Beyond the Deepwoods (7 page)

By now all the benches were full and, at the far end, the first course was already being served. As a delicious fragrance wafted across, Twig realized just how hungry he was.

‘I recognize that smell,’ he said. ‘What is it?’

‘Tilder sausage soup, I think,’ said Sinew.

Twig smiled to himself. Of course. The soup was a delicacy the grown-up woodtrolls got to eat on Wodgiss Night. Every year he'd wondered what it tasted like. Now he was about to find out.

‘Move your elbow, love,’ came a voice from behind him. Twig looked round. An old woman was standing there with a ladle in her right hand, and a round pot in her left. When she saw Twig, she drew back sharply, her smile disappeared and she gave a little shriek. ‘A ghost!’ she gasped.

‘It's all right, Gram-Tatum,’ said Sinew, leaning over. ‘This is Twig. He's from Outside. It's him we have to thank for saving Gristle's life.’

The old woman stared at Twig. ‘It was
you
who brought Gristle back to us?’ she said.

Twig nodded. The old woman touched her forehead and bowed. ‘Welcome,’ she said. Then she lifted both her arms high in the air and beat the soup-pot loudly with
the ladle. ‘Hush up!’ she cried. She climbed onto the bench and looked at the square of expectant faces. ‘We have in our midst a brave young man by the name of Twig. He rescued our Gristle and brought him back to us. I want you all to raise your glasses and bid him welcome.’

All round the table, the slaughterers – young and old – stood up, touched their foreheads, raised their glasses and cried out, ‘Welcome, Twig!’

Twig looked down shyly. ‘It was nothing,’ he mumbled.

‘And now,’ said Gram-Tatum, climbing back down. ‘I dare say you're feeling hungry. Tuck in, love,’ she said, as she ladled the soup into his bowl. ‘And let's see if we can't get some colour into those cheeks of yours,’ she added.

The tilder sausage soup tasted as delicious as it had smelled. Simmered until the sausages were soft, in stock seasoned with nibblick and orangegrass, the soup was rich and spicy. It was also just the start. Juicy hammelhorn steaks, rolled in seasoned knotroot flour and deep-fried in tilder oil came next, accompanied by earthapples and a tangy blue salad. And this was followed by honey trifle and dellberry blancmange and small wafer biscuits drenched in treacle. Twig had never eaten so well – nor drunk so much. A large jug full of woodapple cider stood in the centre of each of the four tables, and Twig's mug was never allowed to empty.

As the meal went on, the atmosphere grew increasingly rowdy. The slaughterers forgot about their guest,
and the air – already warmed by the blazing fire – became warmer still, with laughter and joking, with the telling of tales and sudden bursts of song. And when Gristle himself appeared, apparently none the worse for his ordeal, everyone went mad!

They cheered, they clapped, they whooped and whistled, their crimson faces aglow in the bright firelight. Three men jumped up and hoisted Gristle onto their shoulders, and while they paraded him round and round, the rest of the slaughterers beat their mugs on the table and sang a simple song in their deep and syrupy voices.

‘Welcome back lost slaughterer

Welcome like a stranger

Welcome back from the deep deep woods

Welcome back from danger.’

Over and over they repeated the verse – not all together, but as a round, with each table of slaughterers waiting their turn to start singing. The air was filled with swirling harmonies, more beautiful than Twig had ever heard. Unable to resist, he joined in. He banged the table to the beat with his own mug, and was soon singing the words with the rest.

After the third circuit of the tables, the men approached Twig himself. They stopped directly behind him, and placed Gristle down on the ground. Twig stood up and looked at the slaughterer boy. Everyone fell silent. Then, without saying a word, Gristle touched his forehead, stepped solemnly forwards and touched Twig on
his
forehead. His face broke into a smile. ‘We are brothers now.’

Brothers! Twig thought. If only. ‘Thank you, Gristle, but … Whoooah!’ he cried, as he himself was hoisted up onto the men's shoulders.

Swaying precariously from side to side, Twig smiled, then grinned, and then laughed with delight as the men carried him once, twice, three and four times round the table, faster and faster. He looked down dizzily at the red blur of happy faces beaming back at him, and knew that he had never felt as welcome as he did now, here in the bubble of warmth and friendliness that was the slaughterers’ Deepwoods home. It would be nice, he thought, if I could stay here.

At that moment, the air resounded with the sound of the gong clanging for a second time. The three slaughterers stopped running abruptly, and Twig felt
the earth once again beneath his feet.

‘Lunch is over,’ Sinew explained as the slaughterers all jumped up from their benches and, still laughing and singing, returned to work. ‘Would you like to look round?’ she asked.

Twig stifled a yawn and smiled sheepishly. ‘I'm not used to being up at this time,’ he said.

‘But it's the middle of the night,’ said Gristle. ‘You can't be sleepy!’

Twig smiled. ‘I was up all day,’ he said.

Sinew turned to her brother. ‘If Twig wants to go to bed…’

‘No, no,’ said Twig firmly. ‘I'd like to look round.’

They took him first to the hammelhorn pens. Twig stood on the bottom rail and looked at the shaggy beasts with their curling horns and sad eyes. They were chewing drowsily. Twig leaned over and patted one of the animals on the neck. Irritated, the hammelhorn knocked his hand away with a toss of its horned head. Twig drew back nervously.

‘They may look docile,’ said Sinew, ‘but hammelhorns are unpredict-able animals by nature. You can't turn your back on them for a minute. Those horns can hurt!’

‘
And
they're clumsy,’ Gristle added. ‘That's why we all have to wear thick boots.’

‘We've a saying,’ said Sinew. “‘The smile of the hammelhorn is like the wind” – you never know when it's going to change.’

‘But they do taste good!’ said Gristle.

At the smoke house, Twig saw row upon row of tilder carcasses hanging on hooks. A large kiln, fuelled with redoak chips, produced a deep crimson smoke which gave the tilder ham its distinctive flavour. It was this smoke, rather than blood, which had stained the slaughterers’ skin.

Not a single part of the tilder was wasted. The bones were dried and used like wood; the fat was used for cooking, for oil-lamps and candles, and for greasing the cogs of the tarp rollers; the coarse fur was spun into rope, and the antlers were carved into all kinds of objects – from cutlery to cupboard handles. It was the leather, however, which was the most valuable part of the animal.

‘This is where the hide is rilked,’ said Gristle.

Twig watched the red-faced men and women pummelling the hides with large round stones. ‘I've heard this sound before,’ he said. ‘When the wind is from the north-west.’

‘It softens the leather,’ Sinew explained. ‘Makes it easier to mould.’

‘And these,’ said Gristle, moving on, ‘are the tanning vats. We use only the finest leadwood bark,’ he added proudly.

Twig sniffed at the steaming vats. It was the smell he'd noticed when he was floating above the village.

‘That's why our leather's so popular,’ said Sinew.

‘The best in the Deepwoods,’ said Gristle. ‘Even the sky pirates use it.’

Twig spun round. ‘You deal with the sky pirates?’ he said.

‘Our best customers,’ said Gristle. ‘They don't come often, but when they do visit they take whatever we've got.’

Twig nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. Once again, he saw himself standing at the prow of a pirate ship, with the moon above and the wind in his hair, sailing across the sky.

‘Will they be back soon?’ he asked at last.

‘The sky pirates?’ said Gristle, and shook his head. ‘It's not long since they were last here. They won't be back for a while now.’

Twig sighed. He suddenly felt immensely weary. Sinew noticed his eye-lids growing heavy. She took him by the arm.

‘Come,’ she said. ‘You must rest. Ma-Tatum will know where you're to sleep.’

This time, Twig did not argue. Almost dead on his feet, he followed Sinew and Gristle to their hut. Inside, a woman was mixing something red in a bowl. She looked up. ‘Twig!’ she said, and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘I've been wanting to see you.’ She bustled her way towards him and enfolded him in her stubby arms. The top of her head pressed against Twig's chin.

‘Thank you, Pale One,’ she sobbed. ‘Thank you so much.’ Then she pulled herself away and dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her apron. ‘Take no notice,’ she sniffed. ‘I'm just a silly old woman…’

‘Ma-Tatum,’ said Sinew. ‘Twig needs to sleep.’

‘I can see that,’ she said. ‘I've already put some extra bedding in the hammock. But before that, there are one or two important things I…’ She began rummaging furiously through a chest of drawers, and the air was soon filled with the things she was
not
looking for. ‘Ah, here we are!’ she exclaimed at last, and handed Twig a large furry waistcoat. ‘Try it on,’ she said.

Twig slipped the waistcoat over his leather jacket. It fitted perfectly. ‘It's so warm,’ he said.

‘It's a hammelhornskin waistcoat,’ she told him, as she did up the toggles at the front. ‘Our speciality,’ she added, ‘and not for sale.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Twig,’ she said. ‘I would like you to accept it as a token of my gratitude for bringing Gristle back to me, safe and sound.’

Twig was overwhelmed. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I…’

‘Stroke it,’ said Gristle.

‘What?’ said Twig.

‘Stroke it,’ he repeated, and giggled excitedly.

Twig ran his palm down over the fleecy fur. It was soft and thick. ‘Very nice,’ he said.

‘Now the other way,’ Gristle persisted.

Twig did as he was told. This time the fur bristled and stiffened. ‘YOW!’ he cried, and Gristle and Sinew burst out laughing. Even Ma-Tatum was smiling. ‘It's like needles,’ said Twig, sucking at his hand.

‘Dead or alive, you should never rub a hammelhorn up the wrong way,’ Ma-Tatum chuckled. ‘I'm glad you like my gift,’ she added. ‘May it serve you well.’