The howls and cries came earlier and earlier each night – this time not long after the O’Chanter girls had huddled together in their blankets. Near and far, unseen voices of the woods seemed to call to one other as they surrounded the Hollow. Some spoke in wolfish growls, others in throaty warbles that sounded more like the clucking tongue of a hag than the beak of a raven or vulture. And yet the most unnerving sound wasn’t a voice at all but the plod and slither of something heavy dragging itself through the dried leaves and dead pine needles that carpeted the forest floor. With its arrival the rest of the nightmarish choir went silent, and the restless creeper circled the Rill over and over without crossing, dull teeth clacking as it went.
Abby sang softly in Lottie’s ear until, eventually, the slithering lurker abandoned its vigil, and its unnerving sound ebbed and faded into the distance. With the Hollow once again consumed by the silence of the massive trees, Lottie finally drifted off. Rye only feigned sleep, performing her best fake snore.
She listened as her mother gathered some supplies in the darkness, and when Abby headed for the tree house steps, Rye whispered loud enough for her to hear.
“You’ll be back tomorrow, Mama?”
Abby paused. “Of course, my love,” she said, and Rye heard her kiss her fingertips. Abby’s hand fluttered in the air as if releasing a butterfly. Rye pretended to catch it.
Abby’s silhouette disappeared and Rye pulled a blanket tight under her chin in an effort to sleep. She pinched her eyes tight, and tossed. Then turned. And tossed some more. But sleep proved elusive.
Before long, the glow of Rye’s lantern wound its way down the oak tree’s spiral steps. It passed over the mossy turf of the Hollow, then tumbled to the ground with a metallic clank.
“Pigshanks,” Rye whispered, regaining her footing after stumbling over a root. She peeked back at the tree house to see if she’d woken anyone.
The windows remained dark. The only sound now was Mr Nettle’s snoring wafting from the porch in the limbs above. The Feraling still insisted on sleeping outdoors.
Rye set the lantern down at the edge of the Rill.
She crouched along the interior bank of the peculiar little stream, careful not to wet her feet. The lantern light flickered off the water against her face.
Rye didn’t know why animals and other creatures of the forest could never cross the Rill. Mr Nettle had told her it was one of those mysteries that was just accepted and understood, like the knowledge that trees would shed their leaves and feign death during winter, only to be reborn again come spring. The O’Chanters, Mr Nettle and other humans might splash through without consequence, but without the aid of bridge or branch, the narrow stream seemed as daunting as an ocean to the forest beasts. Whatever the reason, the Rill had made the Hollow a safe haven for the O’Chanters – and whoever had originally built the tree house long ago.
Rye took a deep breath. And waited. But not for her mother – Abby was probably already on her way down the Wend.
Finally, after many minutes, she heard a sound. Not like the restless predatory voices – but the faintest rustle of leaves and pine needles in the distance. She squinted and peered forward into the gloom. Then she saw them – two glowing yellow eyes watching her from the shadow of a twisted trunk.
Rye didn’t move. The Hollow might provide sanctuary, but she still knew better than to cross the Rill after dark.
Instead, she toed the edge of the embankment, extending her hand as far across the stream as she could reach. She nearly lost her balance and had to brace herself just as the black beast emerged from the darkness.
The burly shadow padded forward and settled on the other side of the water. It opened its mouth, lantern light flickering off its sharp white teeth. It licked its whiskers. Rye smiled.
“Shady,” she whispered, and was just able to graze his thick mane with her fingertips. He pushed his head into her hand and shared a thankful rumble that sounded like a purr.
Rye had assumed she would never see her beloved family pet again – not that you could really call Nightshade Fur Bottom O’Chanter a pet any more. Rye had grown up believing Shady to be nothing more than an abnormally large house cat. However, he was in fact a Gloaming Beast, a mysterious breed of creatures with a predisposition to hunt Bog Noblins. True to his nature, Shady had disappeared into the forest last spring in pursuit of his favourite prey. But not long after the O’Chanters had returned south and found the Hollow, she was shocked to discover that he had found them.
Shady kept his distance, and never crossed the Rill, but he had stopped by the edge of the Hollow each of the last few evenings. This was as close as he’d ever let Rye get, and the first time he’d let her pet him since their days together back in Drowning. His fur was velvety in her fingers, and she remembered the many nights he’d spent keeping her lap warm – and protecting her.
“I’ve missed you,” she whispered.
His bushy tail batted the night air.
Rye’s other hand fingered something in her pocket. She slowly brought it out, and Shady pulled away abruptly, dropping himself on to his side several paces away. He gave her what looked to be a disappointed glare.
“Sorry,” she said, and examined the worn leather band strung with runestones in her hand. It was the collar Shady had worn all those years he’d lived with the O’Chanters. She gave him a sheepish shrug. “Wouldn’t it hurt your feelings if I didn’t at least try?”
There was a rustle from among the trees. Shady turned his chin to the forest with interest, but no alarm. His rough tongue licked a paw so thick it looked like it could belong to a bear cub.
“Who else is out there, Shady?” Rye whispered. “What else is out there?”
Shady just blinked his yellow eyes in reply.
Rye sighed. “Oh how I wish you could talk.”
He stretched and casually strolled back to where another pair of eyes now waited. Rye knew it must be Gristle, the Gloaming Beast that had set out into the forest with Shady many months before. She seemed to want nothing to do with Rye or the Hollow.
Both Shady’s and Gristle’s eyes flickered, just an instant before an animalistic, beast-baby wail pierced the still air like an unseasonal wind. Rye jumped to her feet. The eerie sound came from close by, and she knew very well what had made it. It was the cry of a Bog Noblin. Quite possibly the one she’d encountered with the huntsman. She stepped back from the edge of the Rill.
Shady narrowed his eyes, glanced over his shoulder at Rye, and darted into the trees.
“Be careful out there,” Rye called. “And keep an eye on Mama.”
But Shady and Gristle had already disappeared into the darkness.
THE NEXT DAY, the hours seemed to crawl. Rye sat in the moss at the edge of the Rill, her arms wrapped round her knees. She’d paced the Hollow’s perimeter much of the morning, watching and listening for any sign of Harmless. But if he was still out there, the breeze brought no whisper of him. There was no sign of Abby either.
The only sign of life on the forest side of the Rill was Mr Nettle. He’d set the rowan-branch bridge across the stream and stood on the opposite embankment, his hands on his hips and his round belly jutting over his belt. Mr Nettle stared up at the limbs high above, trying to work out how the brindlebacks were getting over the Rill. He chewed his beard and scratched the curly hair that stuck up from his head. Lottie was using his horned skullcap like a makeshift net, trawling the gently flowing water,