Skull in the Wood (8 page)

To be honest, I was missing her, even though I'd been so furious with her when I first came here. Maybe she'd have realised how wrong she'd been about letting Paul stay. Maybe she'd even be ready to
take Dad back by now.

I should have known. Paul answered, sounding like he owned the place.

‘Matt, at long last,' he said. ‘Excellent, excellent. Your mother's been worried about you.'

I bristled. If Paul weren't there, she wouldn't have to worry about me. And with him living in our house, Dad was never going to come back.

‘Hope the moor's treating you well?'

‘Suppose so.'

‘Marvellous. Marvellous.'

Why does he always have to say everything twice? It's bad enough having to listen to him once. Anyway, he'd obviously decided he wasn't going to get much out of me. He called Mum over and got off the phone fast.

Mum quizzed me about the farm and Uncle Jack and the girls, but even though I was bursting to, I didn't let on about how nasty Tilda's been or how creepy the place is. The last thing I want is for Mum to come and fetch me. Dad won't be back for at least two weeks, and there's no way I can stand living at home with Paul there for that amount of time. Soon Mum was wittering on about some fancy dinner they'd been to. I made an excuse and said goodbye.

Kitty trotted into the hall in her skeleton suit and tutu.

‘Matt, will you come and look for eggs with me?' she asked. ‘There might be blue ones.' She took my hand and pulled.

‘Do I have a choice?' I said, but I knew it was no use. Kitty was a force of nature. Besides, there was something seriously nice about her all-out friendliness.

The chickens were pleased to see us, too. They zoomed up, all legs and outsize feet and swaying, armless bodies, looking ridiculous.

‘Hello, chickies. Hello, Bella. Hello, Mabel. Hello, Elvis,' said Kitty.

I wasn't so sure about the cockerel – the spurs on the inside of his feet were about three inches long and dangerous-looking, and he had to lift his legs over them each time he took a step. But Kitty wasn't fazed. She marched straight over to the laying boxes at the back of the shed.

There was a whole clutch of eggs, and yes, two of them were bluish green. Kitty loaded them into her basket as if they were made of gold. I felt my spirits lift, then plummet again as I spotted Gabe edging towards us. His black beanie was pulled right down over his eyebrows.

‘Hello, Gabe,' Kitty said, and threw him a drop-dead gorgeous smile. Even he was a pushover when it came to Kitty. It was like he'd had a total character transplant.

‘Hello there, young lady. I like your outfit. How are those chickies of yours doing, then?'

‘They're very well, thank you. They've laid six eggs today.'

Gabe nodded. ‘Not too bad,' he said. ‘Now if you run on inside directly, young Kitty, you'll find a lemon drizzle cake Alba baked last night.'

Kitty shot off like a greyhound after a rabbit. With a sinking feeling I realised that Gabe had got her out of the way in order to have another of his little chats with me. He sat down on a straw bale and motioned me to do the same. For a moment he stared at me again. His eyes were deep-set and the palest of blues. Probably centuries of inbreeding, I thought, but banished the idea fast, wondering if he could read my mind.

‘OK, Matt Crimmond,' he said. ‘Tilda doesn't listen to me, so you'd better. Because I know what's going on. I've been around nearly sixty years and I can read the signs.' He waggled a filthy finger in my direction.

‘What signs?' I said.

‘There's bad blood between you and Tilda,' he said. ‘I can see it. And that means bad things can come to you. What happened in Old Scratch Wood?'

I caught my breath. ‘I didn't see anything,' I said. ‘Well, not anything that matters.' I wasn't going to mention the curlew skull, that was for sure. I'd had enough of people making fun of me.

Gabe smiled, but it wasn't a friendly smile.

‘Nothing?' he said. ‘No birds acting strange, then? No animals?'

‘Nothing,' I said. ‘Nothing at all.'

‘That ewe with its eye pecked out – you just think on that,' said Gabe. ‘That was proper nasty. And Tilda's just told me about her run-in with the cow out there. I told you already – the harbingers are gathering. And I think you know it now.'

I didn't want him to see how rattled I was. ‘I've no idea what you're on about,' I said. ‘Those are just random things. And yeah, Tilda had her arm trapped against the pen. But she got in the way of the calf – she was stupid. She said so.'

Gabe frowned, his face creasing up into hundreds of tiny lines.

‘Animals can tell when there's evil on the loose,' he said. ‘They sense it way before us folk. They know
when fire's coming or the earth's shaking. And they know when the gabbleratchet stirs.'

He shut up suddenly and picked up a petrol can from beside the straw bales. ‘Right. I'll be going. I need to sort the tractor.'

‘Wait,' I said. ‘The gabbleratchet? Wasn't that what you said before? What is it? Tell me.'

Gabe's eyes slid away.

‘Best you don't know,' he said. ‘Maybe we'll be spared. This time.'

I was beginning to get annoyed now. Part of me wondered if he was hamming it up for my benefit. You know, let's scare the townie for a laugh.

‘Sounds like rubbish to me,' I said.

Gabe looked thunderous. ‘You listen here now, boy,' he said. ‘The harbingers – the birds – they're sent out to test you. You might just be able to turn them back. But the gabbleratchet – that's different. It's a curse. If it comes, make sure you don't look at it. Get away from it as quick as you can and forget you ever heard it. Because if you see it, a death follows close after.'

‘But what is it? How will I know not to look at it if you don't tell me what it is?'

He was silent for a moment. Then he cleared his throat.

‘Listen out for the geese,' he said.

My skin began to prickle. ‘What, the geese on the farm?'

‘Not them, boy. Wild geese, isn't it? Whistling through the skies on stormy nights. That's how it starts. Or so they say.'

I made an effort to relax my shoulders again, but I couldn't help thinking about the geese I'd seen over the tor on my first night here.

‘Geese, right,' I said. ‘And then what?'

Gabe just shook his head. ‘Like I said. Best you don't know.'

He glanced at me. I tried to hide how anxious I felt.

‘It's no use smiling, boy,' he said. ‘These things have a way of being true whether you believe in them or not.'

10

Tilda

I
t had been lashing down all afternoon – the kind of freezing Dartmoor rain that doesn't let up for hours. I lay on my bed listening to it hammering away on the corrugated iron of the tractor shed. I like the rain most of the time, but with any luck it would be driving Matt crazy.

Last night I'd left the skull in its box and hidden it under my bed. I'd held off opening it up again, although I'd hardly stopped thinking about it ever since we found it. Now I got off the bed, took it out and placed it on my desk. It stared at me from hollow eye sockets. I was struck again by how beautiful and strange it was. I had to admit there was something
kind of cruel about it, but that didn't bother me – it was totally brilliant. And it belonged to me. After all, I'd figured out what it was. City boy didn't have the faintest – left to himself he'd probably have thought it was a flamingo.

The skull would look good on my dressing table, if I could make a space for it. I love stuff like that, stones and fossils and crystals. I'm always finding interesting things on the moor and bringing them back – feathers, owl pellets, adder skins. Once I even found a dead mole. That one didn't last long. Mum made me bury it straight away, which wasn't really fair, since it wasn't like it was festering or anything – it was all soft and glossy. Dad says my room looks like the Natural History Museum, but that doesn't bother me. I think it's cool.

I flopped back on my bed and gazed at my new find. There was no way I was sharing it with Matt. Why should I, when he just wanted to get his hands on everything we owned? He shouldn't be here at all, not with the farm going up for sale whenever his mum says the word. It was horrible. He and his mother were going to ruin everything. They were going to take away everything that reminded me of
my
mum. And at some point I'd make sure Matt paid for that.

I got up again and went across to the skull. The weird thing was that it seemed a bit different today. I'm sure I remembered it just being black towards its tip. Now most of the beak was black, and it felt somehow heavier than before. Obviously my mind was playing tricks on me.

Anyway, I needed to get the supper on. I'd promised Dad we'd do it today as he was going to be busy. Matt was in his room – he's good at avoiding work – but Kitty came down to the kitchen to keep me company.

‘Do you want to see my picture?' she said, thrusting a drawing at me. As per usual it wasn't very obvious what it might be. Some kind of crazily coloured animals, that much I could guess.

‘Are those our calves?' I said, pointing at some black squiggles with four legs.

‘No, they're dogs, silly,' said Kitty. ‘And these green ones are birdies.'

I congratulated her on her artistic ability and got her to set the table. I even let her pour honey all over the chicken drumsticks, which was a really bad idea because she refused to stop and nearly used up the whole jar. Oh, well. Supper would be extra sticky tonight. I didn't suppose it would matter much.

It was only when Dad came in from the fields with
Jez, both of them soaked to the skin, that Matt finally showed up. He just expects to be fed – he doesn't seem to realise that it has to be cooked first. It's like he hasn't even noticed that Mum's not here any more. Anyway, Dad changed quickly, and we all sat down and tore into supper. Honey chicken, potatoes, carrots and broccoli. For a while there was nothing but contented chomping. Dad finally put his fork down and told me how good it was.

‘I helped,' said Kitty.

‘And you're a very good cook, too. There's no stinting on the honey with you.'

All through the chitter-chatter you could see Matt was squirming to say something. Finally he turned to Dad.

‘Uncle Jack, have you ever heard of the gabble ratchet?'

I frowned. Wasn't that the thing Gabe had mentioned? How come Matt suddenly knew all about it?

‘Can't say I have,' said Dad. I thought he'd leave it at that – he hasn't been talking much to Matt, which is totally fair enough. But Dad can't resist a story.

‘Do you know what it is?' he said.

To my annoyance, Matt had one up on me. He told
us what Gabe had been spouting to him – that at the beginning it sounds like a load of geese flying over and honking. Big deal.

‘I seem to remember something about that legend,' said Dad. ‘Geese turning into something else – and if you see it, hideous things will happen to you. Maybe the gabbleratchet's another word for it.' He glanced at Kitty. ‘OK, darling, you can get down now.' He waited till she'd disappeared.

‘So,' he said. ‘From what I remember, the story they tell here is that wild geese are the devil's servants. And when they change, they become a pack of demonic creatures charging across the moor. Hunting. Get in their way and you're doomed.'

Matt was silent for a moment. He takes all this supernatural stuff way too seriously. Then he started up again.

‘Old Scratch is another name for the devil, isn't it? So has the gabbleratchet got anything to do with Old Scratch Wood?'

Dad shrugged. ‘There are loads of places on Dartmoor with a connection to the devil. All I know is that anyone unlucky enough to find themselves in the path of these creatures would be cursed. They'd go home and find someone in their family had died. Or
they'd be chased over a cliff and smashed to pieces. That's what the folk tales say, anyway.'

‘You sound as bad as Gabe,' I said, crossly. I don't like it when Dad tries to scare me about the moor.

None of us had noticed Kitty slip back in from the living room. Suddenly she made her presence felt.

‘Gabbleratchet,' she said. ‘Gabbleratchet. Gabble ratchet. Gabbleratchet.' She was shouting now. ‘Gabbleratchet! Gabbleratchet! Gabbleratchet!' She started running in circles round the table, yelling and whooping.

The word was pulsating in my ears. Kitty often gets over-excited about stuff, but this time it was freaking me out. Matt looked totally horrified, and even Dad seemed a bit pained.

‘Enough!' I shouted. I grabbed her and held on. ‘Bedtime for you!'

‘Not going to bed,' Kitty said, struggling.

‘Shush,' I said. ‘No more arguments.'