Garth Nix - The Ragwitch

“It’s not fair!” he shouted at the forest. But the trees absorbed the shout and it was gone. No one will come, said the darkness between the trees; you will wander the forest, alone until you die.

“No, I won’t,” Paul whispered, brushing away the morbid thoughts that swelled up from the back of his head. “I’ll find a path, and people, and Julia!” With this whisper, Paul summoned up some reserve of determination and got to his feet. Filled with resolve, he plunged forward into the dim forest.

An hour later, much of the resolve and determination had drained away. There was still no end to the forest and the light was getting dimmer. Cool breezes were no longer refreshing–they were just cool, and becoming cold. Worse, there were no more blackberries. Without their refreshing juice, Paul was drying out, his stamina fading as his throat parched.

But he could think of nothing else to do, so he kept on, dragging his scratched legs through more bushes and brambles, hoping to find another clearing or a path. Gradually, the light slipped away and the shadows steadily merged, shifting from grey to black.

The shadows at last became one and the forest was in true twilight, if only for a short time. Paul paused to look at the darkening sky and began to hear the noises of the forest night. Still he kept on, stumbling over the roots and vines he could no longer see. Panic was beginning to fill his mind and he could not think of stopping.

Suddenly, without notice, it was fully dark–a blackness so complete that Paul couldn’t even see his hand in front of his face. Exhausted, he slipped to the ground, shivering between the two cradling arms of a giant root.

Everywhere there were subtle sounds: leaves crunching, twigs snapping–each tiny noise magnified by the total blackness. Paul’s heartbeat filled his ears, vibrating up through his cheekbones, a bass rhythm in counterpoint to the tenor sounds of something creeping through the night.

The noises became louder and Paul stopped breathing, holding a hand over his mouth and nose. Whatever was making the noise was large, purposeful–and it was sniffing…searching…following his trail. Fear, sweat and blackberries, the scent of a hiding Paul.

The noise became footsteps, gentle, stalking footsteps, coming towards Paul. It knows I’m here, thought Paul desperately. It’s coming quietly, hoping to catch me asleep, or unawares, it’s…

Here! A sudden rush of footsteps, an abortive leap by Paul, and something cold and leathery wrapped round his legs. Ankles trapped, he crashed forward, face down on to the brown mulch of the forest floor.

More leathery tentacles wrapped round his wrists, and Paul’s mind gave way to fear and exhaustion, screaming back into the impenetrable fortress of unconsciousness.

Paul awoke in sunlight, with the vague feeling that he was lucky to be awake at all. He felt strange, cramped, and in an unfamiliar bed. Then, fully awake, he remembered the events of the night before. In the daylight he saw that the leathery tentacles were just some sort of rope, and they were the reason for his cramped awakening.

He was lying on a wooden bed that was a little like a shallow baby’s cot, with his hands and feet tied to the siderails. Surrounding the bed were earth walls–he was obviously in some sort of hole. High above, the sun beamed down, harsh and bright without any leafy interference. On the far side of the hole, a rope ladder hung down from the surface, which was three metres or so above, at least by Paul’s reckoning.

A prison hole, thought Paul gloomily, just like in the film on TV the week before last. Only in the film the bad guys ended up in the hole. But then, in the movies, heroes didn’t go running around weird forests in shorts, trainers and dirty white T-shirts. They also didn’t worry about things like food and drink, Paul thought, acutely aware of his dry and cracking lips, and the dull, rumbling complaint of his stomach.

He tried licking his lips, but there was no moisture in his mouth. Even tears were beyond his dried-out body and he found himself unable to cry. Closing his eyes, Paul thought he might as well die then and there, and save himself the trouble later on–when a few lumps of earth fell on to his chest.

“What were you doing in the forest?” a voice suddenly asked from somewhere above–behind Paul’s head, so he couldn’t see who it was. “And how did you get where you were?”

Paul’s mind snapped back from his despairing thoughts and he craned his neck back to see who was talking. But he couldn’t raise his body from the bed, and so couldn’t arch back far enough. He tried to answer, but only a dull croak came out.

“You wish for some water?” asked the voice, though not in a particularly compassionate tone. “Open your mouth.”

Paul did so immediately, and a cascade of water splashed over his face and up his nose. A little found his mouth. Despite being nearly drowned, it was a very welcome drink, revitalising Paul’s tiny store of determination, and lessening his feelings of despair.

“Now,” said the stern, deep voice. “What were you doing in our forest?”

“I didn’t mean anything,” croaked Paul. “I was just looking for my sister, and then…I was just looking for people.”

“People?” said the voice. “What sort of people were you looking for?”

Frightened by the voice, Paul didn’t answer for a moment. It sounded odd, murky and overlaid with rustling sounds, as if the speaker had to think before talking, and move his lips through a layer of leaves.

“I wanted to find someone. Anyone who could help me find Julia. A town, or a house, where I could find out where I was…where the forest is, I mean.”

“Julia, towns, houses,” muttered the voice, as if cataloguing items of interest. “You won’t find any of them here. And you say you don’t know where the forest is?”

“No, I don’t…is it…is it very far away from Australia?”

“Australia?” repeated the voice, with an odd pronunciation of the name–all drawn and twisted. “Perhaps you are even farther away than you can reckon. If it is of any use to you, this is the Forest of the May Dancers…I am a May Dancer,” added the voice, suddenly closer. “At least, that is what your kind call us.”

Paul felt a slight shudder go through his heart–a tremor of fear that passed through like a metal sliver. Footsteps crunched on the dirt above and Paul looked up.

He had expected to see some sort of man. But the May Dancer who looked down on him had only the shape of a human. He was covered in shifting patterns of leaves, that rustled and moved about his body, revealing skin the texture and colour of ancient bark. His head was also covered in leaves, which streamed behind him in a russet mane. And his eyes were those of an animal: the eyes of a cat carefully watching its prey.

Paul felt just like a mouse caught in the petrifying gaze of a hunter. Even the smallest movement might cause this strange creature to spring, to suddenly snap the tension.

“So,” said the May Dancer, half closing his fearsome eyes, “you have not seen our kind before.”

It was a statement rather than a question, Paul understood. Somehow, he had become the mouse that the cat couldn’t be bothered chasing.

“You have never seen a May Dancer before,” said the creature above, in a half-whisper, as if thinking aloud. “Therefore, you have never seen us dance on the borders of the forest. In fact, as you have never even heard of us, you cannot even be of this Kingdom. And you seek a…Julia.”

Without warning, the May Dancer leapt across the hole and was gone. Startled, Paul instinctively flexed his body to leap away–succeeding only in hurting his wrists and back, held by those leathery ropes.