Beyond the Deepwoods (10 page)

He scratched and scraped at the vine. He bit into it, only to spit out the vile bitterness a moment later. He pulled, he prised, he tugged and tore at the vine, but it was too tough. He couldn't break its ferocious grip. He could not get free.

Suddenly the vine gave a tremendous yank, and Twig was wrenched forwards.

‘Mfffllbluchh!’ he spluttered as he landed with a thud on the forest floor, and his mouth was filled with the rich brown loamy soil. It tasted of … of tildermeat sausages. But rancid, sour. He retched emptily and spat again. ‘Stop!’ Twig screamed.

But the tarry vine paid him no heed. Over rocks and tree stumps, it dragged its victim; through wood-nettles and tripweed. Bumping, banging, crashing.

Twig knew, however, that no matter how badly he was knocked and battered and stung, the worst was still to come. Passing a combbush, he clutched desperately at a branch and clung on for dear life. Where was the caterbird now that he needed him?

For a moment the vine snagged on some roots. A squeal of sudden fury echoed from the shadows, and the tarry vine sent a wave
of whiplash rippling along its length. Twig gripped as tightly as he could onto the branches, but the vine was too strong. The bush sprang out of the ground, roots and all, and Twig found himself being bumped over the forest floor faster than ever.

Below him now were hard, white, knobbly objects which dug into him as the tarry vine dragged him on. The further he went, the more there were. Twig gasped with sudden terror. They were bones: thigh bones, backbones, ribs and empty grinning skulls.

‘No, NO,
NO
!’ Twig screamed. But the air was dead, and his cries were snuffed out by the blood-red light.

Jerking his head round, Twig peered into the shadows in front of him. He saw a tree trunk, thick and rubbery, that grew out of the white mound where the bones lay thickest.

It pulsed and squealed; it glistened with sticky saliva which oozed from countless gaping suckers. From high above him, where the branches divided, Twig heard the gnashing of a thousand mandible-like teeth, as each one opened and shut noisily, greedily – louder, and
louder
and
LOUDER
! It was the sound of the terrible flesh-eating bloodoak.

‘My knife,’ thought Twig feverishly as the clattering grew faster, the stench fouler, the squealing increasingly agitated.

He fumbled around on his belt feverishly and gripped the smooth handle of his naming knife. Then, with one swift movement, he pulled it from its sheath, swung his arm over his head and brought the blade down with all his strength.

There was a sound of soggy splintering, and a spurt of glistening green slime squirted into his face. Yet, as his arm suddenly jerked back, Twig knew he'd done it. He wiped the slime from his eyes.

Yes! There it was, the vine, swaying hypnotically to and fro above him. Back and forwards it went, back and forwards, to and fro. Twig was rooted to the spot. He watched, transfixed, as the severed end stopped dripping and the liquid congealed to form a knobbly green blob at the end of the vine, the size of his fist.

Abruptly, the rubbery skin split, the blob burst open and, with a rasping slurp, a long tentacle tipped with emerald-green sprang out. It sensed the air and quivered.

Then a second tentacle appeared, and a third. Twig stared, unable to move. Where one vine had been, now there were three. They reared up, ready to strike and –
S-S-S-SWOOOOOSH
– all three of them lunged.

Twig screamed with pain and terror as the tentacles lashed themselves tightly round his ankles. Then, before he could do anything about it, the tarry vine tugged his feet out from under him and hoisted him, upside down, high up into the air.

The whole forest blurred before Twig's eyes as the blood rushed to his head. It was all he could do to keep hold of the knife. Wriggling and squirming and grunting
with effort, he heaved himself up, clung hold of the vine, and began jabbing and stabbing.

‘
FOR SKY'S SAKE, LET ME GO!
’ he cried.

Green slime immediately began bubbling to the surface. It oozed round the knife and over his hand, oily and slippery. Twig lost his grasp and tumbled back through the air.

Dangling helplessly by his feet, he twisted his neck back and looked down. He was above the top of the main tree-trunk. Directly beneath him were the thousand razor-sharp teeth he had heard clattering so greedily. Arranged in a wide circle, they glinted in the red light.

All at once, they sprang open. Twig found himself staring down into the crimson gorge of the bloodthirsty tree. It slobbered and slavered noisily. The stench was atrocious. Twig gagged emptily.

Now he would never ride the sky pirates’ ships. Nor reach his destiny. Nor even leave the Deepwoods.

With his last bit of strength, Twig struggled frantically to pull himself upwards again. The hammelhornskin waistcoat slipped down over his eyes. He felt the fur stiffen as he rubbed it the wrong way. Again and again, he reached up and – finally – he managed to clutch hold of the vine. As he did so, it released his feet.

Twig cried out with fear as he swung loose, and dug in with his fingernails. Now, instead of trying to cut himself free, he was desperate to hold on – desperate not to be dropped down into the gaping mouth of the bloodoak. Hand over hand, he tried to climb the vine but, slippery with the slime, it slid back between his fingers. For every inch he went up, he slithered back half a dozen.

‘Help,’ he whimpered softly. ‘Help me.’

The vine gave a violent jerk. Twig lost his grip and the tarry vine flicked him away.

Feet first, arms flailing, he dropped through the air. He landed with a sickening squelch deep down inside the cavernous mouth of the flesh-eating bloodoak. The teeth snapped shut above his head.

It was pitch black in the tree, and loud with the sound of hideous gurgling. ‘I can't move,’ he gasped. All round him, the monstrous throat constricted, and rings of hard woody muscle squeezed him tightly. ‘Can't bre … e … eathe!’

One thought went round and round his head, too awful to take in.
I'm being eaten alive!
Deeper and deeper
down he went.
Eaten alive
…’

Suddenly the bloodoak juddered. A rumbling, grumbling burp burbled up from the inner depths of the tree, and a blast of foul air rushed up past Twig. For an instant, the muscles released their grip.

Twig gasped and slipped down a little further. The thick hair on the hammelhornskin waistcoat bristled as it was brushed up the wrong way. The bloodoak juddered again.

The gurgling grew louder as the bloodoak continued to cough, until the whole spongy tube shook with a deafening roar. Beneath him, Twig felt something strange pressing against the bottom of his feet, pushing him upwards.

All at once, the retching tree released its grip on Twig's body for a second time. It had to get rid of the spiky object which had become lodged in its throat. It burped, and the pressure of air which had built up below suddenly exploded with such violence that it shot Twig back up the hollow trunk.

He burst into the air with a loud
POP
and soared off in a shower of spittle and slime. And for a moment, Twig felt he was actually flying. Up and away he went, as free as a bird.

And then down again, crashing through branches, as he hurtled back to the ground. He landed with a heavy thud that jarred every bone in his body. For a moment he lay there, scarcely daring to believe what had happened.

‘You saved my life,’ he said, smoothing the fur of the hammelhornskin waistcoat. ‘Thank you for your gift, Ma-Tatum.’

Hurt, but not that badly, it occurred to Twig that something must have broken his fall. He reached below him tentatively.

‘Oy!’ a voice protested.

Startled, Twig rolled over and looked up. Not some
thing
, but some
body
! He tightened his grip on the knife, still in his hand.

· CHAPTER SIX ·
T
HE
G
YLE
G
OBLIN
C
OLONY

T
wig climbed shakily to his feet, and looked at the character lying on the ground. He had a flat head, a bulbous nose and heavy-lidded eyes; he was dressed in filthy rags and covered in dirt from head to toe. He stared at Twig suspiciously.

‘You did drop down on us from a great height,’ he said.

‘I know, I'm sorry about that,’ said Twig, and shuddered. ‘You wouldn't believe what I've just been through. I…’

‘You did hurt us,’ the goblin interrupted. His nasal voice buzzed round inside Twig's head. ‘Are you the gloamglozer?’ it said.

‘The gloamglozer?’ said Twig. ‘Of course not!’

‘The most terrifying creature in all the Deepwoods, it be,’ the goblin said, its ears twitching. ‘It does lurk in the
dark corners of the sky and drop down upon the unsuspecting.’ The goblin's eyes became two thin slits. ‘But then perhaps you do know that already.’

‘I'm no gloamglozer,’ Twig said. He returned his knife to its sheath, reached forwards and helped the goblin to his feet. The bony hand felt hot and sticky to the touch. ‘I'll tell you what, though,’ Twig added. ‘I was almost
eaten
just now – by a bloodo…’

But the goblin was no longer listening. ‘He does say he is not the gloamglozer,’ he called into the shadows.

Two more of the squat, angular goblins appeared. Apart from the differing patterns of streaked dirt on their faces, the three of them were identical. Twig's nose wrinkled up at the sickly sweet odour they gave off.

‘In that case,’ said the first, ‘we do best return to the colony. Our Grossmother will wonder where we are.’

The others nodded, picked up their bundles of weeds and swung them up onto their flat heads.

‘Wait!’ Twig cried. ‘You can't just go. You've got to help me.
COME BACK!
’ he yelled, and sped off after them.

The forest was dense and overgrown. Through cracks in the canopy, Twig saw that the sky had turned to pinky-blue. Little light penetrated the gloom beneath.

‘Why won't you listen to me?’ said Twig miserably.

‘Why should we?’ came the reply.