Clutching at reeds, Moll hoisted herself up the far side of the bank. She glanced around.
The same tangle of trees she’d grown up with in the Ancientwood: beech, birch, ash, yew, holly, hawthorn. The darkness couldn’t muffle their bark and leaves and she could almost hear Oak’s wife, Mooshie: ‘All trees have a spirit, Moll, and they lend it to us if we listen hard. Silver birch – its spirit protects against evil beings, and the sap’s good for sugar when you’re making beer and wine . . . Holly berries – the greatest fertility charm there is . . . Ash – pass a naked child through a split ash tree and you’ll find rickets and broken limbs all cured . . .’
And yet there was something about the air this side of the river. It felt different, as if the night might be full of watching eyes and brooding shadows. Moll’s heart beat faster still and a shiver prickled down her spine.
Branches swished above and Moll jerked her head backwards, towards the river. A split second later, Gryff landed on the bank beside her. He nodded towards the forest, his eyes narrow.
Moll dipped her head, grateful that he’d decided she wasn’t going on alone.
Somewhere nearby a twig cracked. Gryff’s ears swivelled to the sound and he grunted. A deer perhaps.
Moll shook herself. ‘We’ve got to be quick. Soon as dawn breaks we’ll be seen; the summer nights aren’t ever long.’
With Gryff at her heels, she ran further into the Deepwood beeches, her anklet jangling in the dark. ‘Over the river . . . Straight through the beeches . . . Past the glade . . . Then you’re in Skull’s camp – God help you . . .’ She’d overheard the Elders talking enough times to know the way.
Gradually, and so slowly that at first she didn’t notice, the beech trees began to change. Their bark was no longer silver; it was flaky and grey and it peeled back like dead skin. Moll and Gryff wove in and out of them, but the trees were not strong, like the ones surrounding Oak’s camp; they were withered and holed and they curved overhead like the bars of a cage. Moll jumped as a bat shot out from a tree. Its leathery flaps crumpled into the distance. Gryff’s ears flattened to his head.
It was darker this side of the river somehow, as if the moonlight chose not to come here. And it was quiet – just the tired creaking of branches stirring in the gathering wind. Eventually they came to the glade, but the grass was dead and brown, smothered by fallen branches and fungi. Moll shivered and kept running.
And then Gryff stopped, his neck craned towards the far end of the glade.
‘Urrrrrrr,’ he grumbled, whiskers twitching.
Moll knew what that meant: he was picking up vibrations of sounds that fell beyond the reach of her own ears. They must be near Skull’s camp. She clenched her fist round her catapult and made as if to move on.
But Gryff remained where he was and Moll realised that it wasn’t only sounds that the wildcat was picking up on. His tail was flat to the ground and he was crouching. He’d seen something too. Moll scrunched her eyes into the night, but Gryff could make out things in the darkness that not even gypsies could see.
Moll crept closer to him, her face sharpened with fear.
‘Urrrrrrrrrrrrrrr,’ Gryff growled.
Moll heard its creaking before she saw it, just like Gryff had done.
Some metres ahead, hanging from a decaying branch, was a birdcage. They crept closer until they were footsteps away. The cage was huge, several metres high and wide, swinging gently in the wind. Only there wasn’t a bird inside. It was littered with bones.
Moll gulped. Gryff growled again.
And there was something else. Nailed to the trunk of the tree below the cage was a creature with a bald tail and a knobbly skull. A dead rat.
Moll swallowed again as they stepped out of the glade back into the trees. Then Gryff tensed. Hanging from another branch by a piece of tattered string was an owl: dead, eyeless.
‘Just an owl,’ Moll whispered to herself.
But she knew the signs; every gypsy did. Caged bones. Dead rats. Hanging owls. These were witch doctor omens. She and Siddy had laughed at the stories of Skull being a witch doctor, but Oak had been telling the truth all along. And if Oak knew the truth about Skull no wonder Skull’s gang wanted to force Oak’s camp out of the forest.
Moll glanced behind her; it wasn’t too late to turn around. But Jinx . . . She couldn’t leave Jinx in a place like this. She clenched her teeth.
Then the whispering started.
It was a strange kind of whispering – scratched and guttural, like muttering – as if it was coming from deep within someone, right from the back of their throat.
And it was close, too close.
Moll’s body stiffened and fear settled around her neck. And yet she edged closer, somehow drawn to it. Gryff followed. It was louder now and there was a rhythm to it – strong and pulsing. And slowly, like a frosty breath, a feeling slunk into Moll’s mind. There was something familiar about those whisperings. The feeling lingered in her mind, breathing quietly.
Then a movement caught her eye. Cloaked figures were stirring between the trees. She edged closer still, hiding behind a tree, and there, just in front of her, was Skull’s camp. Four figures were circling a fire in the clearing, moving like a dark wave.
Moll’s breath caught in her throat. The whisperings were getting louder and faster now, growing like an untamed wind. And they were words that didn’t belong to Moll’s world: strange, rasping words that—
The thud of a drum.
The hiss of a rattle.
Moll’s blood froze. Her nightmare was unfolding before her.