That night a figure entered the forest and passed by Skull’s camp unseen. On it crept, through the deadened glade and in between the sallow beeches, wearing the night like a cloak. It paused briefly by the river boundary, then lowered itself into the water and waded across. With silent stealth, it edged closer to Oak’s camp.
Perched like a china ornament, an owl hooted from a branch. The figure stopped, brushing its long grey hair back from its face. There was music further ahead – a pan flute, a fiddle, an accordion. The camp were celebrating something. But this was no time for a party.
The figure continued on, creeping up to the first of the Sacred Oaks. It stretched out a blackened hand, the fingers burned to stumps, and placed a roll of leather into a hollow in the tree. The initials on the leather gleamed in the moonlight: MP. And then the figure slipped from the trees, back into the night.
The camp was buzzing with excitement: the Jumping of the Broomstick ceremony had arrived. The stars were out and Oak and Mooshie were sitting round the fire on stools carved from beech wood, drinking bog-myrtle beer and feeding titbits to the camp’s two greyhounds. Beside them, wearing so much purple she was almost blue, Patti was sprinkling herbs into her husband’s soup. ‘It’s lovage, Jesse,’ she whispered. ‘It’ll increase your love for me – and ensure faithfulness at all times.’ Jesse rolled his eyes, but drank the concoction nonetheless. To his right Cinderella Bull held a sparkling fortune-telling ball before Hard-Times Bob and the children gathered round the fire, sipping wood-sorrel fizzes – delicious, bubbly drinks Mooshie made from green-leafed plants that grew along the forest floor.
Moll watched from the edge of the clearing with Siddy.
‘You sure you don’t want to muck in for a bit?’ Siddy said. ‘You could stand by me when Ivy jumps the broomstick . . .’
Moll threw him a withering look so Siddy didn’t push it further. It had been bad enough bumping into Oak and Mooshie on their way back to Moll’s wagon earlier. When they’d tried to talk to Moll, she had been as uncommunicative as Porridge the Second and Siddy had found the whole thing so profoundly awkward his ears had burned red and began to twitch. And it was obvious the children in the camp had been told as they’d knocked several times on Moll’s wagon door to see if she wanted to climb trees with them. But Moll hadn’t answered; she was boarded up against them all.
Sparks from the fire crackled into the air and floated upwards, lost in the overhanging branches. Domino had come down from his watch and was playing the fiddle, slow and haunting, like a call to worship. Then came Mooshie’s voice as Keeper of the Songs – gravelly like grain – lilting and drifting over the fire. The gypsies watched spellbound as Ivy, her hands covered in henna and her plaited hair scooped up over her head, took her place beside Wisdom, before the birch broomstick they had to jump over to bless their marriage.
And set back from the celebrations, from somewhere in the darkness of the Ancientwood, branches stirred.
‘If you jump higher than Wisdom,’ Patti shouted, ‘you’ll be the decision-maker of the family!’ She tucked a coin under Ivy’s arm. ‘Seven years’ good luck to the person who catches the coin when Ivy jumps!’
Beneath the branches of a Sacred Oak, Moll and Siddy looked on – half intrigued, half appalled. To them, Wisdom was a fist-fighter. Jumping the Broomstick seemed a bit of a let-down.
Patti glanced around the camp. ‘Siddy!’ she hollered. ‘Wherever you’ve got to, you better come here now! Your sister’s getting married and it’s not the kind of thing you skulk off for!’
‘I’ve got to go and join them, Moll,’ Siddy said, tying Porridge the Second into a knot and popping him into his pocket. ‘I’ll bring you back a wood-sorrel fizz.’
But Moll was barely listening. ‘I’m going to get my pa’s bone reading from Cinderella Bull’s wagon.’
‘Can’t you wait a while, then I can come with you?’ Siddy hissed.
Moll shook her head. ‘It can’t wait, Sid. I need to—’
Siddy nudged her. ‘I think someone wants a word with you, Moll.’
She followed his gaze. Tucked back from the Sacred Oaks, among the hawthorn bushes, two yellow-green eyes glinted and then Gryff stepped out, his footsteps softer than falling snow.
Moll felt a rush of warmth. ‘Gryff.’ She wanted to leap forward and wrap her arms round him. Somehow they were in this together – in a way that no one in the camp was, except perhaps Siddy. ‘If Oak or Mooshie ask for me, Sid, say I’m sulking in my bed. Oak’s boys aren’t up on watch right now so Mooshie won’t know I’ve slipped out.’
Siddy nodded, watching in awe as the wildcat slunk towards them. He’d seen Gryff many times with Moll, but there was always something unpredictable and wild about him and that kept the rest of the camp at a wary distance. ‘Just stay here with Gryff; don’t go to Cinderella Bull’s wagon without me. OK?’
Siddy ran back towards the fire; Mooshie’s lyrics were growing livelier and faster and before long Patti was clamouring on the spoons, Domino was spiralling out notes from his fiddle and Hard-Times Bob was making a series of squeezy noises from his accordion – in time with his hiccups.
And, nestled into the branches not so very far from Moll and Gryff, a pair of eyes continued to watch, blinking every now and again and narrowing.
Moll smiled as Gryff stopped before her. ‘Thank you, Gryff, for helping me last night.’ She paused. ‘And for watching out for me all those years ago.’
Gryff dipped his head and purred. His way of talking, of understanding.
‘You left the northern wilderness – your home – for me. Didn’t you?’
Again Gryff dipped his head. In the moonlight, his coat looked almost brown, just like the fur on his belly.
Moll knelt down slowly and, for some seconds, she just watched Gryff and he watched back. And then, so gently she felt like she might not be moving at all, Moll stretched out her hand. Gryff stayed where he was. Still. Watching. And then he took one step closer to Moll.
The movement was fluid, like liquid, and Moll watched in silence. Her hand was now just centimetres from the wildcat’s head. His whiskers twitched and he craned his neck forward until his fur was touching the tips of Moll’s fingers. She held her breath. Gryff moved closer, nestling his head deeper into her hand. A great warmth surged through Moll’s body as she felt her fingers sink into his fur. She edged closer, stretching out her other hand. But Gryff didn’t back away. He leant into Moll, curling his body into hers, burrowing his head into her neck and nuzzling into her chest.
Everything Moll had seen and heard – the Dream Snatch, the Bone Murmur, her parents – fell away. All she could feel was Gryff. She didn’t even realise she was crying. But Gryff did. And he nuzzled closer until all Moll could hear was his purr, rumbling deep within her own body.
And, like a stain in the darkness, the two eyes watched on, unseen. Minutes passed then the eyes moved. Closer. Towards a Sacred Oak, towards the one the figure had placed the roll of leather inside. A hand reached out towards the tree. Because, to the hand, it didn’t matter whose initials the leather bore. The hand had come for Moll; the roll of leather was just a lucky find.
Back in the clearing the camp were dancing quick-stepping jigs round the fire as Wisdom and Ivy clasped each other’s hands and leapt over the broomstick. Everyone roared and clapped before gathering round the fire for hotchi-witchi – baked hedgehog – a meal Moll strongly disagreed with since she’d struck up a friendship with an injured hedgehog a few years before.
Moll drew back from Gryff and together they watched the festivities unfold. Oak was laughing with Wisdom and Ivy while Mooshie fussed round them with food. Moll felt a pang of sadness as she thought of what could have been if her own parents were still alive. She leant in closer to Gryff and for several minutes they just watched. And then Gryff padded away from Moll, towards the trees.
‘Go hunt,’ Moll smiled. ‘I’ll wait for you here.’
Gryff melted into the forest but, within minutes of his leaving, a chill slithered over Moll’s skin. Behind her, the camp was full of noise – music, cheers, shouts – but it was silence that fell upon Moll’s ears. A silence loaded with danger. And then, almost so faintly it might not have been there at all, the Dream Snatch began to pulse inside her. Moll’s heart quickened and the chanting pounded louder, feeding on her fear.
Something was shifting between the branches ahead. Not Gryff, Moll could tell. This was larger, darker, and it was gathering speed, coming straight towards her.
Moll drew breath to scream, but out of nowhere a hand clapped down over her mouth. The Dream Snatch screeched inside her. And the cloaked figure slid nearer still.