Soul Splinter Read online

  The others turned to see Gryff out on the ledge, ducked low in a crouch. He sprang into the sea and they all cheered as the wildcat swam towards them, on and on through the rolling waves. After a while, he heaved his weight up on to the end of Moll’s kayak, but to her dismay he didn’t face the girls. He curled up into a ball, his head turned out to sea, and watched the waves ripple in the early evening light.

  They paddled on – past Bootleggers Bay and the fields stretching over the cliff tops. Moll swallowed. The day before, the pastures had been bursting with life, but, even at a distance, she could see that now the grass was charred and the stubble fields blackened. It seemed the Shadowmasks had trailed her and Gryff from Inchgrundle the night before, leaving a path of darkness in their wake. The villagers would notice, surely, and it would be the gypsies who took the blame for cursing their land.

  They kept paddling, leaving Inchgrundle and the trickle of cottages dotted along the coast beyond the village well behind them, until their stomach muscles ached and their palms grew blistered from the paddles. But they were making quicker work of the journey than they would have been up on the cliff path, and they’d stayed clear of the village and the Dreads.

  A seal head popped up beyond their kayaks, then slunk away, leaving froth rocking on the surface, and in the distance a boat passed them, its sail fluttering in the wind. Siddy and Alfie chatted between strokes about what the Blinking Eye could be and, as Moll and Scrap eased their kayak on, Moll tried her best not to think about Gryff’s strange behaviour or the setting sun and how soon they’d be on their own against the Shadowmasks.

  Eventually the land ahead veered into the sea, a giant headland jutting out for miles.

  ‘It’s going to take ages to round that,’ Siddy groaned.

  Scrap lifted her paddle and pointed inland to a small cove with a pebble beach. A fisherman was hauling up a net nearby, but he seemed uninterested by the kayaks and the cove looked deserted. They paddled towards it, letting the kayaks grind ashore over the rocks, and clambered out. Moll turned to Gryff, but he had already slipped from the kayak and was waiting, half hidden in the dunes beyond the pebbles.

  A dull ache throbbed in Moll’s soles as she followed Scrap and the others up over the rocks and into the dunes. The gorse here was lush and full of flowers and Moll felt a surge of relief to be somewhere the Shadowmasks hadn’t been. They picked up speed, following Scrap on to a sandy track that cut through the headland they’d have spent hours rounding in the kayaks. The path ran through stubble fields full of bales, and before long hedgerows brimming with blackberries, cow parsley and rosehips shielded them on either side. Moll let her feet sink into the softer grass in the middle of the path and, some way behind them all, Gryff followed. They ran on and on and then Scrap stopped suddenly before a large elm bursting out of the hedgerow. She was red in the face and panting hard, just like the others.

  Alfie wiped the sweat from his brow. ‘You’re right, Scrap. We need to rest for a while. But somewhere out of sight – we can’t risk being seen.’

  Scrap ducked down and began twisting her way into the knotted hedgerow. Then her whistle sounded, muffled somewhat, and Alfie edged beneath a prickled branch before he too disappeared from sight.

  Siddy groaned. ‘Gobbled by Shadowmasks before sunset . . . Just our luck.’

  Moll waited for Gryff to catch them up, but he hung his head low, deliberately avoiding her eyes. Did he feel guilty for having struck out at her earlier? Moll wondered. And then she felt suddenly cross. It was her feet that were aching, not Gryff’s. Surely she was the one with the right to be irritable. What was wrong with him?

  Moll gave up thinking about it and bent down beneath the brambles. They snagged on her coat, but she pushed them back, weaving further inside. And then she saw what Scrap must have known was there: a gap in the bark of the elm tree, almost a metre high and just wide enough to slip through. She and Siddy squeezed themselves inside.

  The elm was hollow and its bark stretched upwards in gnarled scoops and curves. A sliver of light spilled in through the crack, but otherwise it was dark. Moll sat back against the bark and smiled.

  ‘Well done, Scrap,’ Siddy whispered. ‘We’ll be all right resting in here. You did good with those kayaks – even Hermit will admit that.’

  ‘How did you know about this place?’ Alfie asked. Scrap dipped her head and pretended she hadn’t heard. ‘Did you run away here once?’ he said quietly.

  Scrap nodded but still she didn’t look up.

  Alfie shuffled nearer to her. ‘Did . . . did Grudge cut out your tongue? For running away?’

  Scrap looked at her feet and twisted her old sail tunic beneath her coat.

  ‘Here, Scrap, have this.’ Siddy handed her a sea-kelp muffin, the least damp item of food from their rucksack.

  Scrap took it and nibbled the corner.

  Moll turned her feet over in her hands. They were still gold from Cinderella Bull’s spell, her skin only etched with a few scrapes and scratches – nothing like she’d been expecting.

  A twig snapped. Gryff was somewhere close by.

  Moll craned her head out of the crack in the elm. ‘Gryff? Come inside,’ she urged. ‘It’s safer in here.’

  She listened for his near-silent steps. They padded closer, then the wildcat came into view. Gryff stood before the entrance, his ears sunk low to his head, his eyes half closed and glassy. He lifted a paw, tried to take one more step inside the tree, then slumped to the ground.

  Moll was out of the elm like a shot, kneeling in the brambles beside him. Gryff hadn’t been irritable before; he had been in pain. She could tell that now. She ran a hand over his body, but it was only when she turned over his paws that she understood.

  The skin between his white-grey fur had been sliced to shreds and blood was oozing through the cuts.

  Moll felt suddenly sick inside. ‘You . . .’ She gasped as she thought of the strange way Gryff had been running. ‘When you licked my feet back in the cove, somehow you – you took the pain I was meant to bear. You’ve been carrying it all the way here, walking on soles of glass!’

  Moll hauled Gryff inside the elm and this time he didn’t have the strength to hiss her away. He lay on his side, his eyes closed, whimpering.

  Moll swallowed back the tears. ‘All that time I was telling him to keep going and getting annoyed at him for acting strangely . . .’ She ran a hand down the wildcat’s back; his breathing was slow and shallow. ‘But he was running on glass!’

  Moll used some water from the flask to wet a handkerchief, then she dabbed Gryff’s paws, carefully cleaning the blood from his wounds. She sat back and bit her lip. ‘We need to help him! It’s not enough just cleaning his paws!’

  Suddenly remembering, Alfie rummaged in his rucksack and drew out the small tub of ointment Mooshie had made for them in case of emergencies: hedgehog fat which the gypsies believed contained a precious healing oil, melted with ribwort leaves to draw out infection. He handed it to Moll and she smeared it over Gryff’s paws. But still the blood oozed and he lay, whining.

  Siddy clutched Moll’s arm. ‘That plant Mooshie used to pick from the hedgerows beyond the forest – the one she said could stop bleeding and heal even the deepest cut – what was it?’

  Moll thought fast. ‘Woundwort. But she used the last on Oak’s leg; we don’t have any in our supplies.’

  ‘There are hedgerows here,’ Siddy said. ‘If we find some of the right leaves, we can press them into the ointment and, together with the hedgehog oil, it might just work.’ He looked at Moll. ‘I’ll need your help though; you’ve always been better at spotting herbs than me.’

  Moll held Gryff’s paw inside her handkerchief. ‘I can’t leave him, Sid. Not like this.’

  ‘If you don’t go, Gryff will get worse,’ Alfie said. ‘I’d go with Sid if I knew what I was looking for. You have to go, Moll. Scrap and I will stay here with Gryff.’

  Moll nuzzled her head against the wildcat, then pulled he
rself away. She swallowed. ‘He won’t let you touch him – no matter how much pain he’s in – but he’ll know you’re here. Tell him it’s going to be OK.’

  She crept out of the elm after Siddy and they pushed their way through the undergrowth until they emerged on the path. Moll’s eyes darted frantically up and down the hedgerow. The sun was setting and the darkness huddled closer – it wouldn’t be long before the moon was up.

  ‘Where do we look?’ Moll spluttered. ‘It might not even be here!’

  Siddy stood in front of her. ‘You’ve got to stay calm, Moll. Describe woundwort to me so I’m sure I’m looking for the right thing.’

  Moll tried to force the image of Gryff’s paws from her mind and summon a clear picture. ‘Tall green stalks and at the top of the plant there are purple flowers with white-flecked centres.’

  ‘And dark green leaves – the ones that are toothed, right?’

  Moll nodded. ‘Like nettle leaves only they don’t sting.’

  ‘Right. You take the left hedgerow, I’ll take the right.’

  Moll began slowly, scouring every bit of greenery: cow parsley, brome, blackthorn, brambles, dock leaves, nettles, chickweed.

  ‘There’s none here!’ she cried after a few minutes. ‘It’s hopeless.’

  ‘Keep looking,’ Siddy said. ‘Gryff wouldn’t ever give up on us. We’ve got to help him now.’

  Moll picked up speed, her eyes scanning the plants, grasses, bushes and flowers with eagle-eyed precision. The back of her neck tingled with sweat and a sense of helplessness worked its way up her fingers and into her body. What if woundwort didn’t grow in this part of the country? What if they had to go back to Gryff empty-handed? Then her eyes caught on a single stem at the foot of the hedge – and her heart leapt.

  ‘There!’ she gasped, rushing forward and snapping up the plant. ‘Woundwort!’

  Seconds later, they were racing back to the elm together, charging through the hedgerow and spilling into the hollow tree. Gryff was where they’d left him and Alfie and Scrap looked on with anxious eyes.

  ‘Moll found it,’ Siddy panted. ‘I knew she would.’

  But Moll could barely hear the others talking. She ripped the leaves from the stem and pressed them into Mooshie’s ointment. Then she smeared some on to her finger and smoothed it on to one of Gryff’s front paws. She did so tenderly, as if she was holding his hand, and his eyes flickered open then closed again.

  Alfie leant closer. ‘I think it’s helping. Keep going, Moll.’

  As carefully as she could, Moll rubbed the ointment on to Gryff’s paws. When she reached the last paw, she held it gently and curled up opposite the wildcat, blinking large, frightened eyes.

  Then they waited.

  Minutes passed. Nobody spoke. And still the wildcat lay with his eyes closed.

  ‘It’s not working,’ Moll whispered, her voice breaking.

  ‘Look,’ Alfie cried.

  Gryff’s chest began to rise and fall in deeper, stronger breaths and each one filled Moll’s heart with hope. Then the wildcat’s eyes struggled open. But it was Scrap who noticed his paws. In a flurry of excitement, she sat bolt upright, blew on her whistle, tugged Moll’s arm, then, finally, pointed to them.

  Moll raised a hand to her mouth. The cuts on Gryff’s paws were shrinking to slits and the blood had completely disappeared. A second later, the wounds were nothing more than a few scratches and then they vanished completely.

  Moll’s heart felt ready to burst. ‘Oh, Gryff!’

  The wildcat picked himself up so that he was sitting, then he looked Moll straight in the eye and dipped his head.

  Moll wrapped her arms round him. ‘Sometimes I don’t think I really deserve a friend like you.’ She closed her eyes and felt her thoughts weave in and out of his. ‘You’ve never let me down, Gryff. Thank you.’ She looked up after a while and turned to Siddy. ‘I couldn’t have found the woundwort without you, Sid. You kept a cool head when I was panicking.’

  Siddy grinned. ‘When you’re friends with dangerous people, you learn to keep a cool head.’

  ‘I’m not dangerous,’ Moll retorted.

  Alfie squinted at her. ‘Yes, you are. Spending time with you is like hanging out with a volcano.’

  Scrap snorted.

  ‘Don’t worry, Moll,’ Siddy said. ‘It was actually quite nice to be telling someone other than Hermit to calm down – makes a change.’

  They shared out the sea-kelp crisps and dandelion-and-burdock cordial Mooshie had packed for them and then, after a bit, Alfie said quietly, ‘We’ll need to get going again. If Gryff’s able to.’

  Moll buried her head in Gryff’s fur. ‘You don’t have to carry my pain any more. I can do it; I can run on soles of glass.’ But Moll knew deep down that they didn’t have a choice. Magic wasn’t something you could bend and twist to suit yourself.

  Gryff growled into the elm, then he stalked towards the crack opening up into the undergrowth. And everyone knew what that meant: Gryff was ready to run.

  They crouched inside the hedgerow and listened to the wind whistling through the branches of the elm. Moll shuddered beneath the dusk light as she remembered Cinderella Bull’s words: . . . until the moon comes up you’ll be safe, so you’ll need to get as far away from here as you can in that time.

  Scrap pushed through the hedgerow, out on to the path, and set off at a run. The others followed and Moll winced – not at the aching in her own feet, but because of the pain she knew Gryff must be suffering. She paused several times, bending down and trying to scoop the wildcat up to carry him. But he was too large and he always shook her off with a determined growl and the only thing Moll had to comfort her thoughts was the knowledge that they still had some of the ointment for him.

  The path wound on, further down the coast, past a beech tree riddled with rook nests. The birds tore off into the sky as the children approached, then all was still again. But, as they ran on, Moll’s blood quickened. The moon would be riding high soon and then the spell would wear off and the Shadowmasks would be on to them.

  Eventually the hedgerows petered out altogether and in their place was a small copse of trees. Gryff limped level with Moll and she pulled the ointment from the rucksack and smoothed it over his paws. He breathed deeply as once again the balm of the oil and the strength of the herbs entered his skin. Scrap blew her whistle gently and Moll and Gryff hastened on towards the others. They had paused by the edge of the trees because, spread out before them, was a sprawl of reeds, rushes and bogs.

  ‘Looks like a marsh,’ Alfie whispered.

  Siddy exhaled. ‘Oh, great. Hermit and I can’t wait to cross it.’

  Scrap pointed out over the boggy land. A mile or so away there was a large dark shape: a forest.

  Moll felt a familiar yearning for the cover of old, knotted trees. She nodded. ‘We need to get to the forest before the moon’s up – at least it’ll give us somewhere to hide.’

  Alfie set off first, feeling a way into the reeds, then the others followed. After only a few steps, the reeds grew taller, pinging against their waists as they trod a path through. The ground beneath their feet was soggy, the marsh full of unfamiliar noises, and Moll stiffened as the weeds oozed through the gaps between her toes and folded over her ankles. But the water was cool, soothing her feet; she only hoped it was doing the same for Gryff.

  Alfie stopped before a patch of water. The wind skirted across its surface, shaking the sedge and bog-myrtle bushes around it, and Moll could just make out the weeds stretching up from the bottom of the bog, swaying slowly. She took a deep breath and slipped a foot into the water after Alfie.

  She hadn’t gone more than a few strides before she felt it: a cold, bony hand closing round her ankle.

  Moll shrieked, her eyes filling with horror.

  Alfie whirled round. ‘What is it?’

  ‘In the water!’ Siddy cried, leaping backwards.

  Beneath the surface was the unmistakable image of a face. But it did
n’t belong to a person; it was more like the ghost of one. The skin was pale, an almost translucent green, the cheeks sunken hollows. It stared up at them with wild, veiny eyes, its mouth open in a silent scream.

  Alfie was by Moll’s side in a second. ‘Run!’ he screamed, yanking her arm.

  He pulled her free and they charged on through the marsh, water splashing up and drenching their faces, reeds snagging at their pounding feet. But whatever had seized Moll’s ankle wasn’t giving up. From behind them came a moan, threading through the reeds, and then a pattering, like footsteps skimming the surface of water.

  ‘Faster!’ Siddy roared, clutching Scrap’s hands and dragging her on behind Moll and Alfie.

  But the creature was drawing closer and Siddy could feel its rotted breath drumming at the back of his neck. Scrap’s body was rigid with fear, but the creature, a hunched wisp of bones and sagging green flesh, sped right past them. It reached out long, gaunt fingers towards Moll and Gryff.

  Alfie seized his knife and turned to face it. But, when he jabbed at the ghost-like shape, his blade passed right through it. The creature raced on, its feet flicking the surface of the water, then it lunged for Moll, wrapping skeletal arms round her ankles.

  Moll crashed to the ground and, as her stomach smacked the water, air punched from her lungs and mud spattered over her coat. Gryff launched himself against the creature, but it made no difference. It was hungry for something and, though Alfie, Siddy and Scrap were hurtling towards it, the glint in the creature’s eye made Moll feel almost certain it was going to get what it came for.

  Sharp nails plucked at her feet.

  ‘My soles!’ Moll gasped, grabbing at reeds with frantic arms. ‘It’s – it’s after my soles!’

  She twisted her feet against the creature’s pull, but it only smiled darkly, its mouth a cavern of jagged teeth. Then it lowered its jaw to Moll’s feet and tugged at the gold soles Cinderella Bull had worked so hard to conjure. A ripping sound tore through the marsh and Moll’s head jerked in pain.