had lodged in her mind since she’d seen the witch doctor a few nights earlier. ‘You ever seen his face?’

Alfie shook his head as he tore through a thicket of bracken. ‘I don’t think anyone has. Sometimes I think there’s nothing behind it. Like there might’ve been something
once, but it’s rotted and died and now only the mask is left.’

Moll raced on, level with Alfie. ‘There’s something strange about him – something stranger than a witch doctor with a mask and an evil chant. Like he’s not quite real,
like he’s a ghost almost.’

Alfie slowed down as he clambered over a fallen log and met her eyes. ‘You’re bright, brighter than I thought you’d be. There is something strange about Skull.’ He shot
Moll a glance. ‘He hasn’t got a shadow.’

Moll scrunched up her nose as she stopped to catch her breath. ‘But everyone’s got a shadow!’

‘Skull hasn’t. And don’t ask me why. All I know is it isn’t normal. It
means
something – only I’m not sure what.’

Almost without warning they stumbled out on to the open expanse of the heath. The landscape was bleak – a barren wasteland of heather, gorse and bracken – and it stretched out to the
coast like a dark blanket under the night sky. Alfie drank it in, but Moll looked horrified.

She put a toe out into the heather and gasped. ‘Where’ve all the trees gone? I’m not running out there in the open!’

‘There aren’t many trees on the heath,’ Alfie panted. ‘It’s heather and gorse out here.’

Shoulders bunched up to her ears, Moll took a few steps forward. Her eyes widened. ‘What’s that great lump of water leading out to the edge of the world? Like the giantest puddle
I’ve ever seen!’

‘It’s the sea!’ exclaimed Alfie, looking at Moll as if she was mad.

The moon peeped out from behind a cloud and turned the surface of the sea to silver.

‘The what?’ she said.

Alfie rolled his eyes. ‘You know – where boats and ships sail to other countries.’

Moll nodded. She had no idea what he was talking about, but she’d never have admitted it.

‘And that’s not the edge of the world either,’ Alfie added.

‘I know,’ Moll replied. Then, under her breath, ‘That definitely, absolutely is the edge of the world.’ She opened the roll of leather. Moonlight shone on to it and she
read aloud:

Moll’s body tensed, partly because she knew the maiden might be close, partly because once again the letters in front of her seemed to quiver and swell. It was just
certain ones, but before Moll could work out any sort of pattern the letters stilled and looked ordinary once more.

‘The hovel will be further on,’ Alfie said.

Moll nodded. ‘
Follow the path, past the bog-myrtle ponds
. . .’

Alfie pointed to a sandy track just in front of them which led out over the heath. ‘Let’s take this path. It’ll wind up at the marsh where the bog-myrtle ponds are.’

‘Where we can start looking for—’

Something moved through the trees behind them. Something fast. Something strong.

‘Run!’

Alfie yanked Moll on to the path and they hurtled down it. But the footsteps bounded closer, tearing up the sandy track behind them. Together they raced on, not daring to look back. And then
Moll stopped dead and turned round.

‘What are you doing?’ Alfie yelled, spinning back to face her. But then he too stopped running.

A wildcat was standing right in front of them.

H
e’d come for her, even though she’d doubted him, and he was panting hard, his fur wet with sweat.

‘Gryff,’ she whispered.

Then came his greeting, low and soft. ‘
Brrroooooo
.’

‘You came for me,’ Moll smiled.

The wildcat dipped his head but he kept his distance.

Moll looked back to the Deepwood. ‘It – it was you who ran round the camp to distract Brunt and the others so we could escape, wasn’t it?’

‘
Noine, noine, noine
.’ It was the sound Gryff made when he was content, like a purr but somehow wilder. His eyes flicked up to Alfie, then his hackles rose and he circled
Moll.

‘
Urrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
,’ Gryff growled, his eyes locked on to Alfie.

‘He’s all right, Gryff,’ Moll whispered, crouching down. And then added quietly, ‘We need him.’

Gryff tightened his circle and hissed.

‘Your wildcat hates me,’ Alfie mumbled, scuffing the track with his boot, but he kept his eyes fixed on Gryff in case he pounced.

‘Animals don’t hate. Hate’s what humans do. Gryff just isn’t trusting you yet.’

Alfie took a deep breath and moved a step closer; the wildcat bared his teeth and growled.

Still huddled low, Moll locked eyes with Gryff.
Trust me. Alfie’s all right. He won’t charge us on his cob again.

‘Last thing a wildcat wants to do is touch you,’ she said quietly to Alfie. ‘So you don’t need to worry.’

Gryff tucked his head under Moll’s arm and nuzzled into her chest. Moll reddened. ‘Well, Gryff is – he’s – he’s different somehow. He doesn’t seem to
mind touching as much as maybe some of the other ones might.’

Alfie looked back at the Deepwood. ‘They’ll let the hounds out when they see we’ve gone.’

Darkness hid the dips and rabbit holes puncturing the path, but they ran on despite them, Alfie keeping a safe distance ahead of Gryff and Moll. The heather petered out around them until only
rushes, reeds and yellow gorse bushes lined their path.

‘There,’ Alfie panted. A huddle of wild ponies was drinking from a boggy marsh set back from the path. ‘The bog-myrtle ponds – like the poem said!’

The ponies trotted away as Alfie, Moll and Gryff sped past. There were bogs all around the path now – black water surrounded by green bushes and rushes. Moll breathed in the herb-pine
smell of the bog myrtle. They were getting close.

‘Listen!’ Moll gasped.

A bird call rattled out across the night sky, but Moll had traced the opening notes of its song and she stopped on the track, pointing to a thicket of reeds lining a bog to the left of the
track. She bent down, pulled away the reeds, and sure enough, there was a bird’s nest tucked inside.

‘
Follow the path, past the bog-myrtle ponds where the nests of the warblers lie
. . .’ she whispered excitedly.

They took a few more steps. Bracken rose up between spiky gorse bushes on either side of them. Then the path began to narrow and the bracken rose higher still.

It was Gryff who started running first. They were almost there and he could feel it. Alfie and Moll followed, their ears filled with the rolling cries of the nightjars. Alfie grinned at Moll as
they ran.

The path had almost disappeared, but still Gryff ran on. Bracken fronds swung back into Moll’s face as Alfie charged ahead of her and gorse needles pricked at her bare feet. And, though
nobody mentioned it, it was darker now. Much darker. Even the moon had been swallowed by the blackness.

And then suddenly Gryff stopped. He turned to face them, his eyes sparkling green against the night.

There was a reason for the impenetrable darkness and the absence of the moon. Rearing up in front of them, its base jungled by bracken and gorse, was a hill. It was blacker than the night itself
and, behind it, bushes spread into trees which thickened into a small patch of woodland.

‘
To meet on a hill turned back
,’ Moll whispered. Her heart drummed as Hard-Times Bob’s stories whirled inside her head. She stooped and picked up a stick lying by a
gorse bush.

Alfie turned to her. ‘What’s that for?’

Moll shrugged. ‘This and that.’

He grinned. ‘It’s for the maiden, isn’t it?’

Moll scowled and they took a few steps closer to the hill.

‘It’s covered in black flowers . . .’ Alfie murmured.

Moll gripped her stick more tightly. She knew what black flowers meant.

Alfie glanced at her. ‘What is it?’

Moll shifted her weight from one foot to the other. ‘There aren’t any black flowers in the Ancientwood, but Mooshie told me about them.’ She paused. ‘Black flowers mean
trickery.’ Her legs felt suddenly numb beneath her.

Alfie glanced at the forest, then back again at the hill. ‘I’m not going up there if this is a trick.’

But Gryff had already set off.

Alfie stared at him. ‘What’s he
doing
?’

Moll was silent for a few seconds. ‘Trampling all over trickery, I suppose.’

Alfie fiddled with his feather earring. ‘And we’re meant to follow?’

Moll summoned up a pretence of bravery. ‘I don’t like the sound of tricks out here on the heath, but my pa’s bone reading matches the poem – and Gryff’s never
wrong.’

And, with that, Moll turned to follow the wildcat. She gulped and then gave the darkness a crazed look of terror. It was all very well pretending to be brave, but her legs were shaking and her
heart was thudding inside her frock. She made a few more demented grimaces into the darkness, then hurried on after the wildcat.