The Gorgon's Gaze Read online

  “Yes, Mother,” he replied in an expressionless voice.

  This was to be expected, Cassandra told herself. The distant mood would pass once the shock of meeting Kullervo had settled down. The shape-shifter had also said that he had taken her son under his wing—told her to think of it as an honor. She’d get Colin back soon. She had to be brave for them both. He would thank her one day.

  “Come,” she said, watching him anxiously. Though she told herself he would be all right, her instinct was saying something different. She was torn between her loyalty to Kullervo, who had promised to save the gorgon, and her feelings for her son. “Your teacher is waiting.”

  They stepped out of the cottage into the chill air of the dawn to where a pegasus was standing, snorting plumes of steaming breath, shaking his magnificent black mane so that it sparkled in the gathering light. He trotted over to the boy.

  Boy, the horse greeted him.

  Kay, Colin replied mechanically.

  Mount.

  Obeying the order instantly, Colin vaulted nimbly onto the bare back of the pegasus and laced his cold hands in the mane. The pegasus cantered to take off, rising until they were up in the clouds. The water vapor stung Colin’s eyes. He reached for his visor, but halted his hand with a moment’s indecision. He had remembered something—a girl clinging to his waist, another pegasus, not this one.

  Colin, you are not paying attention. I shall have to punish you, whinnied Kullervo angrily. A throb of pain swept through Colin, and the memory was extinguished like a candle snuffed out. Kullervo snorted, relishing the vindictive pleasure of bending a human to his will—a human, moreover, who was dear to the universal. That added spice to the victory.

  Colin did not heed, or even remember, the pain for long. He was now looking down at the mountain slopes below him, admiring the ranks of creatures practicing their combat exercises. Kullervo’s supporters were growing in number, believing him to be the only hope now for their own survival. Every day, fresh outrages by humanity—the felling of forests, the pollution of inland waterways and seas, acid rain; the assaults were too numerous to mention—brought more over to Kullervo’s side. He promised them that he would rid the world of humanity—in one blow giving them a secure future and revenge on those who had pushed them to the brink of extinction. The creatures were training in earnest, and their leader had promised that their moment would soon arrive. They only needed one more thing to perfect their attack: a universal.

  As Colin watched, two black boars gored and hacked at each other with their bloodstained tusks, surrounded by a ring of yelling banshees, their screeches drowning out the grunts and squeals of the fight. Weather giants hurled hailstones and thunderbolts at the hillside, causing the valley to echo with explosions as each one hit. Ahead, a black dragon wrestled with a white one in mid-air, their bodies intertwined in a vicious knot of teeth, claws, and hooked wings.

  Kullervo landed by a small grove of hawthorn trees, close to a stack of sharpened poles.

  Take a javelin, boy. You are to aim for that kestrel there.

  Colin looked to the treetops and saw a bird of prey glaring down at them, its yellow eyes confident and cool.

  He does not think you will hit him, mocked Kullervo. How does that make you feel?

  A wave of anger, propelled by Kullervo, ripped through the blank mind of Colin. He reached for a javelin and threw it clumsily at the bird. It clattered harmlessly to the ground, well short of its target.

  Pitiful, sneered Kullervo. You threw with your feelings and not your judgment. Try again.

  Colin grabbed another weapon and this time aimed carefully, assessing distance and height before he let go. The javelin sailed cleanly from his hand and hit the leaves at the kestrel’s feet, forcing the creature into the sky with a startled cry.

  Much better. No longer so proud, is he? Kullervo laughed. Colin laughed, too, but the sound was mirthless and grated on his throat. Take three more javelins. We will see if we can catch him on the wing.

  Colin seized two poles in his left hand, holding another ready in his right. Kullervo took off and set out in pursuit of the kestrel, flying swiftly to outpace it. The bird dipped to the left, but Colin had anticipated this move and let fly his javelin. It struck the bird on the wing, and the kestrel fell spiraling to the earth, its limb broken.

  An excellent shot, Kullervo gloated. You shall have a reward.

  Colin then felt a surge of triumph course through his veins, vitalizing every inch of his deadened being. He punched the air with his free hand, threw back his head, and crowed with delight.

  You are a warrior now, boy, a true warrior, Kullervo exulted.

  I want to do that again, Colin said and held up another javelin, ready to strike.

  11

  Beacons

  The three bicyclists had now reached the edge of Mallins Wood. Connie barely recognized the picnic spot. It was draped with rainbow-colored bunting and decked with signs bearing slogans, such as “Trees not tarmac,” “Save the planet—get on your bike.” As she dismounted from the bicycle and her feet touched earth, Connie felt sick and angry at the thought of all the creatures that would soon be homeless and all the trees that would be lost. Standing here, she could feel the throbbing life in the grass, rising up to the tree tops, but soon that would cease, leaving a dead scar on the landscape—and inside her. That loss would never heal. Each tree was irreplaceable. She wondered what the Society was doing to save what they could. Organize an evacuation for the creatures, take cuttings to new homes? But there were few areas of woodland left in this part of the world. She wished she was still on hand to help, as there would be so much work involved, so much that only she could do.

  First things first: she had to find the missing dragonet.

  Anneena pointed at a banner strung between a white bus and a tree. “Arthurian Pageant—volunteers wanted.”

  “Look, we’ve chosen our theme for the carnival procession.”

  Connie was eager to start searching for Argand and wasn’t paying much attention.

  “That’s great.”

  “Yeah, but it’s better than you think—and all thanks to Jane.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’re bringing local legend in on our side to fight the council. Jane, you explain.”

  “Well,” said Jane, “the wood has a fascinating history. Did you know that it used to be called Merlin’s Wood? The name got corrupted over time to Mallins. I did some digging around in the library and found a story that claimed this was the place where Merlin was imprisoned by a sorceress named Nimue. He was supposed to be trapped in a cave at the roots of an old oak tree.”

  “Really? That happened here?” Connie said.

  “Well, probably not really—there are hundreds of other places that make the same claim. But that doesn’t matter—as long as we can convince enough people to care about the wood and its history, we might just stop the council in its tracks.”

  “Yeah,” added Anneena, “stories like this make the wood more important to everyone—to people beyond Hescombe. We think we can get a really good campaign going—use the procession to launch it nationally.”

  Connie began to understand the possibilities. “Then you need some new banners. How about, ‘Don’t mow down Merlin!’”

  Jane laughed. “You’re right. We must get painting. I’m sure your aunt will help—she did the first set.”

  “Have you seen her? Is she okay?”

  Jane and Anneena exchanged looks. “Yes, we’ve seen her around,” Anneena said awkwardly, avoiding Connie’s eye.

  “On the back of Mr. Clamworthy’s bike, I suppose?” guessed Connie.

  “So you know about that?” Anneena looked relieved. “Yes, she’s fine, but missing you, of course. She’s always asking if we’ve heard anything.”

  They left their bikes chained to a picnic table under the trees. Connie followed Anneena and Jane as they made their way over to a white bus from which fiddle music was blaring o
ut of every open window.

  “Brace yourself,” Jane whispered to Connie as Anneena knocked on the door. It opened with a bang as a flame-haired woman erupted onto the doorstep. An Alsatian dog charged from behind her legs, nearly knocking her over. The dog began to bark and snarl at Anneena, who rapidly retreated down the steps. Unperturbed, Connie reached out a hand. At first, the Alsatian sniffed it with suspicion, then he licked her fingertips. He sat at her feet, eyes closed, leaning against her, allowing her to scratch his ears.

  “You again, is it?” Siobhan said loudly to Anneena, but casting a curious glance at Connie as her guard dog now rolled over onto his back and begged for his tummy to be tickled. “You’ll be wanting Rat, I suppose?”

  “Yes, if he’s here,” said Anneena more timidly than usual.

  Siobhan shrugged. “He’s around the place somewhere. Try over by the builders’ compound. Here, Wolf, you foolish beast!” The Alsatian ignored her, now whining with ecstatic pleasure as Connie stroked him.

  “Off you go, Wolf,” Connie whispered to him, patting him on his head. He leapt to his feet and trotted obediently back into the bus. Siobhan took a good look at Connie but said nothing.

  The girls eventually found Rat at the edge of the perimeter fence that guarded the road builders’ machinery. He was well hidden, lying on his belly with a pair of wire-cutters, and it was not until Connie spotted a flock of sparrows flying out of a tree in alarm that they discovered he had been the source of the disturbance, as he had just snipped through a piece of the mesh.

  “Who’s this?” he asked, giving Connie a distrustful look.

  “A friend of ours,” Anneena explained, glancing uneasily at the fence. “Should you be doing that?” Rat grinned and cut another strand. Anneena sighed. “She’s found out that Col’s mom has a place in Wales. Do you know anything about it?”

  “No,” Rat said, snipping another piece of wire. “That madwoman could be anywhere. Real creepy she is—scary eyes when you see her up close. I’ll ask around.”

  “I think she lives near a place called…well, it’s spelled BWLCH. Don’t know how you say it,” said Connie.

  Rat looked awkward. “You’ll have to write it down for me.”

  Connie found a scrap of paper in her pocket and, borrowing a pen from Jane, wrote the name out clearly. Handing the paper over, she touched Rat’s fingers for a moment and was filled with an odd sensation—she had only ever felt it when she had touched a wild creature. Rat was alive to the world, really alive, as few people were. He must have felt something, too, because he gave her a sharp look.

  “You’ve got the same eyes as Col,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “Col’s my best friend—I don’t want nothing bad to happen to him.”

  “I know.”

  Satisfied with that, Rat turned back to the wire fence.

  “Hey, you kids, what do you think you’re doing?” A policeman came pounding along the perimeter toward them, his belt jingling heavily with handcuffs and billy club.

  “Split!” hissed Rat. He slithered out of sight, emerging on the other side of the bush to pick himself up and run into the trees. Jane gave a panicked scream and darted back the way they had come, closely followed by Anneena. Connie hesitated, then set off in the opposite direction, heading toward the coastal path, hoping to lose any pursuit in the dense oak trees that grew in this part of the wood. The last thing she needed after persuading a reluctant Godiva to let her out was to end up in trouble with the police.

  She ran into the trees and paused. Was she still being chased? There came a crashing noise behind her and the sound of a man swearing as he tripped over a tree root. She was the unlucky one—he was on her tail! She started to run again.

  “Stop! Police!” he shouted.

  She was making too much noise in the thick undergrowth. It was easy to track her each time she moved. Her heart was thumping; her legs had turned to jelly. She felt like a fox being pursued by a hound, but then she realized she didn’t have to stay on the ground. Thinking quickly, she looked for a place to climb. She broke from cover to run into the space under a decrepit old tree, jumped to swing up on a low branch, and climbed into the yellowing canopy of oak leaves. A moment later, her hunter fought his way through the undergrowth, and passed right beneath, still cursing her for giving him the run-around, but fortunately he did not think to look up. Connie waited until all sounds of his passage through the wood had died away.

  The normal noises resumed: the song of the birds, the rustle of leaves, and the whisper of the breeze, carrying the tang of the sea inland. It appeared that it would be safe now for her to find a way down and look for Argand. But it did not prove so simple. Her fear had driven her high up the tree; it no longer looked like such an easy climb from here.

  Then Connie gave a muffled cry of surprise. A pair of brown eyes was staring at her from a split in the tree bark: a wood sprite, the spirit of the tree, was watching her. She had never yet been close enough to encounter one. Intrigued, she reached out a finger and touched the crack. A twiggy claw emerged, and its tip stroked her hand experimentally. The creature’s presence unfurled in Connie like a bud opening. She felt as if she was merging with the tree, becoming an extension of its life, a new branch or cluster of leaves, waving up here in the wind, yet connected to the deep places of the earth where the roots delved. Down there it was dark and moist, while up in the leaves above, all was light; birds sketched patterns across the sky, carrying the acorns away to drop in new seedbeds far from the parent tree. The oak was ancient. A thousand years of memories ringed its trunk.

  Old enough to remember Merlin? Connie wondered.

  The creature shuffled out of its hole, whiskers twitching, and came to sit on the branch beside Connie. The sprite perched on its back legs like a squirrel, sniffing the air. Its rough pelt was dark green, shot through with brown and yellow, but Connie noticed that it shed leafy bristles with every puff of wind. These floated gently to the ground, leaving patches of silver-gray skin bare to the elements. The wood sprite’s blunt, rounded snout was smooth olive green, dimpled with little brown pits around the nostrils. It whispered a soft greeting, like the flutter of leaves.

  Connie thanked it for its welcome and for allowing her to take refuge here.

  Is Merlin buried under you? she asked it.

  Merlin? What’s that? rustled the sprite with interest.

  Connie smiled. Not what—who. A magician from long ago.

  Know nothing about such things. No magician under my roots. Have own magic—not man’s magic.

  The universal could feel it—the pulse of life in the sap, the strength in the roots. But she couldn’t stay to learn more; she had to find her companion.

  Have you seen a little golden creature in your wood? A dragonet?

  The sprite scratched at the bark, thinking, feeling in the earth. She in dark place over there. Sadness. Scared.

  I must go to her. Connie began to scramble down. But how should I get to the ground?

  Like the acorn—you drop, came the response.

  Not finding this very helpful advice, Connie reluctantly turned around. But the wood sprite was right: she had no choice in the end but to drop to earth from the lowest branch. Falling heavily, Connie rubbed her hands together where she had grazed them, licking the cuts like a cat, tasting the salty tang of mingled bark and blood. She looked back up into the tree to see the sprite was still watching her. It pointed into the trees. She waved farewell, and it darted out of sight.

  Pushing her way through the thickets, she reached out for Argand through their bond, calling her. A golden glimmer lit up one corner of her mind—faint and fearful. She hurried on, homing in on that presence. Finally, she came to the edge of a sheer slope that dropped away to the hollow below. She couldn’t get down this alone.

  Argand! It’s me, she called, feeling she was close enough now to use her voice.

  A streak like a golden firework burst from the darkness and flew at her
. She opened her arms wide and caught Argand, hugging her close. The dragonet was shivering. She was cold, tired, and—Connie reached into her mind—terrified of something.

  What happened? Where’s Col?

  A series of images flashed through Argand’s head—horseboy, dark creatures, snakes. Col screaming.

  Has something happened to him? Something bad?

  Yes, yes! peeped Argand.

  Connie stroked the dragonet into calmness. Look, companion, you need to go back to your nest. I’ll show you the way. Drawing Argand closer, she showed her a mental image of the way back to the moor. Did you get that?

  Argand nodded.

  Tell your father what happened here. Now go.

  Argand fluttered into the sky, bobbing off over the trees. Connie hobbled back toward the camp, hoping no one would think her extended absence was strange.

  Her two friends and Rat were waiting for her by the bus.

  “Thank goodness, Connie!” exclaimed Anneena, seeing her emerge from the trees. “We were just getting ready to come back in after you. I thought you’d been caught.”

  “Almost, but not quite,” Connie admitted. “But I think I’ve found a good contender for Merlin’s tree—over there, in that grove of oak trees by the fence.”

  Rat nodded. “I know the one you mean—the old one.”

  “That’s it.”

  “It’s in a part of the wood that they’re going to cut down.”

  “No—they can’t!” Connie cried, thinking of the wood sprite and the community of creatures that were housed in the canopy.

  “But that’s good,” said Anneena, half to herself.

  “What!” Rat and Connie turned on her indignantly.

  “It can be our symbol—something for the story to focus on. We can call it Merlin’s Oak. We need some photographs, someone to front the story—yes, yes, it’s perfect.”

  “What’s she going on about?” Rat asked Connie in a puzzled tone.

  “She’s got an idea…” Connie began.

  “And when Anneena has an idea, we all hear about it sooner or later,” finished Jane. “Usually sooner.”