Snowbone (12 page)

Blackeye drifted on, but the light was fading. Now the chambers were deathly dark. No roots, no fingers of flame. The air was thickening. A heavy muskiness permeated the burrow system. And the ground was moving.

Blackeye hardly noticed it at first—it was no more than a faint trembling. But soon it became a rumble. The whole tunnel was shaking and he knew why.

There was something coming.

Blackeye froze. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. His legs seemed rooted to the ground. A wind battered his face as it rushed ahead of the horror. A beast-howl bark snapped at his ears.

It was coming.

Blackeye turned and started to run. Faster, faster, boot and brain:
think-think-think-think-think-think-think!

He didn't know where he was going. The Beast did, and it was getting closer. There was no way out, no escape, and the Beast was getting closer. He had no knife, no gun, no sword. The Beast had teeth and claws and it was getting closer.

Stop!
Blackeye skidded to a halt. “This isn't my body!” he said. He patted his thighs, his belly, his head. His hands passed right though. “This is just a projection! The Beast can't kill me … can it?
Can it?
Oh! Oh!
Ohhhh!”

A great black paw swiped round the bend in the tunnel. Cleaver claws sliced the air where Blackeye had been. But Blackeye was floating. Up, up, up through the blackness, up through the couch, back into his body. And when he dared to open his eyes, all he saw was the moon of Butterbur's face, golden in the gleam of the lantern.

lackeye told Butterbur all he had seen. She nodded her head.

“I have read this in the old books,” she said. “The roots are the roots of ashen trees and the flickering blue flames are the souls of the Ancestors. As long as the trees live, the souls remain tethered and the Ancestors thrive.”

“And what about the Beast?” said Blackeye with a shudder.

“Ah, the Beast!” she said. “That is the Spirit of the Land. The Spirit of Ashenpeake. Did you see what it looked like?”

“No.”

“That's a shame! I'd like to know, and the books never mention it.”

“Why did it attack me?”

“It was protecting the island, I imagine. Or the Ancients— the Otherworld is their home, remember. Anyway, young man, it's time you were in bed. So come!”

They climbed the stone stairs back to the surgery.

“I would like you to do this every night while you're here,” said Butterbur, concealing the trapdoor with the rug. “If you
develop your skills, you can shadow-fly wherever you want. There are many things I can teach you. Will you come?”

Blackeye nodded.

“Good lad. But promise me this: you won't tell anyone what you're doing.”

Mouse.
Blackeye told her everything. There were no secrets between them. They were the best of friends. No, they were more than that. One day, they would be married. They both knew it.

“You must promise me,” said Butterbur sternly. “Your friends will learn about it in time, but until then—” She put her finger to her lips.

Blackeye promised. Then, with a yawn, he crept up the stairs to his room, carefully opened the door and slid into bed. Soon he was fast asleep, with Mouse and the soul-lights dancing through his dreams, fleet as the frost outside.

he tiddlins stayed with Butterbur while the snow fell ever deeper. Every day Butterbur applied a fresh poultice to Figgis's arm, which, to his immense relief, started to re-grow. Snowbone worked in the animal hospital, learning how to fold bandages and mix medicines. The tiddlins built snowmen and threw themselves downhill on sleds and tea trays.

Every night Blackeye flew.

He was a perfect pupil. He remembered everything Butterbur told him and practiced hard. Soon he was able to shadow-fly wherever he wanted, and he didn't need the amber potion. He simply had to concentrate on his breathing until he felt himself slipping out of his body and then he was away.

Blackeye didn't return to the Otherworld. He had no desire to meet the Spirit of Ashenpeake again, and there were far more interesting places to go. On the second night, Butterbur had suggested flying to Black Sand Bay.

“Can I?” he said. “Really? I thought I could only visit the Otherworld.”

“No!” laughed Butterbur. “You can go wherever you want. Up or down.”

And so, night after night, Blackeye had explored the island. He had looped-the-loop over Black Sand Bay, soared over the summit of Ashenpeake Mountain, drooled at the aroma of fish and chips over Kessel harbor, and raced dolphins by moonlight off the Southern Peninsula.

He kept his promise to Butterbur. He didn't tell anyone his secret, not even Mouse. And though he was tired and stumbly after his lessons, he always managed to return to bed without disturbing anyone.

But on the fifth night, someone was watching. Someone who had noticed his tired eyes and faraway look. Someone who now stood, pale and silent, in the shadows at the end of the corridor.

Snowbone.

“
hat's going on?”

It was the following morning. Butterbur had called a special meeting in the dining room and Snowbone had decided to ambush Blackeye before he could get there.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” said Blackeye.

“I think you do,” said Snowbone. She squared up to Black-eye, hands on hips, eyes bright. “I saw you last night, sneaking back to bed when you thought no one was looking. I've seen you whispering with Butterbur in the surgery.”

“So?” Blackeye grinned. “It's nothing.”

He slipped by her and headed for the dining room door, but Snowbone was there first, barring his way.

“Tell me,” said Snowbone.

“No.”

“Tell me!”

“No!” said Blackeye, and he flashed his usual carefree smile.

Snowbone felt like thumping him. “I bet you've told
her.
”

“Told me what?” Mouse had appeared out of nowhere.

“Where he goes when the rest of us are in bed,” said Snow-bone.

“No, he hasn't,” said Mouse, and, to Blackeye's dismay, her beautiful eyes clouded over.

“It's nothing to worry about,” said Blackeye, taking her hand.

“So there
is
something!” cried Snowbone triumphantly.

“Yes, but I can't tell you.”

“Why?” demanded Snowbone.

“Because I told him not to!” said Butterbur. She had been in the dining room all the time. “And that's the way it's going to stay. Back off, Snowbone! You don't need to know everything. There are things in this world that simply don't concern you. Now get out of the way. You're blocking the door, and Blackeye is trying to come in for good reason. And it's no use scowling at me, young lady, I won't change my mind. Mouse, welcome. Take a seat. Figgis, Manu and Tigermane are already here.”

Snowbone stomped into the dining room and found a seat. Butterbur took her place at the head of the table and smiled at the gathering.

“Figgis has been telling me your plans,” she said. “I'd like to help. That's why I've summoned you all here. I've brought some maps along. I think they'll make things clearer.” She unrolled one of the maps. “This is Ashenpeake Island,” she said. “We are here at Bogey Bridge. As for the traders you're after, the man at Wimberry Tump said they'd taken the Puddle road. Well, that makes sense to me, because I suspect they're heading
here.”
She pointed at a place on the east coast. “Spittel Point. It's a port, very popular with slavers.”

“Why would they go there?” asked Tigermane.

“That's where all the deals are done,” said Butterbur. “They can find a ship that will carry the sap to the Nova Land.” She unrolled another map. “This is a map of the world. We are here, on Ashenpeake. This”—she traced a route west, across a huge expanse of ocean—“is the Nova Land, the ‘new world.’ It's a vast place. Most of it is still unexplored. All the towns are here, on the east coast. Farrago is the biggest—and the roughest. It's growing so fast, no one can really control it. It's wild and dangerous, and that's why the sap will be going there.”

“I don't understand,” said Mouse.

“The slave trade is changing,” said Butterbur. “When people first moved to the Nova Land, the demand for slaves was enormous. Traders shipped thousands of eggs across and fortunes were made. Now the market is starting to collapse. The Nova Landers are breeding their own slaves. Suddenly there's no need to buy eggs from abroad. So the traders are dealing in something that the Nova Land doesn't have—ashen sap.”

“What exactly is ashen sap?” said Manu.

“Ashen sap is what Ashenpeakers have instead of blood,” said Butterbur. “If you cut us deep enough, it comes out. It's a sticky white stuff and it has extraordinary healing powers. It can heal any wound—even a flesh-and-blood wound—and that's why the traders are so interested in it. The Nova Land is a dangerous place. People are having all kinds of accidents, and traders who can supply ashen sap will be rich.

“There's just one problem. How do they get hold of it in the kind of quantities they need? They can't harvest it off living people. If you cut an Ashenpeaker, the sap seeps out very slowly.”

“That's true,” said Figgis. “When my arm was cut off, I didn't lose more than a cupful of the stuff.”

“Exactly,” said Butterbur. “But inside every Ashenpeaker, there is a reservoir of sap. It's like a well, right here in our middles. That's why we have a bit of a belly on us! We've got this extra piece of baggage that humans don't carry. Even when we Move On, the well remains. In fact, it gets larger over time and the sap becomes more potent. So the traders have realized that this island is covered with thousands of sap wells—inside the ashen trees. That's what this rogue band of slavers is doing. They're harvesting sap, and killing our Ancestors in the process.”

“It's horrible,” said Mouse.

“It's the truth,” said Figgis. “That's why we must find those slavers. We must make them pay. My arm will be good as new by the end of the week. We can go after them then.”

Snowbone frowned. “You're well enough to travel now, aren't you?”

“The end of the week will suit everybody better,” said Butter-bur firmly.

And Snowbone knew that by
everybody
Butterbur meant Blackeye. What on earth were they up to?

eaving Butterbur's house, the tiddlins traveled south. By day, they marched relentlessly, beetling down the high-hedged lanes. At night, they slept—in barns, in sheds, in snow-canopied woodland—anywhere they could find a dry floor. The tiddlins didn't feel the cold, but they did suffer from the constant damp. The snow penetrated their clothing and sank into their wooden limbs. After hours of tramping, their legs would feel heavy and tight round the joints. Without those few, precious hours under cover every night, they wouldn't have been able to go on, no matter how high their spirits.