Pip and the Wood Witch Curse (2 page)

Pip stole away from the coast, heading inland, not sure where he was going but knowing that to stay put was to seal his fate. His arms were still full of his belongings. His short legs powered upward as he climbed the grassy slope that led to the road. His breath made clouds around his face. He dropped half his things as he went but dared not stop, not even for the briefest moment.

Soon he was treading the stony winding road and, capturing his breath, he looked down on the town below. A growing sense of freedom washed over him as he watched the candlelit windows of Oakes Orphanage become small flecks of glimmering yellow.

He pushed on, puffing and panting, fearing that as soon as the authorities found out they would be on to him, tracking him with hounds and horses. Trailing after him through the dark.

He imagined them following. He thought he could hear their voices, feel the thunder of hooves upon the road, and see the glimmer of torchlight held aloft in the blackness. And even though he knew he was only imagining it, it urged him on, until he was far from anywhere he knew.

At length he slowed into a walk. He kept stopping to bundle together his things, tying them tighter and hoicking them higher up on his back, puffing and panting. Only the moonlight showed the way, a pale washed-out yellow spilling along the road ahead, urging him onward. The moon was on his side, he thought.

There was a rumble in the distance. Pip stopped. Listened. His heart quickened and he heard that too. He looked back and now he could see horses and the swinging torchlights he had imagined. His felt his knees weaken in panic, but in a moment he realized that what was coming up the road toward him was not a search party but a slow-moving train of old carriages.

He hung back from the road and lay poised, silent, and foxlike in the undergrowth. Two black mares struggled up front against the growing incline. The wheels were skidding in the dust and the carriages rocked and swayed, the horses braying and blowing hot breath like smoke. Silhouettes of people filed out and began pushing from the back. The wheels bit harder into the road and the train moved smoothly again.

Lettering became visible on the side of the first carriage.
Stage Fright Theatre Company—dancing masters of the macabre
.

Some kind of traveling show, thought Pip. Perhaps he should take the chance and climb aboard, get away as fast as possible. But he knew he must remain hidden. Who knows who these people were? He would use them for the ride and bail out when it was safe to do so.

Whilst the train still moved slowly he made a move to climb into the rear carriage, taking a chance and not knowing what would greet him. He hooked on to the back, trotting for a moment and looking for something to lunge onto and take a hold. With both hands held tight around the canvas he pulled himself upward and lowered his feet down onto the carriage platform. And then, unthreading the canvas at the corner, he stole inside to find himself scrabbling around in a sea of theater props. It was pitch black but he felt the curious things around him and guessed at what they were. Masks and helmets. Long coats and gowns. Swords and shields.

He heard distant voices from the other carriages, laughing and joking and telling their tales. In the early hours he fell asleep to the gentle swaying of the coach.

The journey was long and tough. Days rolled into nights and back into days again. At times they stopped and lit fires, cooked, and ate and sang songs. They told their tales as Pip listened from beneath the canvas. Dark and dreadful they were, of beasts and ogres and strange lands where the wild winds blew and thunder bellowed through the mountains. Of storms at sea and the wicked ways of men. Of dragons and kings and circles of magic.

Pip would have given anything to have joined them. He grew hungry and weak and longed for good food and the luxury of a campfire. To keep himself warm he had wrapped some kind of animal skin around himself. While the travelers slept he would sneak out and stretch his limbs, grabbing the bones from around the fire and sucking out their flavor.

When he looked around him he knew nothing of the barren lands through which they passed. He would not be leaving their company just yet, not until he found some- where that he felt was safe.

Pip thought of many things along the way. He imagined the perfect life with a real family: brothers and sisters, friends to spend time with, loving parents. Things he had never known. A sense of belonging.

When he slept the same dream returned to him, the one he had always had. There he was, sitting by the hearth, taking in the warmth of a slowly burning fire.

His parents were at his side, but try as he might he could not make out their faces. The harder he looked, the more the image became blurred. When he spoke to them he received no answer. And then he watched in frustration as they faded slowly, until they were not there at all.

He would wake in a cold sweat, breathing heavily and hoping he hadn’t called out in his sleep.

Pip’s only proof that someone actually drove the carriage he was in was the sound of voices bellowing at the black mares.

Though he could not see, there were times when he was sure they were creeping along dangerous precipices or braving the delicate surfaces of frozen lakes. The wind blew harder and the temperature dropped to freezing depths.

It must have been somewhere in the early hours of the morning when the Stage Fright Theatre Company made it home.

A small spy hatch opened and a keen eye peered out.

“Who is it? Whaddya want? … Oh, it’s you lot. Hold on.”

A great creak of opening gates echoed around Pip. He felt the jolt of movement as the carriages pulled forward. There was no mistaking it, they were now inside the walls of a city.

Pip could not have known, but it was a place he had once heard of in a fairy tale. A place they called Hangman’s Hollow.

Sooner or later, everyone catches a glimpse of Mister Jarvis. If you only half-looked you might think that he carried a blade by his side, but look again and you’d see that what shone when the light chanced upon it was the hook where his left hand should be. Closer still and you’d see the pink scar it had left across his face when he’d been thrown from his horse. Still, he was proud of that hook. Cleaned it, polished it, buffed it up like a favorite pair of old boots, ready to use should the need arise.

And the rest of him? Always the same wolfskin cloak and long black hair, ragged boots with worn-out soles. Cold and cutthroat he was, and filled with more hatred than the worst of storybook pirates.

Mostly he came at night, but sometimes to catch you unawares he would rattle through the streets in the daylight. Rolling along in the black carriage with his snake eyes peeled on every nook and cranny. Thundering over the cobblestones, sometimes squeezing through the skinny waists of the dark alleyways on foot with only the glow of his lamp to give him away and his cloak flapping out behind him. Or climbing up onto ledges and peering through windows.

And when the rain lashed the streets and the wind hurled itself recklessly around the tiles and chimneys, still he came.

It was winter now and it had snowed all day, thick and fast until it felt like the whole world had been transformed. A sleepy scene of cold, calm peace. As it grew dark, torchlights glowed at doorways and through the windows, fires burned within. Soft white flakes drifted dreamily downward. All was blissfully quiet.

And then the moment was spoiled. Jarvis’s carriage squeaked lazily down Pig Pudding Lane, plowing through the white, spoiling the clean surface with wheel tracks and hoof marks. The coach was squat and round so that it almost resembled a black pumpkin on wheels.

Sliding into the corner, it hung a right turn and entered the emptiness of the square, pulling up slowly. A crow swooped down from the blackness above and settled on Jarvis’s hood.

“Well?”

“Well, what?” grumbled Jarvis, disgruntled at the day’s pickings.

“Did you see anything?”

“No, Esther, I did not. Nothing at all, yet again. Anyway, never mind me. What about you? You’re supposed to be my eyes and ears, you useless old buzzard!”

“
Crow
,” corrected Esther.

But he was lost in thought and didn’t hear. “There are no children here anymore!” he mumbled under his foggy breath.

It was such a long time since he’d caught one that he almost believed it was true, but deep down he knew they were here somewhere. He would find one before the month was out. He’d made that promise to himself already.

He was certainly due some good luck, and he felt his reputation in the hollow was beginning to slide.