Hercufleas by Sam Gayton Page B

that shake when anyone gets too close. Over there: listen…’
    Hercufleas strained his ears. Far to his left, above the rustle of the woodn’t, he heard a harsh rattling, like a dozen maracas shaking, and then, far off, a wolf’s howl. He trembled. Beneath his feet, so did Artifax.
    â€˜You know a lot about this woodn’t, Greta.’
    â€˜I have to. I’m a woodcutter.’ She tapped the axe on her back and smiled sadly. ‘Just like my parents were.’
    In the distance, the rattlesnoak shook again, and Greta’s eyes got a faraway look in them.

    â€˜Once,’ she told him, ‘before the guzzlings, Papa crept up on a rattlesnoak and carved Mama’s name into its trunk. Then he chopped off one of its roots, to prove he’d done it, and made her this axe.’
    She showed Hercufleas the gnarled handle of her axe, which ended in the varnished head of a snake. It looked as if it was carved into the wood, but Hercufleas knew now that it wasn’t.
    A tree, with serpent roots.
    â€˜Mama always used to tell me that story.’ Greta fell quiet. ‘Are you hungry?’
    Hercufleas realised suddenly that yes, he was. Hungry and scared.
    â€˜Lion blood, if you have any?’ he said, then seeing her glare, added, ‘Cougar or panther blood will do.’
    Greta held out her thumb. ‘Drink,’ she said.
    Hercufleas winced at the memory of Greta’s bitter-tasting blood. He’d prefer to drink from Artifax, but that might be rude. So he nipped her and took a quick sip. Just like last time, it puckered his mouth and made him shudder as it slid down his throat – but then the aftertaste carried a hint of something sweet that hadn’t been there before. It was hope. Greta believed in Hercufleas. She truly thought he was the one to save her town. Now there was no longer only bitterness inside her.
    The woodn’t grew lighter, and suddenly they found themselves in a clearing where all the trees were overturned or jagged stumps. In the starlight, the valley was a colour both black and emerald. The moon was a white sliver.
    â€˜Did… Did Yuk do this?’ Hercufleas looked out across the jumble of broken trees and churned earth.
    Greta shrugged. ‘Maybe. Don’t worry though – he won’t wake until the new moon. And we’re almost through now. Tumber’s beyond this valley…’ She looked up, frowning. ‘Did you hear that?’
    Hercufleas strained his ears, catching the snap of twigs, the dry rustle of dead leaves.
    â€˜The wind?’ he said hopefully.
    Greta shook her head. ‘There is no wind,’ she said, turning round and edging Artifax into the clearing. ‘Something’s in the trees.’
    â€˜Is it wolves?’ he whimpered, cowering up her sleeve. ‘A black bear? Or a grizzly squirrel?’
    â€˜Quiet,’ she hissed, pulling on the reins. Artifax reared up. Suddenly Greta’s axe was in her hands.
    â€˜Who’s there?’ she called.

16
    T he
shuffle-snap-swish
grew louder. Hercufleas began muttering
The Plea of the Flea
over and over, very fast.
    Greta peered into the darkness around them. The trees were so thick and the light so faint she could barely see.
    â€˜What is it, Greta? A rattlesnoak? Don’t let it get us! Fight it, chop it into matchsticks, do something!’
    â€˜Can’t fight what you can’t see,’ she murmured.
    From her bag she pulled out a long white stick and a small silver tinderbox with a pair of tweezers hanging from the lid on a chain. Hercufleas felt heat coming from it. Around it, the air hummed.
    With the tweezers, Greta opened the box a crack, drawing out a living flicker of flame.
    A tinderfly! It crackled and popped like a tiny ember.
    Before it burned her fingers, Greta pressed the bug down on the sugarstick. With the wick, she tied the fly in place. It buzzed there, an angry blue, until it melted the sugar below. All