Ug

By Charles G. Reid

Western Mercia - AD 874 Ancient virgin forest sprawls away west, over the horizon and across the border into wild, mountainous barbarian lands. Dark and forbidding, it is the domain of the little people and a place where humans fear to tread. Yet even so, it is inevitably in retreat, away from the slow, insatiable onslaught of mankind. Close within the forest's eastern boundary, a small village unobtrusively ekes out a living, untroubled by the war consuming the rich lands to the east. Simple people existing in harmony with their environment: respectful of the natural world but wary of the supernatural. One innocent young girl, ignorant of the consequences, crosses the line.
One faerie elder, guardian of the forest, decides that enough is enough.
Dark ages indeed…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: May 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9781528984072

Charles G. Reid

Growing up in the peaceful English midlands, evidence of the cataclysmic events of the seventeenth century, whether in the form of ruined castles, battle sites or museums, were a frequent source of fascination and inspiration. Society was forced to endure great changes as new ideas and technologies fought to replace ancient practices and beliefs, and the scars of this struggle still mark the landscape throughout England. Charlie now lives and works in Western Victoria, Australia, far away from his childhood home, but this period and place still hold a special significance for him.

Book preview

Thirty-Nine

About The Author

Born in Liverpool and raised in various locations in the US and UK, a chance encounter with a hot Kiwi in a dingy nightclub on Merseyside eventually led Charlie to settle to a life down under with his wife, Sioux, where they raised four children and numerous animals.

Dedication

For Matt, Erin, Grace and Millie with love.

Copyright Information ©

Charles G Reid (2020)

The right of Charles G Reid to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528984065 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528984072 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2020)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Chapter One

That night, the forest slept. It was an uneasy, restless sleep disturbed by a howling northerly gale. Probing deeply, twisted roots securely anchored the trees, but deeper still, out of reach in long-forgotten chambers, the ancient creatures lay undisturbed in their repose, waiting, waiting for the time when they might return. Once, they had ruled unchallenged, but times had changed and they had departed to make way for other masters. Oblivious to the mortal dramas taking place between the myriad beings above, they would wake when they sensed the world to be ready for them again. Aboveground, weak light from a crescent moon betrayed nothing, for that night, hunter and hunted alike sheltered from the wind, maintaining an uneasy truce. Village gates everywhere were locked against the night, torchlight chasing away the dark, as humans gathered noisily in halls and taverns, cocooned and safe. Believing themselves to be the masters, yet fearful of what they could not see. Still, that night all was as it should be; peace reigned, or so it seemed.

Swiftly, silently, the wraith-like shape flowed through the darkest recesses of the forest. Almost invisible at ground level, at places where there was no cover, it skipped up to the canopy, which swayed and moaned, and continued its journey without slowing. The shadows of the clouds hurtled across the clearing towards the village, taking the small grey form along with the dead leaves and other autumnal debris. Up and over the crude stockade it went to vanish into the darkness on the other side. The village itself was a restless cacophony of creaking and groaning, shutters rattling and thatch hissing, but there was no sign of life. Driven downwind to the first of the houses, where it blended into the silhouette, the small figure paused briefly before continuing on to the next. A rat lifted its head to watch the intruder glide across the road to the opposite building. Once there, he saw it hesitate only a moment before shimmying up the wall and in the window. The rodent shrugged as if to say, ‘Not my problem’ and went back to gnawing the lid of the barrel. Inside the house, a small dog went berserk and instantly, the shadowy figure sailed out of the window again, to land smoothly yards away. Continuing on, it crossed to the next hovel, where a faint orange glow escaped from cracks around the door. Here, the figure melted into the wall, invisible in the blackness. A few seconds later, the door opened ever so slightly to reveal a small figure slipping inside. The door closed quickly to shut out the night.

Smeg couldn’t believe her good fortune at finding all these deserted houses. It was obvious that the humans had been here very recently, but where could they have gone, and why so suddenly? A copper kettle faintly steamed over glowing coals; breadcrumbs were scattered on the table; freshly strewn rushes crackled underfoot as the faerie crept over to a wooden chest against the far wall. She never really enjoyed being this close to humans. For one thing, the smell was enough to make her sick. Hairy animals and dirty peasants fermenting in the heat from an open fire were the ingredients to create a putrid odour. However, her curiosity and love of shiny objects kept drawing her back.

With a flourish of her dainty little hands, the lid of the chest flew open, crashing clumsily into the wall behind. Standing on tiptoe to see in, Smeg examined its contents. It was a bit dull and uninteresting really, just like the contents of all the other hovels. A couple of blankets, a short sword in an old leather scabbard (certainly not worth stealing) and—oh, that looked more promising—a small wooden casket down in the far corner. Tossing out the blankets, a tatty old cape and a pair of holed boots, she was able to reach the box and remove it. Nicely carved with spirals and swirls and adorned with shiny brass hinges, Smeg’s eyes were wide with anticipation as she flicked the lid open. She sagged when she saw not gold, but a brown powder. Curious, she lifted the box up to smell the contents. One sniff made her eyes water and her nose twitch. ‘Aaachoo!’ Lurching forwards, she sent a cloud of powder up into the air. ‘Aaaaaaachooooooo! Horrible stuff!’ She hurled the box away, spilling the pepper everywhere. Angered, she embarked on an orgy of destruction: tipping over chairs, knocking flagons of ale aside and emptying a sack of apples on to the floor before her tantrum ran out of steam and she stood panting in the centre of the room. ‘Aaachoo!’ One last sneeze was the signal for a frantic scrabbling at the door, which opened just enough to allow a small Jack Russell in. With a snarl, it launched itself at Smeg, forcing her to dodge its snapping jaws. To save her ankles from harm, she leapt nimbly out the window, cursing, ‘Yer mangy mutt!’ Once safely outside, she sprinted around to the front of the house and, with a snap of her fingers, caused the door to slam shut and the bolt to slide across. ‘Hmph! Explain your way out of that mess, boyo!’

Abandoning all caution now, Smeg trotted on to the next house, and the next. Each one was now only given a cursory glance, until she approached the last dwelling in this ghost town. Warm light radiated from behind this small house, defining its ragged outline. Intrigued, Smeg crept around the side of the building, but she certainly wasn’t prepared for the scene that greeted her. From the barn that stood there, snatches of music and laughter swirled around her in the wind, together with the stench of beer and body odour. Through its open doors, Smeg could see the crowd of villagers leaping and twirling. ‘Did they really call that dancing?’ Perched on a makeshift stage, she could see the tall, blonde lead singer of the band, surrounded by dewy-eyed young girls and, behind him, oblivious to the angry glances from the man playing the mandola, was the tambour player, half a beat late. ‘Mmmm, these peasants are obviously starved of entertainment!’ A grunt behind her alerted the faerie to the presence of two men carrying a wooden barrel towards the barn. Huffing and puffing, they were too preoccupied with their heavy load to notice Smeg concealed in the shadows. Staggering to the barn, they dumped the barrel down outside the door and prised the lid off. The younger man then peered into the barrel before furtively fishing the limp body of a dead rat out and flinging it into the distance. After a pause, the older man shrugged, before dipping his tankard in and quenching his thirst with a long draught. Unimpressed by this primitive revelry, Smeg turned away and vanished into the night, disappointed that she should finish the evening empty-handed.

Chapter Two

‘Foll-de-me-riddle, foll-de-me-roll!’ It had been now two weeks since the troubadours had visited the village and yet Filly couldn’t get that new Baldric and the Turnips song out of her head as she skipped along through the autumn wood, kicking up the leaves as she went and dancing through them as they drifted back down. Past thickets of thorny vines laden with fat, ripe berries and past the occasional dandelion and toadflax, she pranced along without a care in the world. The basket in her left hand rattled with the lone berry it contained, and she swung it around full circle over her head, laughing with joy when the berry didn’t fall out. She’d been sent out three hours ago to collect berries for her mother, but so far had only managed to actually put one into the basket. Mind you, she’d eaten loads. That was until she had found half a maggot in one and her appetite had deserted her. She’d been hopelessly lost for the last two hours, but hadn’t realised it yet and was just enjoying the bands of warm sunlight that filtered down through the forest’s canopy. She wasn’t aware either of the malevolent pair of narrow, green eyes that watched her every move from up high in the huge oak. ‘Bah, manchild,’ spat the watcher. ‘What’s he doin’ ‘ere?’

Filly swung the basket around her head again and this time, she let go while it was still ascending and watched it cartwheel through the air in a great big arc. She scampered after it on her skinny little legs and just managed to catch it by the handle before it hit the ground. Squealing with delight when she found the berry was still there, she embarked on a great new game, launching the basket and crashing through the bracken after it. Of course it wasn’t long before the berry was gone, and she looked into the basket to find it empty. She was most disappointed to find that the fruit of her labour had vanished. Oh well, she paused to pick her nose, and then gave the basket one more almighty heave. Up, up, up it went, before snagging on the branch of the chestnut tree that towered over her. Reality struck. ‘Oh no! ’Fi lose that, I’m in big trouble!’

She tried to reach the basket with a long stick, but it was too high up. There was nothing for it but to climb up and get it down herself. Filly loved to climb things anyway. So this shouldn’t be too difficult, she thought. It was a very big tree, however, and in spite of all the finger and toeholds its ancient bark offered, it took quite an effort to scramble as far as the first huge limb. She stopped, panting, to examine the fresh hole in the knee of each legging. Now I’m for it! she thought. Looking up to get her bearings, she was hit right between the eyes by a conker, which almost caused her to fall out of the tree. She was too startled to cry out, but was furious when she saw the red tail of a squirrel, scampering away up the trunk. ‘I’ll get you fer that,’ she snarled through clenched teeth, reaching for the sling that always hung from her belt, but the little animal was already out of sight. Forgetting all about the basket, Filly set off at a bound after the squirrel. She hauled herself up over the next bough and then paused as she started to feel uneasy. The short hairs on the back of her neck stood on end and she got the distinct feeling that she was being watched. Looking up in the direction that the squirrel had vanished, she could see no sign of it, and started to wonder if she should just forget about it. A shiver ran down her spine and she snapped her head around, expecting to confront some approaching enemy, but there was nothing to be seen. The basket was still a little way above her, off to her left, so she thought that perhaps she should simply retrieve it and turn for home. She squeezed between a couple of gnarled branches, reached up for the next one and froze. Her eyes were transfixed on the fork just above her head and for once in her life, Filly was speechless.

Staring back at her were two pale green eyes, the colour of the frogs in the village pond. Above the eyes was a mop of curly golden hair, tucked loosely into a russet brown cap, which hung down over one of his rather large, pointed ears. The head tilted one way and then the other, as the owner studied her with a frown, before one eyebrow raised quizzically. Already at least twice his height, he guessed that she was still only young and not nearly fully grown. Her green and brown clothes were dirty and threadbare, though the little knife and leather sling hanging from her belt shone like new. Filly’s little elfin face was starting to regain some colour and her cheeks glowed red like the top of her sunburned head. She had no hair! The little man stared and stared at the shaved scalp fascinated, which made Filly’s cheeks glow even redder. Why did her mum have to have such an obsession with nits? All the other kids in the village had them. Filly really envied Meagan, with her beautiful long locks, which trailed behind her when she ran, even if they did positively crawl with tiny creatures that caused her to scratch incessantly.

‘Go ’way,’ said the little man in a high, and rather grumpy, voice.

‘Why?’ asked Filly. ‘Anyways, what you called? What you doin’ up this tree? Was it you who threw that conker?’ Filly’s initial fear was subsiding and her natural curiosity was taking over. ‘Where d’you live? Where’s your mum and dad? How old are you?’

‘Whoa! You ask a lot of questions. What’re you doin’ in my part of the forest? Your kind doesn’t come ‘ere.’

‘This ain’t your forest,’ replied Filly indignantly. ‘Anyway, I’m collectin’ berries fer my mum in my basket.’

At this, the little man threw back his head and roared with laughter, showing his large, crooked, yellow teeth. ‘What! That basket over there?’ He chuckled, pointing. This bold little ragamuffin really intrigued him. He’d never been this intimate with one of her kind before or even spoken to one. They certainly never came this far into the forest and by all accounts, she should have been terrified to see him, but she obviously wasn’t.

‘My name’s Sprog,’ said the man carefully. ‘What’s yours?’

‘My name’s Myfanwy. But everyone calls me Filly.’ Someone had once likened her to a young foal, high-spirited and gangling, and the name had stuck. Her mum still called her Myfanwy when she was in trouble, and her dad occasionally called her *#-<~#+!!! But she knew that they loved her. Everyone loved Filly. ‘Are you a good climber? Could you get that there basket fer me?’

Sprog frowned.

‘Please.’

For a moment, Sprog said nothing as he considered her request. She really did have a nerve! Asking one of the faerie folk for a favour! Perhaps he should just turn her into a frog and be done with it. Well, at least give her a toothache or an outbreak of warts or something. However, something stopped him. He found her interesting, even though everyone knew that humans were brutish and dull, so he decided to play along for a while.

‘Orright then. But ’fi do, what’ll you do fer me?’

‘Well…’ Filly put a finger to her pursed lips as she thought. In her innocence, she failed to see any threat in his question. ‘I’ll sing and dance for ya and we could play for a while. But then, I’ve got to go ’ome.’

Sprog’s eyes lit up at this suggestion. In faerie terms, Sprog was no more than a mere youth, being a little short of his 200th birthday. He could have lots of fun playing with Filly. He flashed her a big grin, and then he sprang on to the branch below the one on which the basket was snagged and trotted out along it without any sign of concern for the fact that he was fifty feet up in the air. He had a jaunty little trot, seeming to spring from his toes, and he never once looked down to make sure of his footing. Even when the branch started to sag under his weight as he approached the end, he didn’t slow down. Reaching the basket, he unhooked it, turned and trotted back, still grinning.

‘Thanks,’ said Filly. ‘Could you carry it down fer me…please? I might drop it.’

‘No,’ replied Sprog, and he tossed the basket aside so that it tumbled to the ground, landing softly in some bracken. He turned his big green eyes towards her with a smirk, looking for some reaction. Filly looked up from where she had seen the basket land and glared. She didn’t say a word, but just started climbing down. When she reached the base of the tree, she shouted up, ‘If you’re goin’ to be ‘orrible, I’m not goin’ to play with ya!’

‘Aw, diddums,’ came the reply from behind her. Filly spun around to see Sprog sitting cross-legged on a log, whittling a piece of wood with his curved knife into something that resembled a person.

She looked back to where they’d both been, up the tree, and shook her head. How did he do that? ‘What you makin’?’ But this time, Sprog just ignored her and carried on carving some fine detail on the doll’s face. ‘I said—’

‘I’m not finished yet,’ interrupted Sprog. ‘Go on. Do yer little song and dance routine fer me then.’ Filly tilted her head to one side as she watched him work. She was starting to think that he was very rude and that maybe she didn’t like this funny little man, even if he could climb trees. ‘Go on. You promised.’

She couldn’t argue with that so she coughed and started singing in a high and rather warbling voice, ‘Foll-de-me-riddle, foll-de-me-roll…’ She was a bit flat on the higher notes and soon forgot the words, so she had to start improvising:

And I love my mum and dad,

And they love me,

And I love my home,

Under the trees.

And I love my friends too,

And I know you…

‘What’s that?’ Sprog looked up quickly. ‘You don’t know me.’

‘Yes, I do. You’re Sprog,’ said Filly. ‘I think I’d better go now. It looks like it’s goin’ to rain and it’s after the noon, see.’ It was then that Filly looked around to see that she had no idea where she was. The huge trees towering over her made her realise that she’d obviously strayed much deeper into the forest than she’d ever gone before.

‘You can’t go yet. You said you were goin’ to play wiv me,’ said Sprog. ‘What about a game of ’ide-an’-seek? I’ll ‘ide first.’ With that, he dropped his carving and leapt off the log. With a single bound, he was into the bracken and lost from sight. The fronds seemed to shiver and then were still. Filly couldn’t hear him, even though she listened with all her might. She shrugged and tiptoed over to the log to see what the little man had been doing. There was the doll, lying face down in the leaf litter. She picked it up and turned it around. It was a perfect, miniature replica of her grandmother, right down to the wart on her chin. Filly just stood there, staring at it, her mouth hanging open. Then she stuffed it into the front of her tunic, where her belt stopped it from falling through so that she wouldn’t lose it. How did Sprog know her nana? Her mind was racing with all sorts of questions and uncertainties. She looked around but still saw nothing familiar or any sign of the little man. A high-pitched laughter rang out from somewhere. Was it in front of her or away over to the left? There it was again. No, it was to her right.

‘No fair! Where are ya?’ shouted Filly.

‘I’m over ’ere,’ came the reply.

Mmm! That was definitely from straight ahead, maybe. Well, it was as good a direction to try as any, so Filly set off running through the ground cover, snapping twigs and rustling leaves as she did.

Terribly noisy, these ’umans, thought Sprog from the hole in the oak tree in which he was hiding. The resident tawny owl shifted nervously from one foot to the other as it eyed him in the darkness. It wanted to say, ‘Clear off. I was here first’, but just mewed and fluffed up its feathers.

High up in the canopy of the oak, the green eyes narrowed even further. ‘Fools!’ the watcher spat out venomously.

Thud, thud, thud. Filly’s footfalls sounded heavily as she ran downhill, right under Sprog’s hiding place. As she disappeared down the slope, Sprog stretched up on tiptoe and craned his neck to peer out of the hole and watch her. Parp. ‘’Scuse me. Beggin’ yer pardon,’ said the faerie apologetically as his refuge filled with noxious gas. The owl coughed and its eyes bulged even further than usual. Sprog poked his head out of the opening again to get some air, and saw the ugly little fellow in the red cape scuttling along in the same direction as that taken by Filly. ‘Ug!’ he exclaimed with obvious distaste, ‘what does ’e want?’ He climbed out of the hole and started to follow, leaving the bird still coughing quietly, its large round eyes watering.

It started to rain; great big drops crashed down through the thinning foliage to bounce on the forest floor. Just a few drops at first, but they soon multiplied and the sky darkened. Suddenly, a flash of light tore apart the gloom, sending shadows to distort the trees. But as soon as it was light, it became dark again and Filly ran on, her eyes struggling to cope with the changes. A few seconds later came the ominous rumblings that heralded the coming storm. Now, for the first time, Filly began to feel frightened. She realised that she had no idea of the direction she was heading in and started to recall the stories told around the fire at home, of the faerie folk and the dangers of being out after dark. Her lower lip trembled and she let out a long wail, but kept running. Crashing through the bracken and other low bushes, she used the basket as a battering ram to push her way through the undergrowth. But she was getting scratched and was by now soaked to the skin. She thought again of that great fire and the warmth from it. She thought of the laughter and singing as everyone had crowded around the minstrels and troubadours. Every few minutes, there was another flash, followed by a boom of thunder. But the interval was getting less all the time. As she crested a ridge, which she had been climbing for some time, there was another particularly bright flash, illuminating a huge old tree with a dark opening at its base away to her left. It was obviously hollow and Filly’s only thought was to find somewhere dry. Oblivious to the danger, she crawled in through the crevice and sat in the dark with her back to the trunk, hugging her knees and shivering. The basket was too big to fit