Pip and the Twilight Seekers (8 page)

Some things make you run until you are so tired you have to stop. But some make you feel so frightened that you run and run and run and you keep on running until it hurts. Your heart is pounding so hard that it feels like it might burst right out of your chest. And all the time you are tripping and falling, slipping and sliding, like in some strange dream. You are completely out of breath, but still you carry on.

In their desperate panic to escape Captain Dooley, the children did just that. They scattered through the streets like wild dogs, scrambling through the pinched footpaths between the houses, so frantic were they to escape the searching mind of Captain Dooley and the sharpened grip of the hook-handed man. If they kept moving they would keep the captain thinking and make it harder for him, they were sure. They pulled at the drain covers as they went but not a single one would release its grip of ice. They had little time to spend forcing one open and so their escape found them perched beneath a crumbling bridge that spanned a narrow stretch of the river. Their hot breath billowed upward like smoke from a chimney. The water was frozen solid but to cross it was to expose themselves to open space. They sat a while and huddled together in the cold until they were brave enough to move again.

Pip stared out across the ice. His eyes opened a little wider. “I have an idea,” he said, and he began to explain his thoughts to Toad and Frankie.

There is a part of the hollow known as the Devil’s Tongue. It’s an old dilapidated bridge that crumbles away before the foot timbers collapse into the now-frozen water. Beyond the river, on the other side, is a tall structure that is home to the authorities. And in the basement below is the home of our very own Mister Jarvis. A small hovel. Mean and meager to suit the host.

If you had been stood right there at the Devil’s Tongue as the light was dropping away that night, you might just have seen three children sneaking their way under the broken bridge timbers to get a good look. Quite something to see children in the hollow, braving the open air and taking their chances. Who knew who might see them and spread the word?

So it was with great care that they moved silently along their way. They needed to be sure that the low basement was the home of the man they knew as Jarvis. They were perched in the wooden frame now, sitting upon their perches like preying birds.

It seemed somehow absurd that though they had spent the night escaping from Jarvis and his wooden assistant, they were now, through the early hours, doing exactly the opposite and getting as close to him as possible.

They had seen the black pumpkin parked outside. With its lantern still burning at the corner, a smudge of dank yellow light kept the doorway illuminated, reflecting its glow upon the icy river. Everything was still. An owl hooted softly in the distance and the gentle creak of trees in the breeze was the only other noise to be heard.

The three of them shook off their anxieties, looked at each other and nodded again.

It was now or never. With heavy hearts they crossed the river on the thick ice that rested like a pie crust on the water. It was cold, so very, very cold. Every now and then the surface heaved a great sigh and cracked beneath their feet. But they knew it would not break through. It was far too thick.

Pip’s plan to break into Jarvis’s home and take Captain Dooley was more than ambitious to say the least, but they were desperate. Jarvis would be sleeping—after all, he had had the busiest day in a long while. With the captain at large the children could not run and hide. He was always around the corner, keeping them running, endlessly chasing until he had them in his grasp. If they captured him they could turn the whole situation around and find the lost children of the hollow, and they could move in secrecy again.

They approached gingerly.

The door was locked but it sat so loose in its frame that they were able to push the bottom half inward and squeeze through the gap. It felt almost as cold inside as out but a small fire lay dying in the hearth and lit the room softly.

A wingbacked chair sat close to the fireplace, but the room was sparsely furnished and there was little else to speak of apart from piles of papers and books, candlesticks, and grog bottles.

They searched the room carefully in the half-light, their hearts drumming together nervously as they quickly became familiar with their surroundings. What looked like a small room adjoined but it was nothing more than a narrow passageway leading to a staircase. It no doubt led to Jarvis, who would be snoring in his bed. Did he have Captain Dooley at his side?

Pip stopped short in the hearth. He was sure that from the mantelpiece two eyes shone back at him through the darkness, staring intently.

There was no mistaking those mystical moons. Even to those who had never seen them, they announced their importance immediately. Yellow-white, unblinking in the orange glow from the fire. It was Captain Dooley. Perched right there on the mantel. Offered to them like a gift.

But as they stood entranced by the sight of Captain Dooley someone had been woken from his dreams of escaping city rats. He rose from his bed and tiptoed across the floor. And only moments later, a hooked hand lifted the latch on the crooked staircase door.

Floyd had pulled on a long coat and stepped into his boots at the doorway. A woolly skullcap was tugged tightly over his graying hair, covering his ears and the nape of his neck. He stepped out into the night, tucking his gloveless hands into his pockets as he felt the first crunch of snow beneath his feet. A chill wind sent swirls of white circling around him. With his head down he made the familiar walk to the Deadman’s Hand. The streets were noisier than usual. The forest was alive with excitement. Children were on the move, desperate to escape the wisdom of the little wooden soldier. It was not a good night to be out, but Floyd had information for Sam. He knew that up above, silhouettes of witchy shapes circled the city streets. He kept to the shadowed corners and stepped out into the night.

When he entered the inn Floyd found that it was busy. But it was without the revelry that the place was accustomed to. There was no music or singing, no raised cheers and forced laughter to forget the dark secrets of the hollow. Instead, all that were there were standing together, as if in council, huddled at the bar and speaking in hushed tones. They had fallen silent on hearing the door open, but on seeing that it was Floyd they stirred again and he was handed a tankard of ale. The discussion was without doubt about the concerns of the hollow.

“I need to explain something to you,” said Floyd, his hand resting on Sam’s shoulder as he checked around him to make sure their conversation was in secret.

“Don’t worry,” said Sam. “We’re all friends here. No secrecy needed.”

“Very well. Your boy was safe with me but they left. All three of them. I could not stop them. I had a visit from Jarvis. He must have had a tip-off. He is less than happy.”

“Really? You’ve seen my boy. And the others. They’re OK?”

The group listened in and showed their concern.

“Well, I hope so,” replied Floyd. “They had no choice but to disappear into the night. I’m sorry I don’t have more to tell you.”

“It’s a relief, at least, to know they are still out there and not in the clutches of the forest,” said Sam. “It was Jarvis who started the fire, I’m sure. And he wouldn’t have done it for no reason. He knew something, somehow. Do you know where they went?”

“No idea. They moved quickly. We had no chance to talk.”

“They know not to return here,” said Sam. “Maybe they are right to keep on the move. It’s not safe to stay still. Not now.”

Shortly after, the McCreedys entered. Mrs. McCreedy had not handled it well since her son went missing in the night. She was visibly shaken and looked sick. Her husband held on to her tightly.

“Any news of our boy?” he asked.

“Nothing,” said Sam. “I’m sorry.”

“This is your doing,” said Mrs. McCreedy. “Hiding children in this place. Attracting unwanted attention. Stirring the forest folks. We ’eard you took a boy in. A stray.”

“Of course,” said Sam. “I make no apologies. What if I had seen your boy in the street and taken him in. Would you still have thought it was the wrong thing to do?”

Mrs. McCreedy looked at Sam with tears in her eyes. Unable to answer his question, she turned and left, with Mr. McCreedy following on after.

“Sam, I’m sorry. I know it’s not your fault. Elsa, please,” he shouted after her.

“It’s fine, Ely,” said Sam, “I understand. My own boy is missing too now and I can only hope he is safe. I understand the frustration. I share your anger. This place is becoming a living nightmare. Keep talking to me. We must all of us keep talking.”

Much more was said that night. Fighting talk. The kind to send a shiver down the spine and raise the hackles. The type of speak that raises hair on the back of the neck and brings goosebumps to the surface of the skin. Of taking up arms and challenging the forest. Of pitchforks and spears and handmade weapons. Plans that spoke of fire and flames, blades and bayonets.

There were tears too and high emotions. Lost children are the worst fear of parents. To conceal your greatest treasure is one thing. To have it taken is another.