Beyond the Deepwoods (11 page)

Twig trembled with loneliness. ‘I'm tired and hungry,’ he said.

‘So what!’ they jeered.

Twig bit into his lower lip. ‘And I'm lost!’ he shouted angrily. ‘Can't I go with you?’

The goblin directly in front of him turned and shrugged. ‘It be all the same to us what you do.’

Twig sighed. It was the nearest to an invitation he was likely to get. At least they hadn't said he
couldn't
go with them. The goblins were unpleasant but, as Twig had already learned, you couldn't afford to be too fussy in the Deepwoods. And so, picking out the tarry vine's thorny splinters from his wrist as he went, Twig did go with them.

‘Do you have names?’ he called out, some while later.

‘We are gyle goblins,’ they all replied as one.

A little farther after that, they were suddenly joined by three more goblins, and then another three – and then half a dozen more. They all looked the same. It was only the objects balanced on their flat heads that singled them out. One was carrying a wicker tray of berries, one, a basket of knotted roots, another, a huge bulbous gourd of purple and yellow.

All at once, the thronging crowd emerged from the forest and Twig was swept along with them into a sunlit clearing. In front of him stood a magnificent construction made of a pink, waxen material, with sagging windows and drooping towers. It was as tall as the tallest trees and stretched back farther than Twig could see.

The goblins began chattering excitedly. ‘We are back,’ they cried, as they surged forwards. ‘We are home. Our
Grossmother will be pleased with us. Our Grossmother will feed us.’

Squeezed on all sides by the crush of bodies, Twig could hardly breathe. Suddenly, his feet left the ground and he found himself being carried on against his will. A great gateway loomed up in front of him. The next moment he was sucked beneath the towering arch in the flood of gyle goblins, and on into the colony itself.

Once inside, the goblins hurried off in all directions. Twig tumbled to the floor with a thud. More and more of the goblins continued to pour in. They stepped on his hands, they tripped over his legs. With one arm raised protectively, Twig struggled to his feet and tried in vain to get back to the door.

Jostled and bounced, he was driven across the hall and down one of the many tunnels. The air became closer, clammier. The walls were sticky and warm and glowed with a deep pink light.

‘You've got to help me,’ Twig pleaded as the goblins shoved past him. ‘I'm hungry!’ he cried, and grabbed a long woodsap from one of the passing baskets.

The goblin, whose fruit it was, turned on him angrily. ‘That does not be for you,’ he snapped, and snatched the woodsap back.

‘But I
need
it,’ said Twig weakly.

The goblin turned his back, and was gone. Twig felt anger bubbling up inside him. He was hungry. The goblins had food – yet they wouldn't let him have any. All at once his anger exploded.

The goblin with the woodsaps hadn't got far. Barging
past the others, Twig steadied himself, threw himself at the goblin's ankles – and missed.

He sat up, dazed. He was lying next to a narrow alcove set back in the wall. It was into this opening that the goblin had darted. Twig smiled grimly as he climbed to his feet. He had the goblin cornered.

‘You!’ he yelled. ‘I want some of that fruit and I want it now.’

The red woodsaps gleamed in the pink light. Twig could already taste their syrupy flesh on his tongue.

‘I did tell you once,’ said the goblin as he swung the basket down off his head. ‘They do not be for you.’ And with that, he tipped the entire load of woodsaps down a hole in the floor. Twig heard them bouncing down a long chute and landing far below – with a muffled
plattsh
.

Twig stared at the goblin open-mouthed. ‘Why did you do
that
?’ he said.

But the goblin left without saying a word.

Twig slumped to the floor. ‘Horrible little beast,’ he muttered. Others came with their loads of roots, fruits, berries and leaves. None of them noticed Twig. None of them heard him pleading for something to eat. Eventually, Twig fell silent and stared down at the sticky floor. The stream of goblins dwindled.

It was only when a latecomer arrived, grumbling to himself about the time, that Twig looked up again. The goblin looked flustered. His hands shook as he tipped his load of succulent yellow tubroots down the hole.

‘At last,’ he sighed. ‘Now for some food.’

Food.
Food
! The wonderful word echoed round Twig's
head. He leapt up and followed the goblin.

Two right turns and a left fork later, Twig found himself in a vast, cavernous chamber. It was round and high and domed, with glistening walls and thick pillars like dripping candles. The air was cloying with the familiar sickly sweet smell, and sticky on the skin.

Although packed, the chamber was quite still. The gyle goblins were all staring upwards, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, at a point in the very centre of the domed ceiling. Twig followed their gaze and saw a wide tube slowly descending. Clouds of pink steam billowed out from its end, making the stuffy air more stifling still.

The tube came to a halt inches above a trough. The goblins held their breath as one. There was a click and a gurgle, a final puff of steam, and all at once a torrent of thick, pink honey poured out of the bottom of the tube and into the trough.

At the sight of the honey, the goblins went wild. Voices were raised, fists flew. Those at the back surged forwards, while those at the front fought with each other. They scratched, they scraped, they tore at one another's clothes in a frenzied effort to be first at the steaming pink honey.

Twig drew back, away from the rioting goblins. He felt behind him for the wall and worked his way around the outside of the chamber. And when he came to a flight of stairs, he climbed it. Halfway to the top, he stopped, sat, and looked down on the goblins.

The pink honey was splashing and splattering everywhere as the goblins struggled to get as much of the
gooey mixture as they could. Some were slurping from their cupped hands. Some had plunged their heads into the sticky mess and were gulping it down in greedy mouthfuls. One had jumped into the trough and was lying directly under the tube with his mouth open. A look of mindless contentment spread over his spattered features.

Twig shook his head in disgust.

All at once, there was a loud
CLONK
and the stream of pink honey stopped. Feeding time was over. A half-hearted groan went up and several of the goblins clambered into the trough to lick it clean. The rest began to file away; calmly, peacefully. Along with their hunger, the frantic atmosphere had also disappeared.

The chamber was all but empty when Twig climbed to his feet. He paused. There was another noise.
PUFF-PANT
, it went.
SQUELCH, CLATTER
. And again.
PUFF-PANT, SQUELCH, CLATTER
.

Heart pounding, Twig spun round and peered up into the darkness above him. He fingered his amulets nervously.

PUFF-PANT, SQUELCH, CLATTER
.

Twig gasped with terror. Something was approaching. Something he didn't like the sound of one tiny little bit.

PUFF-PANT, SQUELCH, CLATTER, G-R-O-A-N!

All at once, the doorway at the top of the stairs was filled with the
BIGGEST
, the
FATTEST
, the
MOST MONSTROUSLY OBESE
creature Twig had ever
ever
EVER
seen. She – for it was female – moved her head and surveyed the scene below her. Beady eyes peered over her fat cheeks, and the rolls of blubber around her neck wobbled.

‘No peace for the wicked,’ she muttered. Her voice sounded like bubbling mud. Plob plob plob plob plob. ‘Still,’ she added softly, shifting the mop and bucket in her hands. ‘Grossmother's boys be worth it.’

She squished and squeezed herself through the doorway, wodge by wobbling wodge. Twig leaped to his feet, flew down the stairs and hid in the only place there was to hide – beneath the trough. The noise continued –
PUFF-PANT, SQUELCH, CLATTER. THUD
! Twig peeked nervously out.

The Grossmother was moving quickly for one so immense. Closer she came, closer and closer. Twig shivered with dread, ‘She must have seen me,’ he groaned, and shrank back as far into the shadows as he could.

The bucket clattered to the floor, the mop plunged into the water and the Grossmother began cleaning the mess her ‘boys’ had left. In the trough and around it she slopped, humming wheezily as she worked. Finally, she seized the bucket and threw the remaining water
underneath
the trough.

Twig yelped with surprise. The water was icy cold.

‘What was that?’ the Grossmother shrieked, and began prodding and jabbing beneath the trough with her mop. Time and again, Twig dodged out of the way. But then his luck ran out. The mop slammed into his chest and sent him skidding backwards, out into the open. The Grossmother was upon him at once.

‘Ugh!’ she exclaimed. ‘Vile … disgusting … revolting
VERMIN
! Contaminating my beautiful colony.’

She seized Twig by the ear, swung him up off the ground and plonked him into the bucket. Then she rammed the mop down on top of him, picked the whole lot up and hauled herself back to the top of the stairs.

Twig lay still. His chest ached, his ear throbbed – the bucket swayed. He heard the Grossmother squeeze herself back through the door, and then through another. The sweet, sickly smell grew stronger than ever. Suddenly the swaying stopped. Twig waited a moment, then pushed the mop aside and peered over the edge.

The bucket was hanging from a hook, high up above a vast steamy kitchen. Twig gasped. There was no way down.

He watched the Grossmother wobble across the room to where two massive pots were bubbling away on a stove. She seized a wooden paddle and plunged it into the simmering pink honey. ‘Stir, stir, stir,’ she sang. ‘Got to keep it stirring.’

Then she dipped a podgy finger into the pot, and sucked it thoughtfully. Her face broke into a smile. ‘Perfect,’ she said. ‘Though perhaps we could do with just a little more.’