Goblins and Ghosties (8 page)

Still, he and Joachim got along pretty well.

Christmas Eve came. Everyone was off to the church, in spite of their fears that that marauding beast was still somewhere around. What was it? A bear? A wolf? A wolverine? The tracks seemed more wolf-like than anything, but they always seemed to peter out, lost among the footprints of too many searchers.

Still, there was safety in numbers. Off to
church
they went for the midnight service.

At the mill, life went on as usual. The millwheel kept turning. Joachim and Jean-Loup sat playing chess, drinking all the while.

Then, in the silence that followed the church bells ringing out at midnight, Joachim put down his glass and said, ‘Listen!'

Jean-Loup shook his head. ‘I can't hear anything.'

‘That's the point! The mill wheel's stopped.'

It happened from time to time when a branch brought down by the river got caught up in the works.

‘Come on!' said Joachim, grabbing his axe. ‘Bring the lantern.'

Jean-Loup stood in the doorway, looking up at the bright, full moon. ‘Why can't it wait till morning?'

‘Because I say so! And I'm the boss.'

Joachim soon found what the problem was: a branch, as he had thought. ‘Bring the light closer, so I can see what I'm doing.'

There was no answer but a low growl from above and behind him.

Looking
back up the steps, he saw, not Jean-Loup, but a great, grey, wolf-like creature. There was something about its eyes that was almost human. Something strangely familiar.

‘Jean-Loup!' roared Joachim. ‘Help me! Where are you?'

The creature growled again, gathering itself. Then, it sprang.

Joachim lifted his axe and managed to get in a swing at the creature's left foreleg before it slammed into him, knocking him backwards. He hit the frozen ground and everything went black.

He woke to find himself tucked up in his own bed, with Jean-Loup bending over him, sponging his face with cold water.

Joachim was about to thank the young man for saving his life when he noticed a rough bandage tied round Jean-Loup's left forearm, the blood already seeping through.

‘It was you!' he whispered. ‘The beast that
attacked
me. Jean-Loup – the loup-garou – the werewolf!'

Jean-Loup said nothing, only gave him that look with those feral eyes – the look that made you afraid to turn your back.

Joachim must have passed out again.

When he came round, Jean-Loup had gone.

I wish I could say old Joachim was a reformed character after that, but he was still just as foul-smelling, foul-mouthed and foul-tempered as before. At least he did talk to his neighbours more now. After all, he had a story to tell to anyone who'd listen. And there was something that always puzzled him, a question to which he still hadn't found an answer. ‘I don't know why he let me live,' he'd say.

But if anyone suggested it might be because he'd been kind to the young man, ‘Kind? Me?' he'd scoff. ‘It's not in my nature!'

The Forest People

New Zealand

They are the patupaiarehe, the fair-skinned ones, who live deep in the forest, creatures of mist and shadow. Some say they are the people who were here before the Maori came. Some say they are nothing but a memory, yet they still have power. Power to steal away a man's shadow and what is a man without his shadow? Without his shadow he'll fade away and die.

The
patupaiarehe were much on the young warrior's mind as he set up camp for himself that night. Somehow, he'd managed to get separated from the rest of the hunting party. He'd tried calling out and several times, in the distance, had thought he heard voices calling back, but they didn't sound like any voices he knew, nor any human voices at all, so in the end he kept quiet.

He'd find his way home easily enough come daylight.

So he rigged up a shelter beneath a cliff overhang and built a small fire, wishing he had some of the game they'd killed so he could cook himself some supper.

Still he could hear those strange voices in the distance, like something between human speech and birdsong.

He wrapped himself in his cloak, lay down and tried to sleep.

Soon they came, the patupaiarehe, whispering on the night wind, tumbling along on the evening mist, flickering through the shadows thrown by the fire.

He
told himself they were just curious. What harm could they do him anyway, so long as he cast no shadow for them to steal?

So he curled himself up very small in his shelter under the cliff and pretended to be asleep.

Soon as they got bored, they'd go away.

He fancied he could feel their shadow-fingers stealing over him, light as moths in the dark.

His fingers strayed to the greenstone tiki he wore round his neck. A beautiful thing it was, so intricately carved, passed down from generation to generation, along with all the memories of his kinship group. Holding the tiki always made him feel braver.

The whispering voices grew louder, more insistent.

Was this what they wanted? The tiki? The most precious thing he owned?

It was heavy price to pay for trespassing on the territory of the patupaiarehe, but it seemed they'd be content with nothing less.

With a prayer for forgiveness to his
ancestors,
he eased the tiki on its cord from round his neck. He withdrew a stick from the rough shelter he'd built and hooked the cord around it. Then carefully – very carefully, so as to cast no shadow – he held the stick out until the tiki caught the firelight.

At once, the patupaiarehe clustered round it like excited children – whispering, singing, leaping and dancing.

Gradually, their voices faded.

When the warrior dared to open his eyes again, it was morning.

And there was the tiki, lying beside the ashes of the fire. Had it all been a dream? He picked up the tiki and held it so it caught the sunlight.

He looked down at his shadow. There it was, safe and sound. There was the shadow of his arm outstretched, his hand holding… nothing.

He looked again at the tiki, then back to where its shadow should have been, swinging the tiki back and forth.

Then
he began to laugh. This was a story to tell his children and his grandchildren, along with all the other tales passed down with the tiki through the years. What good was the tiki itself, he'd ask them, to the people of mist and shadows? In the end, all they'd stolen was its shadow. And here was the tiki itself as proof. ‘Hold it up to the light,' he'd say, ‘and you'll see.'

The Goblin Pony

Britanny

‘What are you doing, Grandmamma?' said Yann.

‘What does it look like? I'm bolting the doors and fastening the window shutters to keep us safe from harm.'

‘But it's Hallowe'en!' said Erwan. ‘We were going out.'

‘The only place to be on Hallowe'en,' their grandmother said wisely, ‘is here indoors by the fire. Hallowe'en is the night when spirits
walk
and witches weave spells and dead men rise from their graves. And the wild hunt of the old gods rides the storm clouds in search of souls to carry off to the lost land of Lyonesse under the sea. So you stay here, my dears, and keep your old grandmother company. Cheer up! It won't be so bad. I've chestnuts to roast and toffee apples and a fresh batch of gingerbread warm from the oven.'

But, from their bedroom window, the boys could see the bonfire burning on top of the cliff, the figures dancing round it.

When they opened the window they could hear the sound of music from the village inn, where Yann knew the landlord's daughter, Barbara, would be waiting.

‘Well, are you coming?' said Erwan.

‘Try and stop me!' said Yann.

Out of the window they went, one after the other, climbing down the ivy-covered wall and they set off down the path towards the lane.

There – what a stroke of luck – stood a pony, quietly cropping the grass at the place where the path met the lane.

‘
Looks like Le Pen's pony's got out of his paddock again,' said Yann.

‘We've no time to take him back now,' said Erwan. ‘We'll miss half the fun.'

‘We'll take him back in the morning,' said Yann. ‘Meanwhile, he can give us a ride.'

So up they got and off they trotted till they came to the village inn, where Barbara, the landlord's daughter was waiting.

‘Up you get!' said Yann.

‘My! We're travelling in style tonight,' said Barbara. ‘Isn't this Le Pen's pony?'

‘Looks like it, doesn't it?' grinned Yann.

‘Is there room up here for my sister Ann, too?'

‘Of course there is!'

‘There's plenty of room!'

‘Up you get, Annie!'

Off they jogged again, back down the village street, until they met Pierrick and Padrig running hell for leather the other way.

‘Help us!'

‘Help us!'