There was little that the youngest O’Chanter could offer in her family’s search for Harmless, so instead she usually busied herself by searching the underbrush and streams for something that might replace her long-lost pet lizard, Newtie. Mr Nettle had helped twist branches and slender twigs into a remarkable replica of Newtie’s former wire birdcage. One day she had cheerfully filled it with some fireflies, two orange-bellied salamanders and a knotty-looking toad of poor temperament collected from the forest. But by the time she’d made it back to the Hollow, the salamanders had devoured the fireflies before disappearing themselves and all she was left with was a rather bloated, immobile toad that had apparently eaten itself into an early demise. She’d had even less success since then, and now the cage remained empty.
Mr Nettle dropped himself down on to the ground next to Rye.
“I’ve dwelled in these woods my whole life,” he said, following her gaze to the forest, “and I can tell you that staring at the trees won’t hurry along whomever you are waiting for.” He cocked his head back towards her. “It’ll just blur your vision.”
Rye looked over and smiled sadly.
Mr Nettle crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue. Rye giggled.
“Oh,” he said, pressing his fingers to his eyelids, “I think I’ve made myself dizzy.”
“I’ll be glad when Mama’s back, and I can do more searching and less waiting,” she said impatiently.
“The forest moves at its own pace,” Mr Nettle said. “Live here long enough and you learn to take what it offers and ask nothing more. Those who try otherwise don’t live here long at all.”
Rye, Abby and Lottie had met Mr Nettle during their earliest days Beyond the Shale. They’d discovered a glade similar to the Hollow situated further north along the Wend. The tiny shelter there was run-down and looked to be abandoned, but they’d found Mr Nettle living in its remains. He didn’t say much at first but was eager to join them when they were leaving. They were lucky to have found him when they did. If not for Mr Nettle’s intimate knowledge of the forest, Rye doubted they would have lasted this long Beyond the Shale.
“What is Harmless like?” he asked, when Rye once again turned her impatient eyes to the shadows of the pines.
Rye pursed her lips in thought. Truth be told, she’d only really known Harmless for less than a year herself. It seemed like every time she began to get a clear picture of him, she uncovered some additional detail that blurred her vision like a half-remembered dream. That, or he up and disappeared altogether.
“He’s difficult to describe,” Rye began. “He listens more than he speaks, but he’s always answered every question I’ve asked of him. He can be funny and playful.” She raised an eyebrow at Mr Nettle. “Too much so if you ask my mother. But he’s been called an outlaw – and worse.”
Rye recalled some of the names Harmless had been tagged with: Grey the Grim, Grey the Ghastly, and, by the Bog Noblins, Nightmare and Painsmith. From what she had heard, those names had been well earned.
“And yet,” Rye continued, “whenever he’s near I feel safe. And the only reason he is out there –” she nodded towards the trees with her chin – “the only reason he exiled himself once again, to be hunted by Bog Noblins and men even more dangerous … was to protect me.”
Mr Nettle crossed his arms and furrowed his brow. “It sounds like what you have there … is a father.” He gave her a tight smile. “Their ways are riddles to all of us, whether we’re twelve or fifty-two.” He pushed himself to his feet and brushed off his crimped wool trousers with his palms.
Rye buried her chin in her hands and narrowed her eyes at the forest once again.
That evening, after finishing the remains of a sparse supper Abby had left behind for them, Rye and Lottie climbed into their blankets.
“Mama should have returned by now,” Rye whispered to Mr Nettle.
“I’ll keep an ear out,” he replied quietly. “Nothing to be alarmed over. You and your sister try to get some rest.”
Mr Nettle bid them good night and retired to his nest of loose bedding on the tree-house porch. But Rye was alarmed. Her mother wouldn’t leave them waiting without good reason.
“Buggle snug?” Lottie asked, tucking Mona Monster, her hobgoblin rag doll, tight under her arm. Mona’s polka-dot fabric was more grey than pink these days.
“Of course, Lottie,” Rye said. “We can do snuggle bug.”
Rye wrapped her own arm round Lottie and pulled her close, Lottie burying her head in Rye’s shoulder. Lottie had allowed Rye to tame her unkempt hair into a long red braid after a colony of ants had taken a liking to some sap stuck in her locks. It still smelled like pine pitch and cook smoke, but Rye didn’t mind. She just held her little sister tight until they both settled into a rhythmic breathing and eventually fell asleep wishing Abby was there with them.
Rye woke disoriented by the first voice of the night’s choir. Lottie’s eyes were still shut, her mouth open and drooling on Rye’s chest. The voice came again. But this was no growl or slither of an unknown beast. She recognised it as the sound of a far more ordinary animal – the whinny of a rather unhappy horse.
Pulling her arm free, Rye rushed out on to the treehouse porch. From the shadows of the oak tree’s boughs she looked down upon the Hollow. To her disappointment, it was neither Abby nor Harmless. Instead, on the opposite side of the Rill, four hooded men struggled with a horse laden with packs. In the light of their lanterns, she saw the frightened animal buck and rear back as one man tried, unsuccessfully, to yank it by the reins across the shallow stream.
“Worthless mule,” he cursed, splashing through the shallow water and on to the banks of the Hollow to improve his leverage. The others pushed at the horse’s rump without success, and nearly got kicked for their trouble.
“Who are they?” Rye whispered to Mr Nettle, who had joined her at the railing.
“I don’t know. Surely they’ve come down the Wend. But I don’t like their manner one bit.”
The man in the Hollow lowered his hood and raised his lantern, peering up at the branches.
“Who’s up there?” he called. “I can hear you warbling. Come down this instant. We seek shelter for the night.”
Rye and Mr Nettle stepped away from the railing, deeper into the shadows. They exchanged uneasy glances. Lottie stumbled out to join them, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Mona Monster was still tucked under her arm.
“Come down, I say,” the voice bellowed, “before I burn you out of your tree.”
The man’s ashen face reflected in the lantern light, his dark eyes squinting as he struggled to see them.
Rye heard Mr Nettle suck in his breath.
“What is it?” Rye asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But these men smell of danger … and death.”
Rye dared to return to the railing, trying to get a better look at the four visitors.
“Wait here,” Mr Nettle ordered urgently. “And be absolutely quiet. You too, Miss Lottie.”
Lottie turned an imaginary key at her lips.
“Innkeeper!” the hoodless man demanded, his black lips curling. “I’m readying the torches!”
“Coming,” Mr Nettle called. “One moment!” He gestured again for Rye and Lottie to stay put as he hurried off to the winding stairs.
Rye leaned over the railing. The man in the Hollow had smudged black face paint running