The boy doubled over in pain, clutching the back of his head. ‘Argh!’
In the next fraction of a second, Moll was charging towards Jinx.
‘Argh!’ the boy yelled again, rocking his head in his hands. He struggled up in disbelief. ‘Skull! There’s – there’s someone here!’
He staggered to a tree, unable to piece together what was happening. Moll grabbed hold of Jinx’s mane and leapt up on to her back. Digging her heels into the cob’s flanks, she spurred Jinx on.
The chanting had stopped and the camp was silent.
‘It’s a girl!’ the boy cried behind her. ‘And a button-sized one at that!’
There were a few guffaws from the fire.
Then a voice, cold and loaded: ‘After her, Alfie.’
Guiding Jinx with only her legs and voice, Moll urged the cob on, away from Skull’s camp.
‘Go, Jinx, go! Faster than you’ve ever run before!’ she cried. It didn’t matter that her nightmare had come alive any more. Now it was just about the chase – and she had to win.
If the boy was in pain, he no longer showed it. Placing his fingers to his mouth, he whistled. The smouldering body of a black stallion cob appeared from behind a tree, its eyes as dark as night, its nostrils steaming. Yanking the tethering rope from the cob’s halter, the boy hoisted himself up on to its back.
‘After them, Raven!’ he yelled, kicking hard.
Weaving between trunks and dipping beneath branches, Moll raced back towards the glade – past the giant cage, past the rat, past the owl, leaving all of that behind. Jinx’s neck was stretching forward now as she darted between the trees, reaching the full speed of her gallop. And every now and again Moll glimpsed a flash of grey and black stripes as Gryff ran alongside them.
‘That’s my girl! Go on, Jinx! Go on!’
But there was a thundering of hooves behind her now, churning up the deadened glade. Moll twisted her head for a second. The boy was there, some metres behind, on his stallion cob. Whoever he was, he rode fast.
‘Go on, Jinx!’ Moll urged.
The boy and his stallion, Raven, continued to gain on them. Moments later, they were side by side and the boy was crouching up on his feet on Raven’s back, ready to leap towards Moll. His eyes were blue and intense, like his jay feather, and his teeth were set. Moll’s eyes widened and she kicked harder.
The boy steadied himself, about to leap, but Moll leant forward, pulling Jinx’s halter hard. They sidestepped his grasp and, from somewhere nearby, Gryff growled.
The boy looked around – alert, on edge – but there was nothing there, only dawn needling through the darkness, pricking the night sky blue. The boy slid back to a seated position, cautious now.
Moll breathed again. ‘Just to the river, Jinx. We’re safe past there!’
‘Come back here, titch!’ the boy yelled, spurring Raven on.
Moll scowled, her face hot with fury at the insult. She leant forward towards Jinx’s ears. ‘That’s my girl. Keep going, Jinx!’ They leapt over stumps of trees and fallen branches. On, on, towards the river.
‘You thieved from us, spudmucker!’ Moll cried over her shoulder. ‘I’m taking back what’s rightfully ours! Oak’s camp is never leaving the forest, however hard you try to force us out!’
Jinx galloped even faster, but the thunder of hooves behind them didn’t stop. Like cogs in a monstrous machine, they charged on, closer and closer.
‘You wait till Skull gets his hands on your scrawny neck!’ the boy shouted.
Foam was dripping from Raven’s mouth, flecking his chest white. Again the boy crouched on the cob’s back, swinging for Moll’s halter. But Jinx burst away. The river was in sight, sparkling in the moonlight like a promise. Moll leant forward and stroked the soft, downy hair behind Jinx’s ear, the place where sensitive cobs keep their souls. They were within strides of the water, racing towards the alder trees.
‘Now, Jinx, jump!’
Jinx lifted from the ground, knees bent, hooves tucked beneath her stomach. They soared across the river and landed, panting, on the other side.
Moll bent low to Jinx, whispered in her ear and, as Jinx surged forward, Moll leapt from her back into the branches of an alder overhanging the river. She scampered upwards as Jinx’s hooves faded towards the clearing of the camp.
On the other side of the river, Raven came to a skittering halt. He paced by the bank in tight circles. And, from beneath a mop of fair hair, his rider cursed.
Safe in her aerial world of branches and leaves, Moll glowered down.
‘One shout from my pipes and the whole camp’ll come running,’ she hissed. ‘The Ancientwood is Oak’s territory so you can go back to your den of thieves and wipe your backside on a tree root!’ She drew out her catapult and brandished it at the boy. ‘And they say girls can’t fight!’
The boy scowled. His cheeks were flushed and he was breathing fast.
Moll crouched in the tree, tucking her feet into its branches. ‘You’ve no right here; beat it.’ She looked Raven up and down, then spat through the leaves. ‘Your cob is nothing in a race with Jinx!’
The boy’s body stiffened. ‘Don’t you insult Raven,’ he replied, stroking the stallion’s mane. ‘You saw how he outdid your pony in our glade. Raven would win a gallop and you know it!’
‘Pony?’ Moll cried, leaping up a branch and hissing. ‘Jinx isn’t a pony! She’s quick as lightning!’ She paused. ‘You’re daft, you are. Tree spirits have eaten your brains.’ She picked at a leaf casually. ‘I’ve also got a wildcat,’ she said, ‘and you’re not going to top that.’
At the mention of the wildcat, the boy shifted on Raven and then went very, very still. His eyes narrowed.
Somewhere nearby Gryff growled, low and deep, like the groaning of a faraway glacier. And suddenly Moll felt as if she’d betrayed a terrible secret. She coiled her body into the alder and scuttled further up its branches.
The boy’s face relaxed slightly. ‘A wildcat?’ Then he scoffed. ‘Raven’s one of the only animals who can recognise himself outright in a mirror. Beats an imaginary wildcat.’
But there was something about the boy’s voice now. Something which made the hairs on Moll’s arms stand on end.
Again Gryff’s growl came, even deeper than before, warning her to stay back. But why? There was no drum, no mask, no chant now – only the rippling of the river winding downstream. Skull was far away in the Deepwood and this was just a boy. Not even a real gypsy boy if his colouring was anything to go by.
The boy turned away, tugging at Raven’s halter and gripping his talisman, a knot of his cob’s black hair tied to a string round his neck. Moll remained silent, watching them leave. And then, nonchalantly, she slipped backwards, catching her knees on the branch so that she was hanging upside down above the water.
‘And don’t come back!’ she shouted.
A sickening lump formed in her throat; the boy and his cob were coming back. The boy was kicking Raven in the flanks, hard, and they were charging back towards the river. Towards her.
Moll flipped her body back into the tree. She’d have to jump, then sprint to the camp to get there first. She gasped. Her foot was caught, jammed between two branches. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. And the boy was charging towards her, just metres from the bank.
There was a rustling from the undergrowth beneath her as, like a ripple of silk, Gryff sprang up into the branches, pounding at the one that trapped Moll’s leg. And when that didn’t work . . . he touched her. For the very first time. Actually touched her. She felt his soft, warm strength pushing against her, and it filled her with courage. She yanked her foot harder and harder until it slipped free. Then she leapt to the ground, landing in a crouch, and sprinted several paces away from the river. She turned.
Gryff was still in the branches, hissing, growling and stamping his forelimbs. His eyes glowed green and his hackles rose, as if he was growing in size, and, as he snarled, he bared rows of white fanged teeth.
The boy yanked Raven’s halter and they skidded to a halt, centimetres from the riverbank. The soil beneath Raven’s hooves began to crumble and they retreated backwards.
The boy stared at Gryff, blinking in disbelief. His voice was altogether different now: half curious, half afraid. ‘It – it can’t be . . .’ he stammered. ‘The beast – the child from . . .’ He looked Moll straight in the eye.
But at that second a hand clapped down on Moll’s shoulder.
The boy turned sharply, then galloped back into the Deepwood.
And Moll whirled round to face Oak.