Pip and the Twilight Seekers (3 page)

Sometimes she would whisper to him in the dark, “Are you there, Pip?”

And he would answer “yes,” because he knew that she was asking him if he was awake. And then they’d chat while Toad snored.

“I guess we’re your family now, eh, Pip?” Frankie would say.

And he would smile and say that yes, they really were.

“But there’s something missing,” he added one night, as he felt himself dozing off into sleep.

“You mean your parents?” quizzed Frankie.

“I don’t know,” said Pip. “I don’t know. I just know there’s a space inside me where something else should fit.” But the more he thought about it, the more he wasn’t sure.

“One day the hollow will be safe again. Then we’ll all feel better,” assured Frankie.

Pip heard her voice but he was too tired now to force a reply. He tried to mutter something, but he felt himself drifting helplessly into slumber.

Now the snow had died it was safe for Mister and Mrs. McCreedy to move into the riverside cottage. The McCreedys had worked long and hard to escape their circumstances and finally they were ready to move into a home of their own.

They had more space here for their basket weaving and they would be close to the market square where they plied their trade. Now, while the revelers drank at the inn, they were wheeling their small cart across the city to the new place. Sure, it needed work done. But it was better than the cramped hovel they had previously been in and so they had packed up their things and begun to move.

They wheeled their cart nervously through the streets, knowing that should they be caught in the act, they would suffer at the hands of the authorities. A suspicious Mister Jarvis leaving the tavern was not helpful.

“Mrs. McCreedy, you seem to be struggling there. Perhaps I can help.”

Jarvis tipped the cart onto its side and rifled through their belongings.

“No, please, Mister Jarvis, I can manage, thank you,” Mrs. McCreedy insisted, knowing that he was eager to uncover her secret.

“You’re lucky this time,” he said. “But in the end, I’ll have them all. I’m not stupid, Mrs. McCreedy. I know a maternal woman when I see one. I can see it in your face. As sure as eggs is eggs, you got kiddies hidden away somewhere, I know it.” He grinned.

“Excuse us,” said Mister McCreedy, shoving his weedy frame past Jarvis and picking up the spilled belongings before heading indoors.

“No one likes a mess,” said Mrs. McCreedy. “But at least we have space for our little treasure. You can come out now,” she said. “We’re home and dry.”

And then, like a surprise from a jack-in-a-box, out popped the youngest of the McCreedys, revealing that the bottom of the wheeled cart, which now sat in front of the fire, was a false one.

Young Edgar must have been no more than four years old but already he was aware of his status in the hollow. He knew when to keep his head down and stay quiet.

A pile of discarded rubbish was pulled out from the fireplace. A couple of boxes, a dust-covered sack, and a heap of odds and ends. Dry wood took its place in the hearth and a spark of life sent the twigs and branches glowing and blistering. Candles were lit around the parlor and a pan of water was hung over the warming fire.

Edgar climbed up on to the chair and retrieved what had until now been perched on the mantelpiece. An old wooden soldier, smart as could be in his little red coat and shiny black boots. He stared hard at the little fellow until a feeling of horror came over him. The eyes stared back at him and they seemed to hold his gaze until his own eyes watered. They shone like tiny moons and he found that he was unable to let go of the little wooden man.

And then Edgar could have sworn that the soldier spoke his name. “Master McCreedy, first-born son of the wickerwork man. His mother carries a sibling, yet she doesn’t know just yet. Time will tell. Let’s hope she is careful, down in the hollow.”

Edgar stared, unsure about what had just been said. Then, without knowing why, he tucked the captain into his jerkin. When he finally went to sleep at the end of the day, the small wooden figure sat perched on the end of his bed.

The cellar was dark and dingy. It was no place for a young boy. But there was to be no choice. In the darkness of the room while Edgar slept, the eyes of the wooden soldier still glowed.

Before Frankie’s family had been taken by the authorities, they had supplied the inn with bread. For some time now Sam had been struggling by on his own. But since Frankie had arrived she was making her mark on the place and showing him just how it was done.

When Pip and Toad were still sleeping through sunrise Frankie would be up and about in the scullery, mixing the dough and warming up the clay oven. She was not afraid to work and Sam was now used to coming downstairs to the smell of freshly baked bread and the sight of little Frankie covered in flour from head to toe. She would sing quietly to herself in the back kitchen and Sam would watch her sadly, knowing she longed for her family.

A crashing sound came at the door.
Thud, thud, thud
. Angry voices came through the air. Hooves could be heard clattering in the street outside. Sam panicked, and in trying to look and see who was there he neglected to ensure that Frankie was hidden.

The door was being forced, so much so that Sam was coerced into opening it to avoid it being demolished altogether. He was greeted by the stout figure of Hector Stubbs and several other city men on horseback. Stubbs was the city mayor. But others knew him only as a warmonger and a troublemaker. His plan was to capture every hidden child to join his army to wage war on the forest. He was both savior and enemy to the youth of the hollow. He longed to triumph over the creatures of the Spindlewood, but the price was too much to pay. City folk would perish alongside their children. Fathers and sons, mothers and daughters. And what did Hector care? He sought only to improve the city.

The city was at war with the forest. Creatures spilled out from the woods at night and filtered into the streets and alleyways. To gain their domination over the city they searched for the children to make prisoners of them. The authorities swept children from the streets to discourage the beasts from entering the city.

This was no place to be growing up. But for those that happened to be there, there was no choice. To be a youngster in this place was a crime. Children were becoming a thing of the past, and those that were there moved through the city after dark. But to do so was to risk being caught by the twilight seekers, the creatures of the forest, or the authorities and the city guardian, Mister Jarvis. And though he was supposed to be on the side of the authorities, when it came to double dealing with the forest types, he couldn’t help himself.

“Routine check, landlord,” groaned Stubbs. “We require to inspect the premises for children. Keeping children hidden is a violation of city laws in the present climate.” And he reeled off some old nonsense that Sam had heard before. He frequently expected their inquisitive visits and he was used to their prying eyes. He kept them at the door as long as he could to make sure that the children were given the chance they needed.

Stubbs stormed through the inn, followed by his men. He showed no mercy, turning tables, pulling out drawers, and opening cupboards, and Sam winced at every move for he had no idea what Frankie had done to hide herself. She could be anywhere.

Sam backed into the scullery. Frankie had gone but small footprints could be seen in the flour that lay upon the floor. Quickly he disturbed them with his feet, dispersing the white dust. Where had she gone?

At length, Stubbs and his men gave in. No obvious traces could be seen. They’d peered into the cellar, skirted round the bedrooms and upstairs spaces, and even helped themselves to the drink.

When at long last they left, Frankie emerged like a small ghost from the flour barrel. She was covered in white dust.

Sam could only smile with relief. For now, at least, they would not be subject to further suspicion.

But not far away, someone else thought differently. Someone who couldn’t get the image of Toad out of his mind. He lay in bed and all he could see was the Deadman’s Hand. The paint flaking from its sign as it swung, creaking in the chill wind, and that drawing on the wall, the one he had slit from corner to corner. He would see that face again, and soon. He was sure of that.