Pip and the Twilight Seekers (2 page)

At night they were packed tightly together, their makeshift beds forming a neat line across the hidden annex. “I quite like this arrangement,” announced Pip. “I know it’s a tight squeeze but it makes me feel safe.” Then he would tell them his tales of his dreadful days at the orphanage and how he had longed to escape its clutches.

If the truth be known, Pip had not known companionship until now. Despite the grim circumstances of the hollow, he felt a sense of belonging growing upon him. Sam and Toad were as near to family as he had ever had and he was quickly getting to know Frankie since she had joined the group. There was a hollow space inside him where the fulfillment of family life should be but somehow his new surroundings were helping to heal the wound.

Late one night he awoke to Frankie sobbing. “What is it?” he whispered.

“I’m frightened, Pip,” she confessed.

“Of what?” he asked. “The forest and its creatures? And that we may be caught?”

“No, not that, although the forest fills me with dread,” Frankie said. “I fear for my family. That I might never see them again and that they may come to harm and I might never know.”

Pip didn’t know what to say. He knew that those dangers were real. He swallowed a lump in his throat. “It will be OK,” he whispered and he held out his hand to her. Frankie smiled unseen in the darkness, closing her fingers around his palm, and they fell asleep to the sound of Toad snoring.

Outside there was a change in the air. A stirring in the water. It was unlikely that the peace would last for long. The dying of the blizzard would cause a livening in the forest, and those who sought to upset the quiet of the streets were already awake.

There was a small matter which may at some point prove to be a problem. Somewhere in the hollow sat Captain Dooley. A harmless-looking figure of an old soldier from the civil war, fashioned from Spindlewood. Of course he looked harmless. How could he not? He’s just a plaything, put together by the toymaker, long since gone from the hollow after the children were outcast. But there was something in his makeup that spelled danger. He was a blabbermouth. He spoke of the secrets of the hollow, and when I say secrets I mean those hidden children. He told anyone who asked exactly where they were.

And how does a rickety old wooden toy spill secrets?
I hear you ask. It would have to be cursed with some kind of evil sorcery. Some wicked spell that only worked because it was crafted from those Spindlewood trees and evil ran through its woody veins. Well, I’m afraid that whole crazy idea of curses and sorcery was quite possible down in Hangman’s hollow. That dark forest was home to all kinds of sinister goings-on.

For long enough he had stayed hidden in the darkness of an old cloth sack in the corner of a disused attic. That was until the sack dropped through the chimney stack and landed in a dusty fireplace. A prying hand had lifted him from the darkness and placed him upon the mantelpiece of the disused river cottage, dusting him down and leaving him there and not knowing that he would only cause trouble.

He was stirring now, thinking hard. The faces of all the children in the hollow were coming to him. He could see where they hid, a perfect picture forming in his mind. A ripple of excitement made his little wooden body creak and with it, his rounded moon eyes warmed up the dank light, like candles glowing. He felt that quite soon, someone was going to find him. He was ready to say so much. He knew where they all were. It seems quite unimaginable, but if you had been right there you would have sworn that his little wooden mouth opened and that he had managed a few desperate words. It sounded just like: “Bring out your children. Here comes the captain.”

The fading of the howling gales had now ensured the Deadman’s Hand was brimming with city folk. The fire crackled and local life poured back into the old place. Voices laughed and sang and music filled the air. Tobacco smoke billowed upward and candles flickered at the tables.

Up above, the children were settled in their hiding places, keeping themselves amused and out of harm’s way. Toad was emptying his bed of crumbs and bits of pastry. Pip lay in his pit, watching, chuckling to himself, and shaking his head. Frankie sat quietly with her nose in some old book that she’d found.

Down below, the low rumble of chatter and laughter continued, but silence fell when the hook-handed man stepped inside. He shook his tattered cloak at the door and kicked his boots on the step. With his familiar movement—head down, cloak pulled over the hook—he took his table in the corner.

Sam knew the man’s drink and delivered a tankard to the table. Voices returned and the noise level picked up again and things went on as normal.

But this was no ordinary visit to the inn. Something was eating away at Jarvis. Sam was used to his visits and it was not unusual to find him sat at his table in the corner. But the recent turmoil had set the whole place on edge and Sam knew Jarvis would be seeking revenge.

Jarvis was here for a reason. Sure, he liked a drink, but that pesky kid’s face had stuck in his mind and he was somehow sure at the back of his mind that the Deadman’s Hand held the answer. He didn’t know why or how, but his nose had taken him in the direction of the inn. And Jarvis’s nose was never wrong!

Frankie was distracted from her reading by the sound of footsteps. She looked up, her eyes fixed expectantly on the door to the annex. Feet came carefully up the staircase, moving almost silently along the corridor. The doorway was forced open. It was unusual for Sam to appear in business hours, but he was on double alert.

“He’s here. Just make sure you’re extra quiet. No movement.” And then he was gone, as quickly as he had entered.

Frankie felt her heart sink. It seemed that they had spent so long protected by the storms and without the threat of Jarvis that to know of his return filled her with fear. The room fell silent for a moment.

The three children stared at each other. “He’ll never find us here,” said Toad. “We’re safe as houses.” And he picked up another cake from his collection and swallowed it whole as he remade his bed.

“That’s disgusting!” said Frankie, “Didn’t your father ever teach you to chew your food?”

“No time for chewing,” insisted Toad. “If we need to escape quickly, we’ll have to pile some food down and get out. Swallowing food is a skill!”

Pip just stared at Toad and then looked at Frankie, and again he shook his head in disbelief.

It had only taken a few sips from his ale before Jarvis’s mind had clicked into place. He was staring across the room. There it was, looking right at him. He knew he’d seen that kid’s face here before. He stood up and crossed the floor. The place went quiet again.

People watched him.

There was an oil sketch of Toad on the wall. It had always been there, amongst the other portraits of the city folk. Mister Sweeney from the foundry, Mrs. DeGale and her two youngsters and a large drawing of the Malvern girls, drawn before they’d gone missing. They were reminders to the city folk of their young ones.

“Who is this boy?” questioned Jarvis with the tip of his hooked hand held against the nose of the drawing.

The place went quieter still. There were those who had no idea and those that knew Sam and Toad well. But no man nor woman from the city would open their mouth and betray the boy.

“Landlord. Who is this boy that sits on your wall? You must know him?”

Sam stared. “Perhaps you should sit down and enjoy your drink, Mister Jarvis,” he answered, reluctant to betray his own kin. “You’re upsetting my customers.”

“You folks listen good,” Jarvis continued. “I know you have all got your offspring hiding. My patience has run thin and my bones are tired of searching these frozen streets. I’ll flush them out, all of them. You mark my words.”

He took another close look at the boy and then his gaze fell on Sam. Sam panicked that for a moment the resemblance may have caught his eye. Maybe it had. Jarvis drew his shiny hook across the canvas and slit Toad’s face from the corner of his eye to the point of his chin. He stormed across the room, sending his tankard flying across the floor, and disappeared into the night.

“It seems to have gone quiet down there all of a sudden,” said Pip, his voice lowering itself into a whisper. Toad stopped in his tracks, cupping a hand over his ear to listen.

“You’re right,” said Frankie, closing her book and pricking up her ears. “Do you think everything is OK?” There was anxiety in her voice.

“It’s fine,” said Toad. “Everything is fine.” And he climbed the ladder to spy through the scope that was positioned at the drawn curtain, allowing a good view of the city.

“You OK?” said Pip, turning to Frankie.

“Yes,” she answered. “I’m OK.” But when she lay down in the dark that night she knew that things would not stay the same forever.

Toad never seemed bothered by anything. He could talk for hours on end, he ate like a horse, and he made every move at a blistering pace until the moment his head hit the pillow. And then, he snored like a bear and kept everyone else awake.

But Frankie knew when Pip wasn’t sleeping. He tossed and turned in his bed and she knew his troubled past was what tied his sheets in knots.