Ottilie Colter and the Narroway Hunt Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  1 The Lightning Song

  2 The Swamp Hollows

  3 Bill

  4 The Duck Door

  5 The Swamp Picker

  6 A Gift from Gurt

  7 Off the Edge of the Map

  8 The Narroway

  9 Fort Fiory

  10 The Narroway Huntsmen

  11 Death Crows

  12 Training

  13 Skip the Secret Keeper

  14 Caution and Counsel

  15 Hero

  16 A Change of Heart

  17 Stage Fright

  18 The Fledgling Trials

  19 Guardians

  20 Maestro the Wingerslink

  21 Rankings

  22 The Withering Wood

  23 The Red Canyon

  24 The Barrogaul

  25 Leo’s Choice

  26 The Directorate

  27 The Newest Shovelie

  28 The Hex

  29 The Wind and the Watcher

  30 Mending

  31 Summer’s End

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright Page

  1

  The Lightning Song

  Ottilie skipped and stumbled. ‘Gully, wait!’

  Her skirt was caught on a branch. Panicking, she tugged hard and lurched backwards into the mud, drenching her legs and peppering her back with muddy spots all the way up to her neck. As she clambered to her feet, cold water trickled down her bare ankles into her boots.

  ‘Gully!’ she called again, tripping through the scratchy scrub. He was only six – nearly two years younger than she was. It was supposed to be Ottilie in charge, but Gully always led the way.

  ‘Ottilie, what are you doing?’ said Gully, bounding back towards her.

  ‘I fell.’

  Gully’s face broke into a grin. ‘You’re all muddy.’

  ‘It’s not funny, Gulliver!’

  ‘Did your leg get cut?’ Gully squatted to check, and his own familiar scattering of scabs stretched over his kneecaps. Ottilie sometimes thought they looked like a cluster of islands marked on a map.

  ‘It’s just my skirt,’ said Ottilie.

  ‘Come on, we’re nearly there.’ Gully pulled her forwards.

  Ottilie and Gulliver Colter were an odd pair. They were little, scrawny even. Both had unruly hair, small ears and crooked teeth, but as far as similarities went, that was about it. Ottilie was pale, with a fat trail of freckles across her nose. Gully’s nose, and the rest of his face, was bronze like the square coins they passed around in Market Town. His large eyes reminded Ottilie of a midnight sky.

  Ottilie didn’t know why she and Gully were so different. She supposed that was just the way things were. Everyone was different. She even knew one boy with hair the colour of ripe oranges. Peter Mervintasker was his name. Old Moss once told her that Peter Mervintasker had hair that colour because his mother ate too many carrots before he was born, but Ottilie had stopped believing that years ago. Carrots didn’t grow around the swamps, and Mrs Mervintasker didn’t have any money to buy them. No-one Ottilie knew had any money for carrots.

  ‘You know where we are now?’ said Gully, pushing through the ferns at the fringe of Longwood Forest.

  ‘I know the way to the sunnytree, Gully!’

  She didn’t really. The thing about always following was it made it hard to remember the way to anywhere.

  It was worse in Longwood. Ottilie struggled to think straight in that eerie forest, and it was only when they cut into the field that she recognised where she was. Fine krippygrass, greener than green beans, tickled her elbows and her feet sunk a little into the mushy soil with every step.

  The tree was in sight. Gully released her hand and charged ahead. This was their favourite place in all the world. Standing alone in the grass, the sunnytree had pale, twisted branches. It was leafless, but enormous golden flowers blotted its stark frame with light. They smelled awful, like muddy metal, but you could only smell them if you shoved your nose right into the petals, and Ottilie had learned to keep her distance since her face had puffed up after last time.

  The sunnytree was the best tree to climb, but they hadn’t really come to play. They had come to count their treasure.

  ‘Crunch, thud, dig deep down, pay for what you’ve done,’ Gully chanted under his breath.

  ‘Stop it, Gulliver, that’s not even the words.’ Ottilie hated the lightning song.

  ‘It is the words!’

  ‘No, it’s sleeper comes for none.’

  ‘Peter Mervintasker says it’s pay for what you’ve done. Because you called the storm with the song, so you get struck by lightning.’

  That was what everyone said about the lightning song. Ottilie had never believed it, but she didn’t like the song all the same.

  ‘It doesn’t matter anyway,’ she said. ‘Come on, let’s dig it up.’

  Their treasure chest was a narrow wooden box buried beneath a low branch of the sunnytree where Ottilie had carved an X. It only took a minute to unearth it with their hands. After wiping the mud on her skirt, Ottilie slid her blackened fingernails under the lid and prised the box open.

  ‘Flash, smack and crackle, lightning knows the spot. Hiss, flick and sputter, three will mark it hot.’ Gully was swinging from a forked branch, singing again.

  Ottilie ignored him. She was counting the box’s contents to make sure nothing was missing. There were several duck feathers, a star-shaped pebble, a silver button that they really should have tried to sell in Market Town, a scrap of cloth stitched with little yellow moons, and other precious bits and pieces they had collected over the years.

  ‘Wail, whine, dinnertime, no more rest for Mum. Crunch, thud, dig deep down, pay for what you’ve done.’

  ‘That’s not the words,’ said Ottilie, pressing the lid closed. ‘It’s all there.’ They had been checking and counting every few weeks since Peter Mervintasker had found their old hiding place and made off with some of their treasure.

  ‘It’s going to rain again,’ said Gully, his face tipped skyward.

  Sure enough, dark clouds were rolling in. Ottilie sighed. Her clothes were already ruined, but she supposed there was no point in Gully getting all wet. Clothes took so long to dry around the swamps.

  There was a sudden horrible boom. Ottilie felt as if the ground was shaking beneath her feet, and her teeth rattled in her mouth.

  Gully laughed. ‘It’s going to storm!’

  Lightning flashed, and the grass was veiled in shade as the angry clouds swallowed up all the light.

  ‘I didn’t even sing it loud!’

  ‘It’s not because of the song! Come on,’ Ottilie said, turning her back.

  ‘I want to watch the lightning!’ Gully swung his leg onto a branch.

  ‘We have to go home!’ Ottilie grabbed his shirt and pulled.

  He shook himself loose. ‘I want to stay.’

  Lightning flashed again. Ottilie squeezed her eyes closed, but it was as if someone had painted the insides of her eyelids a bright, shining white. ‘Please, Gully, I don’t like it.’

  Gully looked at her for a moment. She could see he wanted to laugh at her. She could almost hear him say, Ottilie, you’re scared of everything! But he didn’t say it. Instead, Gully took her hand and turned his back on the sunnytree. He stomped his feet as they trekked back through the krippygrass, but he kept hold of her hand all the same.

  As if from nowhere, a gust of icy wind nearly knocked them down. Thunder rumbled and lightning followed immediately after. The storm was right on top of them. Just as Ottilie squeezed her eyes shut, Gully yelled, ‘Oh
no!’ and pulled away, charging back towards their treasure chest.

  They hadn’t buried it properly.

  ‘Gully, wait! It doesn’t matter!’

  There was yet another grisly boom from the sky and Ottilie lost her footing from fright. Lying tangled in the krippygrass, she gazed up in horror as a spear of lightning plunged from the roaring skies and struck right through the heart of the sunnytree.

  Ottilie smelled burning wood, heard the sizzle of flame on damp grass. Finding her feet, she flew away from the light and, stumbling through the ferns, she disappeared into Longwood.

  No thought crossed her mind but escape. She didn’t feel the bramble thorns pull at her skirt, nor the branches snatching at her arms. She just pushed on and on, deeper and deeper into the forest. Finally she stopped. Breathing hard, she pressed against the scales of a tree fern and, hiding beneath its giant fronds, she wrapped her arms around her knees.

  It took a few moments for her vision to return to normal. She became aware of her surroundings. She was alone in Longwood. No, that wasn’t the problem. There was something far worse – Ottilie had left Gully behind.

  She had to go and find him. She had to bring him back. Ottilie knew it was right. She knew it was her job, but she couldn’t move. She commanded her arms to release her legs. Move, she thought. Move!

  Branches thrashed and whirled above, and wind howled through the alleys between tree trunks. The minutes hurtled past, but still she could not move.

  Ottilie heard something from far away. Eyes wide and wet with tears, she glanced up.

  ‘Ottilie!’

  Someone was calling her.

  Ottilie opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out.

  ‘Ottilie, where are you?’

  He was closer.

  ‘Here!’

  It was a mere squeak but at least she’d made a noise. She couldn’t seem to make another. She could hear leaves crunching and twigs breaking. She focused on the sounds of his approach until there he was, standing right before her. Gully pushed forwards and kneeled next to her, resting his hand on her knee.

  ‘I wanted to come get you. I was going to,’ said Ottilie, arms still firmly wrapped around her legs.

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Gully. ‘I came to get you.’

  2

  The Swamp Hollows

  Five years later …

  Their hollow was empty.

  Ottilie picked at the smallest of many holes in her mother’s only blanket. The bed was untouched, the woollen blanket pulled tight and tucked in at the sides. Stretching to stand, Ottilie winced. Her entire left side had stiffened overnight, and all for nothing – she need not have slept on the floor. Their mother’s health had been in slow decline for as long as she could remember, and Ottilie had given up her scrap of a mattress weeks ago so that Freddie could layer one on top of the other. Now Ottilie felt lopsided, and more than a little annoyed.

  Freddie’s absence was not a big surprise – but where was Gully? He hadn’t been home when Ottilie went to sleep, although this was not unusual, but he was always there in the morning. Ottilie crouched awkwardly on the smooth limestone floor. Her own threadbare blanket was wrapped tightly about her shoulders as she frowned. Was it too early to worry?

  No.

  She launched herself off the ground, pulled the nearest moth-eaten coat over her nightdress, forced her bare feet into soggy, mud-crusted boots and unlatched the door.

  The Colter hollow was one of the few in their quarter with an actual door. The Swamp Hollows were a series of caves and tunnels on the edge of the Brakkerswamp, managed by a man they called the keeper.

  The caves had been deserted for years before the squatters settled in. No-one knew who originally built the doors to section them off. The central chamber even had window shutters covering the holes in the cave walls. Freddie said the keeper’s hollow had window shutters too, but Ottilie had never been inside.

  The Hollows were a last resort, shelter for those without means to live elsewhere. Ottilie was what they called ‘Brakker born and bred’. She had lived there for nearly thirteen years.

  She pressed the door open a smidge, just wide enough to slip through. It was a noisy old thing and she was wary of making a disturbance so early in the morning. In the Hollows there were neighbours everywhere. Old Moss and Mr Parch slept in the tunnel just outside. Tiptoeing past, she averted her gaze. Mr Parch always slept with his eyes open. It gave her the shivers, probably because he was old as dirt and it was hard to tell the difference between sleeping and dead. Shivers aside, she liked that they were always there. Freddie was so often absent, and with Old Moss and Mr Parch just outside, Ottilie never felt alone.

  She stopped at the wash grotto to splash her face and take a gulp from the fresh running spring. She had thought the place deserted, but something shifted in the shadows. Ottilie froze. It was little more than a whisper, but she heard it – a bare foot stepping on wet stone.

  ‘Gully?’

  No-one spoke.

  But for the steady dripping of stalactites over the pools, the grotto was silent. This was just like her brother. He was going to jump out any second now and tackle her to the ground.

  ‘Gul–’

  This time she definitely heard something – a breath, just feet away. Someone was around the corner, breathing beyond the spring. It wasn’t Gully. That wasn’t how Gully breathed. It was wet. Wet breath. She didn’t want to know who was there, not anymore. Without another thought, Ottilie bolted.

  After a clumsy drop into the lower tunnels, Ottilie slowed. Pressing her cheek against the cool stone wall, she closed her eyes. It felt as if someone were trying to pull apart her ribcage.

  She needed a plan. Freddie was the obvious place to start. She would find Freddie and see if she knew of Gully’s whereabouts.

  ‘Gurt!’

  Ottilie fluttered impatiently in front of the mouldy old curtain that was the entrance to Gurt’s hollow.

  ‘Just a minute!’ called a mucusy voice.

  ‘Is my mum in there?’

  ‘Eh? Oh. Yuh, Freddie’s here.’

  Ottilie felt a lump form in her throat. ‘I’m coming in.’

  ‘Hold your trotters –’

  There came a loud crashing and clanking from beyond the mouldy veil. Ottilie wrenched it aside and was overwhelmed by the sharp stench of old bramblywine.

  ‘Oi, careful there, nearly took my eye!’ Gurt stumbled backwards, tripped over one of many empty bottles, and fell to the floor. With a crackling sigh, he rolled himself into a jumble of knobbly bones. ‘What can I do you for, little Ott?’

  ‘Freddie.’ The word came out more like a growl than Ottilie intended. She had always hated how Gurt called her Ott.

  ‘Over there.’ He jerked his head. ‘Sleeping.’

  Ottilie glanced over to the corner. Visible somewhere within a pile of crusty clothes and blankets was Freddie Colter’s thinning mop of grizzled hair.

  ‘You didn’t give her your stuff again?’ said Ottilie, tears welling in her eyes.

  ‘Course I did. Best brewed bramblywine in the swamps.’

  ‘Yours always makes her sicker. You don’t know how to make it right.’

  ‘What would you know? You ever even tasted it, little Ott?’

  ‘No,’ said Ottilie, her anger mounting.

  He reached for the nearest bottle, checking to see if it was empty. ‘Here, I’ll find you a bottle half pri–’

  Ottilie ignored him. ‘Mum.’

  Freddie didn’t move.

  ‘Mum!’

  The greying mop shifted back and forth like an old possum sifting through a pile of garbage. Ottilie squatted down beside her and pulled the covers away. Freddie groaned and rolled over.

  Ottilie could never be sure how much she really resembled her mother. Her own hair was long and wildly curled; Freddie’s was lifeless, thin and greying all over. Ottilie’s eyes were a swampy grey-green; Freddie’s were empty and dark. And where Ottilie’s
face was plump and heart-shaped, Freddie’s had been growing looser and thinner with every passing season.

  Her mother was beginning to look like the old paintings in the empty tunnels above the central chamber – paintings of stick figures with wide mouths and feathery crowns. Old Moss said the ancient markings were lost stories from the Lore. The feathery crowns signified fiorns, chosen children of the god Fiory, lord of the raptors. But they were fearsome, magical creatures, and Freddie was about as far from fearsome or magical as Ottilie could imagine.

  ‘Ottilie, it’s cold,’ Freddie mumbled. Her breath reeked of vinegar and rotting gums.

  ‘Mum, did you see Gully last night?’

  ‘Last night?’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘Yesterday …’ Freddie’s eyes were half-closed and caked in yellow crusts. ‘In the morning.’

  ‘But did you see him after?’

  ‘Mm. That’s when I saw him. He’s always getting lost.’

  Ottilie felt the colour rising in her cheeks. ‘No, Mum, he’s never lost. Not ever.’

  ‘Check the swamp. He likes the swamp.’

  Her heart sank. ‘I like the swamp. Gully hates the swamp.’

  ‘Oh.’ Freddie closed her eyes.

  ‘You don’t think the Laklanders got him?’ said Old Moss, narrowing her pouchy eyes.

  ‘No! There are no Laklanders around here …’ said Ottilie.

  Laklanders were old enemies of their kingdom. Ottilie liked to think they were completely gone, extinct, like the ancient giants and their scaly steeds whose bones had been found in the dunes of the north island. But of course, Laklanders were far more recent, and far more real. Whispers of their wicked deeds sent shivers down her spine, and they always featured as imaginary villains in Ottilie and Gully’s most exciting games.

  Ottilie turned to Mr Parch. ‘There are no Laklanders here,’ she repeated. ‘Are there?’

  ‘Course not,’ said Mr Parch, glaring at Old Moss.

  Ottilie had looked for Gully everywhere, asked everyone she could find. Most of them said the same thing: ‘He’s an adventurous boy – he’ll make his way back.’ But Ottilie knew him better. He would never disappear, not for this long, not without a word. He would never leave her behind.