Skull in the Wood (17 page)

I couldn't stop thinking about my sister lying weak and helpless in a hospital bed. She's never like that. Never. Healthy as a prize lamb, Dad always says. Some of my friends don't get on with their brothers and sisters, but I've always loved Kitty. She's just so – well – sunny. It sounds corny, but she's truly sweet and cheerful and likes everybody.

She
couldn't
die. She couldn't follow Mum and disappear from my life. I wouldn't let her.

I tried not to let my mind run away with me, but I kept seeing her with tubes hooked up to her and the
doctors shaking their heads. That's what happened to Mum when she was run over. When Dad and I got to the hospital we weren't even allowed to see her. And then she was dead.

At the dry stone wall I quickened my pace. The drizzle was harder now. Normally I love being out on the moor on my own – but then normally I have Jez with me. And today it was so grey and horrible, and the rain meant I couldn't see that far ahead. It doesn't take much to make the ground wet here, and it was getting fairly muddy in parts. But it wasn't really the weather that was worrying me. And though I was totally freaked out about Kitty, it wasn't that either. It was something else, though I couldn't pinpoint it exactly. My ears seemed to have become super sensitive, picking up all sorts of tiny sounds around me – splashes and squelches and thuds made by I don't know what. The wind and the rain, I told myself. Only maybe it wasn't.

I came across a couple of sheep tucked into a hollow, and they took fright and ran away. No other people, though. In fact, I hadn't seen a single walker since I set off. Lightweights, all of them, I thought. Come summer and they'd be up and down Haytor like yo-yos, as if there was nothing else to see on the moor.
But right now, I wished there were a few of them around, so I had some company. And to keep my mind from conjuring up the gabbleratchet.

My hand went to my rucksack where I'd stashed the box containing the skull.
Stay focused on that
, I told myself.
Give it back, and maybe, just maybe, Kitty will be spared.
We should never have taken it away in the first place. I'd been crazy to hold on to it. Keeping it on the farm was wrong. Too much bad had happened there already. The skull belonged to the moor, to Old Scratch Wood, maybe even the devil himself. And now he wanted it back.

I tried hard not to look back over my shoulder every two minutes – it was only making me more jumpy. The dry stone wall I was following was coming to an end, joining another longer wall that leads out towards the valley – the route I had to follow for Old Scratch Wood. There were a couple of bare and weatherbeaten rowan trees in a sad little cluster near the corner. As I drew close to them, I turned to follow the new footpath through the dead bracken, with the wall to my left.

The drizzle was becoming a solid sheet of freezing moisture that clung to my hair and eyelashes. It wasn't the kind of weather you want to be walking in,
especially on your own. Even if you're on a mission. A mission for Kitty.

Stop whingeing
, I told myself fiercely.
Another half an hour and you'll be there. Half an hour of getting wet. Big deal, girl. Just get on with it. For Kitty's sake.

And then the fog came down.

At first I couldn't believe it. Everything had turned grey. Grey and damp and eerily quiet. Suddenly I was aware of the scrunch of my boots. There was no birdsong. Only my boots and the wet bracken beneath them and rush of my blood in my ears.

For a minute or two I kept on going, but I could feel the fear building in my chest. I was alone on the moor. I hadn't told anyone where I was heading. And like a complete idiot, I hadn't taken notice of the signs in the weather.

‘Fog can be a killer on the moor,' Mum had always said. ‘It can come down so suddenly you lose all your bearings. You've got to promise to take care.'

She'd said it so often I could remember her exact intonation. Suddenly it brought her back to me so clearly I could almost touch her. Only she wasn't there. I couldn't see more than a few metres ahead – beyond was a wall of grey silence. I had no idea what might loom out of it into my path.

I scrabbled around in my pocket, which was full of the kind of stuff I always carried just in case it might turn out useful some day – string, a box of matches, a penknife, my compass. At the bottom I found what I was looking for: a bar of chocolate. I unwrapped it and broke off a large chunk, eight or nine squares, and crammed it into my mouth. The warm sweetness melted over my tongue and for a few minutes I felt almost cheerful. Then it was gone. I would save the rest – I might be needing it.

My boots squelched in mud. It was getting soggy underfoot and I realised I must be swerving off the path. I made to the left – at least I knew the wall was there. Only it was getting muddier. The ground was changing. There were clumps of reeds, brown and hollow, but nonetheless spelling out in large letters what I was trying to ignore – danger. I was walking into boggy ground.

I veered further to the left. I must be more off the path than I'd thought. Tufts of reeds were sticking out of puddles. I didn't know how deep the puddles were, so I was having to step from tuft to tuft to avoid them. Some of the clumps of green I was choosing were deceptive and my foot sank down before I quickly replaced it on something more solid. Could I have lost
the path so much that I was facing the other way, with the wall to my right? It seemed incredible, but I knew deep down it might be possible. The fog was totally disorientating. It felt like I was in a tiny padded cell that moved with me at every step, its walls just out of reach. I clamped down the rising panic in my throat and tried veering right instead.

Only it didn't get any better. My boots were already clagged with mud, and it was tough work finding a solid spot to stand on every time I took a step. I tested each clump gingerly before I put my full weight on it. If it gave, I pulled my foot back fast. I was beginning to wonder if it made more sense just to splash through the puddles, but at the back of my mind I was thinking
mire
, and splashing didn't seem like such a great idea. On Dartmoor, the valley mires are deeper than ordinary bogs – people can sink up to their necks in them and drown. I didn't think I was anywhere near one right now. But I couldn't be sure.

If only I had Jez with me. She was my protection – Gabe had always said so. She would find her way out of here in a minute. But there was no point in thinking like that. I was on my own now.

Beyond me, something shifted a fraction. I froze mid-step, balancing on a tuft of bog grass. I was being
watched. Though I couldn't see anything, I could feel it there, eyeing me up through the wall of fog. What was it? It felt big. Maybe it was out hunting. And caught in a bog in the middle of nowhere, I was the perfect prey. My whole body stiffened. Fight or flight? My frozen brain refused to give the order for either.

I don't know how long I stood there. Whatever it was must be watching me, deciding. I couldn't afford to take so much as a breath. Then, somewhere in front of me, I heard the suck of mud and my heart lurched. It was on the move – and I was directly in its path.

Then it broke forward, splashing and stamping. A rush of black and it was gone. My lungs filled with air again and I stood on my pathetic little tussock, trembling with shock. I didn't know what it was for sure. Not a sheep, though it might have been about the size of one. Could it have been a pony, or maybe even a goat? I'd not seen them run wild on the moor before, though maybe some farmer had started keeping them. Yes, a goat, I told myself. That must be it. Nothing to worry about at all.

I wished I could turn my brain off, because it whispered something to me that I truly didn't want to hear.
Goat's horns. Goat's hooves. The signs of the devil.

I considered my options for a moment. Suddenly I
remembered my compass. I couldn't believe I hadn't thought of it before. I took it out with shaky hands and consulted it. Old Scratch Wood was north-west of our farm. That was the way I would go. Then I stepped forward into the brown waters of the bog.

24

Matt

W
hen I found Tilda's note I freaked out. While I'd been sound asleep in the early hours of this morning, making up for all the time I'd stayed awake worrying through the night, Kitty had been taken off to hospital in an ambulance. It was like a punch in the guts. I'd never see her again. I knew, with a horrible certainty, that she wasn't going to recover – the best doctors in the world wouldn't be able to stop the gabbleratchet from claiming her. And it was all because of me.

The house was empty. There was no sign of Jez, and Alba wasn't here yet. I walked from room to room. The only sound I could hear was my breath, jagged
and unnaturally loud in the silence.

Then it struck me. Tilda wouldn't just be popping out on some jaunt when her little sister was so sick. It had to be something more important. I charged up to her room and started searching frantically. My hunch was right – the skull had gone.

If Tilda had taken it with her, that meant she was intending to bury it herself in Old Scratch Wood – it was exactly the sort of mad thing she would do. Only unlike me, she hadn't witnessed the gabbleratchet. Dream or no dream, I'd seen it, and I knew how it filled your ears, demanding its prize, not taking no for an answer. It wanted a corpse. For all I knew, it might pick on Tilda, too.

I looked out of the window at the sky. I didn't know much about the weather round here, but even I could see that it was getting foggier and foggier. If Tilda didn't get back soon, she might end up the same way as Kitty. Suddenly none of the fighting and the nastiness of the last few days seemed to matter any more. I might not be able to do anything for Kitty, but at least I could try with Tilda. I had to find her.

I threw my clothes on and went in search of Gabe. If anyone understood what was going on, it was him. And right now I needed his help.

I came across him in Long Field, which was now full of sheep, forking hay into feeders in the dense grey drizzle, his hat wreathed in a mist of water drops. Jez was there, too, which wasn't good – I'd been hoping she was with Tilda, keeping her safe, helping her find her way home in this weather. Gabe stopped what he was doing and put his pitchfork down.

‘How's the little maid?' he said. ‘You heard anything yet?'

‘Not yet,' I said. ‘Uncle Jack hasn't called from the hospital.'

The light went out of his eyes. Everyone adores Kitty, even grumpy old misery-guts like him.

‘Listen, Gabe,' I said, ‘you've got to help me. Tilda's not here. She's out on the moor.'

Gabe's mouth tightened. For a moment his expression was unreadable. Then he grabbed my arm.

‘Come on, then, Matt Crimmond,' he said. ‘What are you waiting for?' He called to Jez. Then, before I knew it, he'd steered me out of the field, shut the gate and we were on the farm track.

A woman with long grey hair was hurrying towards us. I realised I'd seen her before – Gabe's wife, with the witchy-looking clothes. She rushed up to Gabe.

‘I got Linda to cover for me in the café when I
heard,' she said. ‘I was just about to go over to the farm.' She nodded to me. ‘To give you and Tilda a hand, my dear. Good to meet you at last, Matthew. I'm Alba Tucker. It's a dreadful thing about Kitty. You must all be so worried.'

‘There's more,' said Gabe. ‘Young Tilda's gone off. She needs to be found before something happens. Fog's closing in.'

Alba inhaled sharply. She turned to me, wiping her hands on her skirt and tucking a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. It was hard to tell what age she was. Her oval face was unlined and it sort of drew you in and kept you there. She gave me a brief smile.

‘You did right to come to Gabe,' she said. ‘I'll run ahead to the cottage and get a hot drink ready for when you find her.'

If
, I thought. But I kept my doubts to myself.

‘Meet me there in a few minutes,' she said. She legged it back up the farm track and disappeared.

All I wanted was to find Tilda. I tried to tell Gabe we had to go straight away, but he stopped me with a hard look.

‘You have to respect the moor, boy,' he said, curtly. ‘She'll be throwing everything she's got at that cousin of yours. So you need to be prepared.'

I knew when I was beaten.

It was odd walking with Gabe again. I was only too aware of the last time we'd done it, when I was desperate to get the hell out of here. This time was different. There was a sense of purpose to it – and I felt Gabe was on my side.

We turned right at the end of the farm track and on to the road. As we rounded the bend, there was his cottage. Gabe pushed open the gate and Jez trotted through ahead of him. Impatiently I followed them.

Alba appeared at the door with an old rucksack. ‘There's a torch, a compass and a blanket in there,' she said. ‘And some food and a flask of tea.'