‘Come on, ’ he said. ‘We must cross the stream before it gets dark so that we can spend the night in the wood. Once we’re there we are safe and the elves can contact us. Wythen said that we don’t go to them; they will find us. All we must do is simply to be there.’
The owl took off and flew slowly down the slope and the others followed him, too exhilarated to be nervous. As they walked towards the wood the trees loomed out of the mist and seemed to grow taller. It was very damp and the stream rushed along so loudly that they had to shout to be heard. Warrigal was looking for a fallen oak that Wythen had said could be used to get across. They waited while he flew along the stream and then walked along the bank to join him when he indicated that he’d found it. Nab went first, sitting astride the tree and shuffling along with his hands in front to support and steady himself. When he was halfway across he looked down at the stream below him; it was very full after the recent rains and it swirled and eddied along with furious determination and purpose. Then he looked back up and stared into the darkness of the wood ahead of him before gingerly inching his way across the last half of the slippery bridge; the constant damp from the stream had coated the tree with patches of slimy green mould and the mist had made them extremely treacherous so that once or twice the boy almost slipped, but his strong legs managed to hold him on. Finally, with great relief, he arrived on the far bank and stood watching Brock, who was looking extremely precarious as he approached the halfway stage. Brock’s claws would normally have been a great help as they would have sunk through the slimy surface into the bark of the oak but they were still sore and he found it difficult to use them properly. Suddenly, on a particularly bad patch, he began to teeter and in moving his feet to try to obtain a better grip he fell over and plunged with a loud splash into the stream. The sight of the badger toppling into the water struck Nab as so funny that, against all his better instincts, he was unable to stop himself laughing and, when he clambered down the bank to help the badger out of the water and saw the thick coat plastered down around his body, the boy’s laughter only increased until the tears came to his eyes. In fact, he was so busy laughing that he failed to notice the badger manoeuvring himself into position at his side so that when Brock began to shake himself vigorously the first shower of icy cold water that hit him came as a complete surprise and he stood still in a state of shock while Brock soaked him; much to the amusement of Warrigal, who was still standing on the far bank laughing to himself.
When Nab had got himself as dry as possible by rubbing his body with some old ferns that he gathered from the bank and by jumping up and down, the three animals turned their faces to the wood and began to make their way through the undergrowth which consisted of the debris from last year’s summer: dead bracken and ferns and briars that scratched Nab’s legs and made them itch. The floor of the wood was a thick carpet of rotting leaves; not golden and crisp as in the days of autumn but black and slimy as they began to decompose.
Every three or four paces about them, on every side, was a tree, tall and black, and sometimes an elder or a small holly would bar their way so that they were forced to go round. Warrigal flew low from tree to tree and the badger and the boy followed. They hadn’t gone far before Nab looked back to the stream and was surprised and a little dismayed to find that he could not see it. He could not even see where the edge of the wood was, for in no one direction was there any more light than in any other. With a little jolt of fear he realized that, if he had wanted to go back the way he’d come, he wouldn’t have been able to. They were totally lost. He listened for the stream but could hear nothing; everywhere was completely still except for the gentle rustling of the tops of the trees as they swayed in the wind high above them and the sound of their footsteps as they padded over the damp leaves or occasionally cracked a twig. Even these sounds were quickly absorbed by the silence so that they appeared muted. After a while another thing struck Nab; there were no animals or birds anywhere to be seen and the only indication that there might be any living creatures in the wood at all were the huge, squirrels’ dreys way up in the tops of the trees. He began to grow a little afraid; it was no wonder that the Urkku never approached Ellmondrill.
As they walked on through the mist Nab became aware that the undergrowth, which normally reached no higher than his knees, was brushing against his chest and, rather than walk through it or over it, it was easier to go under. He stopped for a second and looked up; he could hardly see the tops of the trees now and the sky appeared as little specks of grey between the distant foliage. When he looked back down at the trunks of the trees, they seemed enormous and he found himself staring at the protruding roots which were as high as he was. In desperate panic he looked for the others; Brock was still walking slowly and calmly along at his side while Warrigal was perched on top of a huge fern ahead of them. He thought of Wythen’s words before they left; ‘all is not what it may seem; do not be afraid’, and resolved to try not to show his fear.
Further and deeper into the wood they went and Nab wrestled more and more to keep his panic under control. The trees now seemed altogether different as he walked in a subterranean underworld where the woodland fungi reached to his shoulders and the chewed-up remains of the nuts from a squirrel’s hoard presented an obstacle which could only be clambered over with difficulty. The huge oaks and elms, towering way above, seemed to be watching him as the gods watch the creatures on earth; the furrows and cracks on their bark looked like deep valleys cut into them, each one unique in its pattern and colour and each with a different character. Nab also grew aware of the silent sound of the earth; a constant whisper and hum as if it were the noise of life itself.
Then the character of the wood changed, the undergrowth stopped and instead they were walking on a carpet of pine needles and the smell of fir was all around. This was a different world where the trees were always green and the changing seasons left no mark; a constant world of twilight. Here, even their footsteps could not be heard and the wind seemed unable to penetrate the hushed atmosphere. Nab began to feel tired but his fears were subsiding as he grew more used to the wood. Warrigal had perched on an exposed tree root and was staring in front while Brock and the boy caught him up. The owl’s eyes were shining, unblinking and filled with a strange light that they had not seen before.
‘Ellmondrill,’ he said slowly under his breath, and then he repeated the word louder, taking a long time to say it and intoning it as if it were a magical chant. They stood still for a while; the owl looking straight ahead and the other two behind him, neither wishing to break the silence and content to let their minds wander where they wished. After a period of time which would have been impossible to measure in the world outside the wood, Nab became aware of Brock whispering fiercely at his side.