Night deepened. Oak’s camp was silent and still, as if holding its breath. Tucked up in the branches of the Sacred Oaks, they waited.
Mist slunk into the clearing below them, settling on the branches of the trees like an unwanted guest. All of the wagons had been bolted and the cobs and greyhounds tethered to trees hidden deep within the Ancientwood. Even the chickens and, on Siddy’s insistence, Porridge the Second had been caged up and concealed.
The embers of a fire glowed in the middle of the clearing, turning the hanging mist to amber, and, far above this, Moll, Gryff and Alfie crouched inside the biggest of the Sacred Oaks. Siddy had been prised away into another tree to take care of his baby sister, but, on the branch below Moll, Cinderella Bull, Mooshie, Oak and their sons huddled.
Gryff leant into Moll and she ran a hand along his back. He’d keep her safe. She’d seen him leap from the tallest branches of a beech tree and land on his feet unscathed. She tucked her knees under her chin; so long as Gryff was with her, she’d be all right.
‘It must be past midnight now,’ Moll whispered. ‘Perhaps they’re not going to come after all.’
Alfie shifted beside her and the leaves on the branch trembled – as if they too knew what was coming. ‘Skull will come,’ he said. ‘He always does.’
‘And you think Cinderella Bull’s plan is really going to work?’
A branch creaked beneath them. ‘It’ll work, Moll.’ It was Mooshie’s voice, but Moll noticed that even she couldn’t mask the fear that had settled itself over the camp like a hard frost.
Seconds later, it came.
At first, it was the pounding of hooves they heard; then came the feverish shrieks of the hounds. Whips cracked, shattering the stillness, and the hounds bayed louder. But there were no voices. Skull’s gang were approaching the camp in a terrifying wave of silence.
Moll’s palms were hot and her heart was thudding inside her. But no one moved or uttered a word within the trees, exactly as they’d planned.
The beating of hooves was louder now – and closer. Then, bursting through the mist, Moll saw the dark shapes of Skull and his gang, urging on their cobs. Six hooded shapes thundered towards them: Skull, Gobbler, Brunt, the other two boys and . . .
Moll’s heart raced. The second Shadowmask.
The hounds rampaged through the forest and stormed into the clearing, tearing at their leashes, their teeth bleached against the night. And then suddenly they were still.
One of the riders threw back his hood; Skull’s white mask hung in the mist.
‘The cowards are locked inside their wagons.’ His voice was brittle, like dried-out clay.
Gobbler’s hunched back was a shadowy bulge in the darkness, and beside him was a man with a mask of slate, a jutting mouth and gaping eyeholes. Clumps of dead flowers for hair and poisonous berries rotting away where ears should have been . . .
Hemlock. And he was muttering under his breath.
Almost at once Moll felt his curse, crawling through the night to her soul, feeding on her fear. Come to us, Moll Pecksniff. You’re ours now. You’re not one of them. You never will be. And, so long as you stay here, you put them all in danger. Come away now; give yourself up to our curse.
Moll’s mind raced. She was safe, tucked up inside the highest oak, but every fibre in her body wanted to climb down and give herself up. As if he sensed this, Gryff put two legs in front of her. His claws dug into the bark, but it would only be a matter of time before Hemlock’s curse sought him out too.
Moll wanted to shake Gryff, to make him understand. What chance did any of them have against the Shadowmasks and their curses, against the Soul Splinter?
And then Gryff began to shudder as Hemlock’s curse hunted him down.
‘We’ve come for Moll Pecksniff and her wildcat, Oak!’ Skull shouted. ‘If you give them up now, we’ll leave you and your camp in peace.’
Moll could feel Gryff’s heart thumping with her own.
And then Hemlock spoke, his words slithering over his tongue like venom. ‘If you refuse to hand over the girl and the beast, every wagon in this clearing will be savaged by the hounds.’
Moll thought of her box bed, of the catapults Oak had carved for her and the mounds of feathers and fir cones she’d collected over the years. And then she thought of Mooshie’s wagon: her finest china, her precious lace and the bobble-fringed curtains. She wanted to leap down through the branches and hug Mooshie tight. Cinderella Bull’s plan had to work, it had to.
‘You give us no choice, Oak!’ Skull shouted. ‘Drop the leashes, boys!’
Moll held her breath. A second later, the night was filled with a terrible baying. Skull and Hemlock laughed – a clash of shrill, hideous laughter – as four blackened shapes raced up the wagon steps.
Moll covered her eyes; she couldn’t bear to watch.
The hounds stopped baying suddenly and into the silence of the clearing came the sound of jaws working – greedily, furiously – at the slabs of meat left on the steps of every wagon.
Moll’s heart leapt. The riders shifted on their cobs.
Moll could hear Cinderella Bull whispering to Oak. ‘It should work: a wisp of mist; the sliver of a moonbeam; a spoonful of midnight dew; a drop of sap from each of the Sacred Oaks; a pail of crystal-clear river water. I brewed the Lull just as our ancestors taught us . . .’
At that second, the hounds’ jaws stopped grinding, and there were four loud thuds.
‘No!’ Skull roared. ‘Get over to them, boys!’
Brunt edged towards Mooshie’s wagon where a hound lay sprawled on the steps. Its eyes were closed, its body rising and falling gently as if it was asleep, and beside it was a half-chewed lump of meat.
Brunt nudged the hound but it didn’t move. ‘They’ve – they’ve left meat coated in something, Skull!’
Gobbler raced up the steps of Moll’s wagon: another sleeping hound lay before the remains of a chunk of meat. ‘It’s that Dukkerer of theirs. She’s laced the meat and it’s sent them to sleep!’
‘Into the wagons!’ Skull muttered. ‘Smash them up hard.’
A cold sweat clung to Moll’s skin.
Doors were wrenched off and thudded to the ground and the night was filled with pandemonium: furniture crashed to the floor, windows shattered, objects clattered against walls and china was smashed to smithereens.
And then there was silence.
‘Oak!’ Skull roared.
But it was Wisdom who answered. ‘Skull,’ he replied, his voice gravelly and tough.
Moll could see Skull’s mask searching through the mist.
‘Oak’s taken Moll,’ Wisdom said. ‘They left as night fell.’
Wisdom lowered himself down several branches and finally, as he crouched upon an outstretched branch, Skull and his gang rested their eyes on him. But he was above their grasp and there were no hounds to leap for him now.
‘Leave,’ Wisdom growled. ‘You’ve destroyed our homes and we’ve nothing here you want.’
Hemlock nudged his cob closer to the tree. A deep burning sensation throbbed inside Moll; it felt as if Hemlock was looking right at her. ‘The girl and her wildcat could be up in the trees with you,’ Hemlock crooned, ‘and we want them very much.’
Moll buried her face in her knees.
Wisdom threw a dagger down from the branches and it landed centimetres from Hemlock’s cob. ‘That’s a warning.’ He spat through the leaves, then sprang up on the branch so that he was standing. ‘They’ve gone after the amulets – and they’re going to find them before you can break the Bone Murmur. You’ll see.’ He was silent for several seconds. ‘Leave. You’ve no business here.’
There was a murmur of voices from Skull’s gang and then Hemlock started muttering. Moll could feel her body weakening – doubt, fear and guilt flooding her thoughts. Beside her, Gryff was shivering.
And then Wisdom did something no member of Oak’s camp had done in Moll’s lifetime: he fired a gunshot into the air. Its harsh crack burst out and silenced Hemlock’s curses. Moll flinched. Below her, Skull’s gang shuffled backwards on their cobs. But Hemlock and Skull remained rooted to the spot, unflinching.
‘Stay away, Skull,’ Wisdom muttered.
Moll strained her ears; she could just make out Skull’s voice – a scornful hiss. ‘Guns and knives,’ he mocked. ‘You’re not going to get rid of the Shadowmasks like that.’ And then even quieter to Hemlock: ‘We need to prepare the clearing. Moll and the wildcat will be there soon enough.’ He turned to Brunt and the boys. ‘Haul the hounds up on to your cobs. They’ll wake later.’ He jabbed a heel into his horse, then turned his head up towards Wisdom. ‘If I find out you’ve lied, I’ll burn your camp to the ground!’
With a crack of whips, Skull, Hemlock and their gang charged off into the trees with the sleeping hounds. And, as if they had been holding their breath all this time, Oak’s camp finally breathed from the trees. Below Moll, Mooshie was sobbing.
‘Everyone down from the trees,’ Oak called. ‘Stoke up the fire and keep the children away from the wagons.’ But he stayed where he was for several seconds, cradling Mooshie close.
Moll twisted her body down between the branches with Gryff, an uncomfortable lump forming in her throat. Mooshie’s wagon had meant the world to her. Now it lay in shreds below them. And it was all her fault.
The mist had lifted and the camp huddled round the fire. Oak’s boys hurled on more and more logs until the flames towered high above them and the clearing was once more filled with light. Even Alfie, with his bandaged leg, was throwing wood on to the fire with Siddy.
A heaviness hung inside Moll and she shuffled over towards Mooshie and Oak who were staring at the crackling flames in silence. She picked up a log and tossed it on to the fire.
‘It’s all because of me,’ she mumbled. ‘It’s not fair that Skull smashed up the wagons.’
‘None of it’s fair, Moll. It’s not fair Skull destroyed our homes. It’s not fair you’re part of something you never asked to be. But life isn’t fair – never is.’ Oak paused and then looked Moll full in the face. ‘You’ve got to be brave. You’ve got to keep going no matter how unfair it gets.’
‘But all that work you and the camp put into making our wagons. You might as well not have bothered,’ Moll sniffed.
Mooshie shook her head. ‘If you think like that then you’ll never build anything in your life, Moll. You build knowing things might go wrong. And sometimes it’s when things get broken or lost or damaged that you realise all you’ve got to fight for.’
Moll twisted her hair into an angry knot and watched Gryff as he padded round the broken steps of her smashed-up wagon, his head hung low. ‘But it’s causing so many problems you hiding us away – us trying to fight back. Gryff and I would be all right out there. Might get into a few scrapes, but we can hunt and stuff.’
Oak smiled. ‘Did you expect it would be easy fighting back against the Shadowmasks?’ He rubbed Moll’s back. ‘None of this is going to be easy or fair, but we’ve got to do it – because the Bone Murmur is something worth fighting for. It’s the old magic and all its goodness is at stake and, no matter how scared you are or how guilty you feel, you keep going and you don’t give up. Because there’s a chance – however small – for all of us in this and, when you’ve got a chance, you fight on, however ugly things get.’
Mooshie smoothed down her pinafore. ‘Tomorrow we’ll rebuild our wagons. They’ll always be our homes and, years from now, there’ll be people who will say, “Mooshie Frogmore’s wagon – now that was one to remember”.’
Moll tried to smile. She wished she would stop feeling like she might burst into tears every time anyone spoke.
Wisdom approached with a bundle of quilts, blankets and cushions. ‘It’s a warm night and Skull won’t be back. We’ll be all right sleeping round the fire.’
Hours passed and Moll waited until everyone in the camp had gone to sleep, until the night belonged to only her and Gryff.
‘We’re going to find the amulets, Gryff,’ she whispered. ‘We have to because I won’t let any more bad things happen to this camp – and I won’t let my parents’ deaths be for nothing.’
But across the river, in the darkness of the Deepwood, Skull and Hemlock were muttering a deadly incantation. And somewhere far, far away, the Master of the Soul Splinter was awakening.