Growned, Page 3

  Too late.

  The steel toecap met Liam’s nose with a vicious crack. Liam fell, immersed in a pain that ricocheted off the bridge of his nose, across his cheek bones, down to his teeth and up to his forehead, where it continued to rattle about in all the recesses of his brain before focussing back, with an even greater intensity, on the bridge of his nose. Warm blood flooded over his chin, the metallic taste filling his mouth. Mezereon was right, conceded Liam. And I’m going to die. He curled himself into a tight ball as darkness invaded from the corners of his brain and he prepared for the end.

  *

  DESPERATELY, Cinnabar reached out to grab at anything that would slow his progress into the pike’s gut. As his world filled with cold and darkness, he took his last gasp of putrid air before the black water closed over his head.

  His hand had caught in something that prevented him from falling further down the fish’s throat. It was small comfort, he thought, as the air in his lungs began to fight for release and the blood pounded in his ears. What a choice. Drown or be eaten.

  A way out, he thought, the panic beginning to rise. I need a way out. Which way is the exit? He groped around in the pitch black water, his free hand sliding over the smooth surfaces of Lord Pike’s mouth. There must be a way out. Surely it couldn’t end like this, rotting away in a fish’s stomach.

  He pulled himself into a gap. He had no idea what or where it was, but in his panic instinct was taking over. And there! A glimmer! Was it daylight?

  He pulled himself towards it, while the air that was left in his lungs began struggling violently to get out.

  Yes! There it was again—some sort of light. Cinnabar pulled himself on, his efforts aided by a helpful flow of water. One final effort and—

  His head popped out into clear water, but the rest of his body was stuck. He pulled, and with a sudden rush as the gill flapped open, Cinnabar was released.

  The air rushed out of his lungs before he could stop it. He struggled to the surface of the lake, his sodden wings weighing him down. I’m going to die, he thought. The last thing I’ll see will be the sky through the water. And it doesn't seem to be getting any nearer.

  And then, just as he thought he must take a breath and fill his lungs with the deadly water, his head crashed through the surface and he gulped air. His lungs couldn’t get enough of it. He trod water, gasping involuntarily, struggling to keep himself afloat as his submerged wings tried to pull him back down.

  His racked breathing subsided and he began to look around for a shore to swim to. His heart sank. He could only see water. The shoreline was out of sight. He must be in the middle of the lake, with safety miles away. He’d never be able to swim that far, surely, especially with this weight dragging behind him. He sighed and blew bubbles into the water. It was definitely turning into one of those days. Oh well, there was nothing for it but to try and reach land or die in the effort. With the ungainly stroke of one not used to swimming, the Prince struck out for what he hoped was the nearest shoreline.

  Of course, he thought wryly to himself, there was a good chance he wouldn't drown before he reached the shore. There was a very good chance, the racket his inexperienced strokes were making, he would attract the attention of another predator, or maybe Lord Pike again. Oh, the day just kept getting better and better. “And why,” he said out loud and between unwanted mouthfuls of water, “is there never any rubbish floating on the surface just when you need it?”

  *

  LIAM came to, still in pain. He felt as though someone had cut his face off and then stuck what remained of his head in a keg of salt. It hurt to breathe and something had him by the foot. Carefully, he opened one eye and wished he hadn’t. He was upside down and it was still night. Whatever had him had six legs. That probably made it an insect. Not good.

  Liam knew enough about insects to know some of them ate other insects. He didn’t think insects were the kind of naturally curious animals that might pick someone up just to see who it was.

  He tried to look around, hopeful for signs of his companions, but could see only a larger shape which seemed to be following them. It appeared to be black and beetle-like, and very unlike the thing that held him. Oh, no, thought Liam, his sluggish brain beginning to wake up.

  Their pursuer looked a tad bigger than Liam’s captor. Perhaps―and Liam almost groaned aloud at the thought―perhaps his captor was about to become someone else’s supper. Without a doubt, the beetle-like thing was gaining on them rapidly. Liam watched it intently. He wasn’t feeling ready for fight or flight, but an opportunity for escape was apparently going to present itself.

  The beetle-like thing struck without so much as breaking its stride, grabbing its victim from behind with a set of fearsome front legs. Liam was dropped and landed heavily on his shoulder. He grunted in pain.

  Above him, a silent, frenzied battle was being fought, and he noticed, as he picked himself up, that one of his captor’s back legs had already been torn off. But Liam could waste no time watching the fight. With every part of his body screaming with pain, he staggered to his feet and ran.

  He raced blindly down what appeared to be a broad avenue, but was probably no more than a rabbit path. He ran until his legs turned to lead and his lungs felt they were ripping with the effort of breathing. He flung himself into the grass at the side of the path and, hoping he wouldn’t meet anything else that might want to eat him, lay there until the heaving of his chest slowed and his gasping stopped.

  The sweat on his body began to cool, triggering an uncontrolled shivering. This, he thought, is not good. I’ve no food, no shelter and I don’t know where I am. And I’m already cold. And very hungry.

  He looked up, beyond the grass and trees.

  Stars.

  Lots of stars in a clear sky. At least it looked like it was going to stay dry. And who knew, maybe there would be a bit of moonlight to see by. Though, on reflection, he wasn’t sure if that would be a good thing.

  He sighed. Now he was upright, his face felt awful and stung with sweat. Gingerly, he felt around his nose area and was immediately grateful he had no mirror to look in. Whoever had hit him, they had done a good job.

  He thought some more about the attack on the camp. What on earth, he wondered, had provoked such an action? What was it Mezereon said?

  He struggled to remember. Something like―yes, that was it―he's a killer. Well, this one had certainly tried to be. Liam was amazed he had survived the attack. He had been certain he was going to die.

  He looked about him. Which direction, he pondered. He might as well walk somewhere as stay here. There may be a better place to hide somewhere else― somewhere with food, perhaps. Then again, the next place could be worse.

  He stood undecided, before hearing a crackling noise behind him. Liam jumped, startled. He was not going to wait around to see what had caused it. He started off at a brisk trot and then broke into a run.

  Behind Liam, through the grass, a white face was peering at him. Its rows of discoloured, pointed teeth showed in a snarl of disappointment. Charlock had been careless and set his prey running. Well, that wouldn’t happen next time.

  *

  CINNABAR groaned as he pulled himself out of the water with what felt like his last ounce of strength. He lay on the bank, the water running off him back into the dark lake. If anything attacked him now, he thought, it would have to eat him and be done with it.

  The sun had long disappeared and the loud sounds of night were now audible over the lapping of the water. Particularly noisy were the frogs and toads. How he’d managed to avoid them, he didn’t know. It had been terrifying, floundering through the water with everything below, above and around him a potential predator.

  It had been the log that saved him. He could never have endured that many hours in the water otherwise. It had been a devil to steer and paddle, but at least it had given him the opportunity to rest. Now he was exhausted and increasingly cold. He knew he would have to move, but in a little whil
e, maybe.

  Nearby―too close nearby―a cricket chirruped. Then another.

  Cinnabar sighed and forced himself up onto his feet. He staggered away from the water’s edge. No, he thought, it wouldn’t do to become a cricket’s supper, not after all he’d endured to get here.

  His sodden wings weighed heavily at his shoulders. Oh, well, he thought, at least those would get lighter as they dried out. And then, if there was no real damage, he might be able to fly and find his way back home. This bolstered his spirits a little as he sought a bolt hole of some description to rest in for the night.

  He wondered what was happening back at the palace. Hooktip would be beside himself with guilt and grief. And if that wasn't bad enough, his friend was going to have to tell the Queen what had happened. Poor Hooktip. He didn't deserve that.

  Cinnabar knew he had no one to blame but himself for his predicament. Why hadn't he listened to his friend? And now? Well, he'd be lucky to see Hooktip ever again.

  Why, oh why didn't he stop to think? Just now and then. He never stopped to think. He rode his luck to the maximum and now his luck had run out.

  Or had it?

  He was still alive, wasn't he? How much luckier could you get? He wondered if Lord Pike realised he hadn't eaten him. Cinnabar chuckled to himself. He would give Lord Pike a shock and a half when he got back home. If he got back home. Of course he'd get back home. He was still lucky, lucky, lucky.

  He stopped. There he went again, with the same attitude that had got him into this mess. “Must try harder,” muttered Cinnabar.

  Then he wondered how his mother was taking the news of his death. No doubt with well practised hysteria. Poor Hooktip. He really didn't deserve it.

  *

  THE Queen looked at Hooktip, her face white, her mouth half open, gasping for words. “And you searched the area thoroughly?” she asked, her voice trembling.

  Hooktip swallowed hard, trying to stop his own voice from trembling, and nodded. “Yes, Ma’am,” he said huskily, “I was there for a couple of hours. I found nothing. You see―” Hooktip stopped and drew a deep breath “―Lord Pike took him under the water. He could have gone anywhere.”

  “Nooo!” wailed the Queen, dramatically throwing her arm over her face. “It cannot be! Oh!” She paused. “You! You!” She signalled to a nearby footman. “Come here! Stand near me, there. I feel I might swoon at any moment.”

  The footman blanched. Fear wondered across his face and peered out through frightened eyes. The Queen looked him up and down and then signalled to another, sturdier looking footman to stand on the other side of her. Satisfied the immediate safety issues were dealt with, the Queen continued.

  “Oh, Cinnabar, Cinnabar, my only son!” moaned the Queen. “How could fate snatch you so cruelly from me? And so soon after the demise of my dear husband! Who will take on the burden of ruling our happy land now? Must I continue to carry this great weight into my dotage, until it cracks and breaks me? Oh me! Oh my! Will there be no rest?”

  Hooktip put up a tentative hand. The Queen invited him to speak. “Ma'am,” said Hooktip, “there is still the boy, if Mezereon has found him.”

  The Queen went a peculiar colour. Hooktip couldn't quite put a name to it, but it didn't look healthy. “A human?” she hissed. “On my throne? Never!”

  Hooktip bowed his head in contrition. He should have known better than to mention the boy to the Queen. “Sorry, Ma'am,” he mumbled.

  The Queen rounded on him. “And where were you in all this?” she demanded. “You were supposed to look after him! Why did you let him tease Lord Pike? Didn't you think of the danger?”

  Hooktip nodded miserably. He hung his head. “Yes, Ma'am,” he said, “I definitely pointed it out to him. And reminded him of his responsibilities. But you know what Prince Cinnabar is like. He will always push his luck. And I'm sorry to say, he pushed it too far today.”

  The Queen acknowledged his statement and signalled to Hooktip he was dismissed.

  Hooktip hesitated, but he could think of nothing further to say that would make the situation any better. He backed out of the throne room and stood in the great hall, uncertain what to do.

  Gone, he thought.

  All that vitality, that laughing face, that love of life. All snuffed out like a moth in the flame. It couldn’t be so, surely. Tomorrow, Cinnabar would come striding in as usual, complaining about his mother’s plans for him, and this would all have been a bad dream.

  Hooktip stood in the doorway, looking out over the woods. “He can’t be gone,” he muttered to himself. “He must be out there, somewhere!”

  Cinnabar wouldn’t die, so Hooktip would carry on looking until he found him. Feeling relieved he had at least made a decision, Hooktip spread his wings and headed back to the lake.

  *

  “YOU lost him?” cried Mezereon incredulously. “Weren’t you watching him? Weren’t you supposed to be watching him?”

  A flicker of annoyance sneaked across Hornbeam’s face, but quickly hid itself. In a steady voice he said, “Sorry, Master. I was distracted by that large, hairy spider that was trying to eat you, and your screams of save me Hornbeam, save me.”

  Mezereon looked hard at Hornbeam. “Are you being insolent?” he asked his servant.

  Hornbeam’s face was a picture of hurt innocence. “No, Master,” he replied, his voice full of surprise. “I was merely pointing out I was too busy dealing with the spider to notice the beetle had snatched the human. If you had wished me to rescue the human and leave the spider to you, you should have told me to.” Mezereon glared at Hornbeam, who added, “As you have often said, Master, I have not the brains to make these decisions myself.”

  “Humph,” grunted Mezereon, still eyeing Hornbeam with suspicion. “Well, we’re going to have to find him,” he told his servant. “I can’t go back to the Queen and tell her that I’ve―you’ve―lost him. Not that it makes any odds,” he sighed. “You’re my servant, so she’ll blame me, even if it is your fault!”

  Hornbeam bowed his head in what he hoped was a penitent manner, trying to ignore the vivid thoughts he was having of what he’d like to do to his master, if he ever had the opportunity and the nerve. One day, he thought to himself, the boot will be on the other foot and I know where it will kick him!

  “So, which way did they go?” snapped Mezereon. “I suppose we should make some effort to rescue him, even if he has already, probably, become the beast’s supper!” Hornbeam indicated and then picked up his pack and spear. “Well,” continued Mezereon, “you can go first. After the trauma I’ve endured today, I don’t think my heart can take any more. Being hung upside down by one leg at my age! And that silk’s still sticking to me, you know. I shall probably get a skin rash. I don’t even want to think about what went up my nose. Well! Come on, come on.”

  Complaining loudly, the peevish wizard followed Hornbeam, who walked with his head bowed, having dark thoughts. Next time there was a spider intent on making a snack out of the old fraud, Hornbeam would make a point of not noticing, no matter how loud the old fairy screamed.

  *

  HOOKTIP had spent all day looking for his friend. He alighted on the branch of a tree and stared disconsolately out over the lake. The problem was, the place was just too big. Even if Cinnabar was able to fly in the open sky, it would be difficult to spot him unless you knew where he was. More likely, if Cinnabar had survived Lord Pike and the lake, his wings would be sodden and the Prince grounded for at least a couple of days―if the sun was warm and it didn’t rain.

  Reluctantly, Hooktip admitted to himself that looking for Cinnabar in his present situation would be like looking for a pin in the grass. He sighed and noticed for the first time how hungry he’d become. But he didn’t feel like eating and so sat on a branch and surveyed the lake.

  He must be there somewhere, he thought.

  “Any luck?” came a voice.

  Hooktip jumped. He looked round to see a green winged figure had alighted next to
him. “Myrtle!” he exclaimed hoarsely. “How did you―?”

  “Queenie was gnashing and wailing about it,” explained Myrtle cheerfully, sitting down beside her brother. “I know it’s awful, but she is making a real drama about it. I take it there’s been no luck?”

  Hooktip shook his head wearily. “It’s just too big,” he sighed. “He could be anywhere.”

  Myrtle nodded. “We need more people,” she said. “Queenie should be organising search parties, not indulging in dramatic histrionics. After all, we don’t know he’s...” She paused. “Well, there’s always a chance, isn’t there?”

  They sat in silence for a few moments, watching the darkening sky. “We might as well go home,” said Myrtle.

  Hooktip shook his head. “What’s the point,” he muttered. “I’m not going to be sleeping”

  “No,” Myrtle conceded, “but you need to eat if you’re going to keep looking for him.” She looked up into the tree. “We could get some torches,” she suggested. “Maybe he’ll see them if we put them up in the tree. He might be lost. He might see us and make his way here.”

  Hooktip nodded slowly.

  “So,” continued Myrtle, taking her brother’s hand, “let’s go back and get some food and stuff, and come back here and put up some torches.”

  Hooktip was silent for a while and then said resignedly, “Okay. It’s something to do, isn’t it? Let’s go then.”

  Brother and sister flew home together, Myrtle still holding on to Hooktip’s hand. She kept glancing back at him. He seemed oblivious to what was happening to him and was just following her like a kite on a piece of string. Positive action, she thought. Positive action―planning, getting organised. Something to focus on. And though she had been trying not to think the thought, it crept up on her anyway. What if Cinnabar was...? She couldn’t think or say the word. And she wouldn’t until she had to.

  They alighted on an ancient oak in the oldest part of the Queen’s realm. Legend had it the tree had been an acorn in the age of innocence, before men began to wrench themselves away from their natural world and invent one for themselves.