return before dusk tomorrow,” Abby said. “And I’ll stay on the Wend. If your father is heading south that’s the path he’ll take. But if he’s lingered nearby he may find his way to this Hollow. It’s better that you remain here to meet him.”
Rye frowned, unconvinced.
“Lottie, you’ll be in charge while I’m gone,” Abby said with a playful wink. “Keep an eye on these two until I return.”
Lottie gave Rye and Mr Nettle a watchful glare. “I’ll try,” she said solemnly. “Them’s a lot of work.”
“Indeed,” Abby agreed with a smirk.
“Rye, is that you who be stinky?” Lottie chimed, already relishing her new role. “Leave your boots outside when you step in bear plop.”
“Mind your own beeswax,” Rye said.
“Me no beeswacker,” Lottie objected. She leaned down and crinkled her nose towards Rye’s feet, as if smelling something foul under her heels. Rye shifted away so that Lottie’s horns wouldn’t poke her in the arm.
Rye didn’t protest against her mother any further.
“Now eat,” Abby said, placing a bowl on the table for her. She gestured for Rye to sit. “None of us can afford to skip any more meals.”
But Rye’s stomach was already a twisted stew of excitement and anxiety. She looked to Lottie and Mr Nettle, who huddled over their own well-cleaned bowls. Lottie’s dirt-streaked cheeks were less full than they once had been and her soon-to-be four-year-old body had begun to stretch like an eager seedling.
“Lottie, you and Mr Nettle can finish mine.”
Lottie and Mr Nettle brightened, but they gasped in surprise as the bowl was snatched from the table.
A furry creature the size of a raccoon scurried high up the stretch of the tree trunk growing through the wall. The thief was fawn-coloured, with a long, ringed tail and saucer-like eyes that blinked down at them nervously.
“How do they keep getting past the Rill?” Abby said in frustration.
“The brindlebacks are crafty little pests,” Mr Nettle groused with a tug at his beard. “A branch high up in the forest canopy must have grown over the Rill and intertwined with the oak’s own limbs. I’ll have a look tomorrow and cull it back.”
“Bingle-blacks!” Lottie huffed, and clenched her fists.
“Maybe he won’t eat it,” Rye said, looking up hopefully. “They don’t like roots, do they?”
The brindleback held the bowl with his long black fingers, sniffed its contents with a wet, pointy snout, then cocked his head. Rye opened her hands in case the little bandit dropped it. Instead, he attacked it savagely with tiny teeth. Lottie and Mr Nettle groaned in disappointment.
When he was finished, the brindleback dropped the bowl down on to the floor with a clatter and disappeared into a hole in the wall.
Abby sighed and stared at the hole. “Well, that’s it for supper, I’m afraid. Let’s get you girls to sleep while the forest still allows it.”
The howls and cries came earlier and earlier each night – this time not long after the O’Chanter girls had huddled together in their blankets. Near and far, unseen voices of the woods seemed to call to one other as they surrounded the Hollow. Some spoke in wolfish growls, others in throaty warbles that sounded more like the clucking tongue of a hag than the beak of a raven or vulture. And yet the most unnerving sound wasn’t a voice at all but the plod and slither of something heavy dragging itself through the dried leaves and dead pine needles that carpeted the forest floor. With its arrival the rest of the nightmarish choir went silent, and the restless creeper circled the Rill over and over without crossing, dull teeth clacking as it went.
Abby sang softly in Lottie’s ear until, eventually, the slithering lurker abandoned its vigil, and its unnerving sound ebbed and faded into the distance. With the Hollow once again consumed by the silence of the massive trees, Lottie finally drifted off. Rye only feigned sleep, performing her best fake snore.
She listened as her mother gathered some supplies in the darkness, and when Abby headed for the tree house steps, Rye whispered loud enough for her to hear.
“You’ll be back tomorrow, Mama?”
Abby paused. “Of course, my love,” she said, and Rye heard her kiss her fingertips. Abby’s hand fluttered in the air as if releasing a butterfly. Rye pretended to catch it.
Abby’s silhouette disappeared and Rye pulled a blanket tight under her chin in an effort to sleep. She pinched her eyes tight, and tossed. Then turned. And tossed some more. But sleep proved elusive.
Before long, the glow of Rye’s lantern wound its way down the oak tree’s spiral steps. It passed over the mossy turf of the Hollow, then tumbled to the ground with a metallic clank.
“Pigshanks,” Rye whispered, regaining her footing after stumbling over a root. She peeked back at the tree house to see if she’d woken anyone.
The windows remained dark. The only sound now was Mr Nettle’s snoring wafting from the porch in the limbs above. The Feraling still insisted on sleeping outdoors.
Rye set the lantern down at the edge of the Rill.
She crouched along the interior bank of the peculiar little stream, careful not to wet her feet. The lantern light flickered off the water against her face.
Rye didn’t know why animals and other creatures of the forest could never cross the Rill. Mr Nettle had told her it was one of those mysteries that was just accepted and understood, like the knowledge that trees would shed their leaves and feign death during winter, only to be reborn again come spring. The O’Chanters, Mr Nettle and other humans might splash through without consequence, but without the aid of bridge or branch, the narrow stream seemed as daunting as an ocean to the forest beasts. Whatever the reason, the Rill had made the Hollow a safe haven for the O’Chanters – and whoever had originally built the tree house long ago.
Rye took a deep breath. And waited. But not for her mother – Abby was probably already on her way down the Wend.
Finally, after many minutes, she heard a sound. Not like the restless predatory voices – but the faintest rustle of leaves and pine needles in the distance. She squinted and peered forward into the gloom. Then she saw them – two glowing yellow eyes watching her from the shadow of a twisted trunk.
Rye didn’t move. The Hollow might provide sanctuary, but she still knew better than to cross the Rill after dark.
Instead, she toed the edge of the embankment, extending her hand as far across the stream as she could reach. She nearly lost her balance and had to brace herself just as the black beast emerged from the darkness.
The burly shadow padded forward and settled on the other side of the water. It opened its mouth, lantern light flickering off its sharp white teeth. It licked its whiskers. Rye smiled.
“Shady,” she whispered, and was just able to graze his thick mane with her fingertips. He pushed his head into her hand and shared a thankful rumble that sounded like a purr.
Rye
