The rest of the evening passed in a blur, one magical moment dissolving into another. Ivy ate and drank and laughed with Jenny and the others, watched the dancers whirl and leap to the music of her father’s fiddle, and basked in the light of the wakefire until her skin could hold no more. Finally, tired and happy, she tumbled down by the old droll-teller’s feet with the other children, and lay half-drowsing while he told stories.
As usual, all the tales revolved around a single theme: how clever piskeys of the past had outwitted their enemies. The first story was about a foolish human miner who tried to trick the knockers out of their treasure and ended up with nothing but a sore knee — all the children laughed at that. Then came the tale of a faery who met a wandering piskey-lad and tried to allure him into marrying her, a dark and sinister tale that made Ivy hold her breath. But fortunately, the boy saw past the faery’s pretty face to her cold heart and escaped.
‘Yet wickedest and most deadly of all,’ said the droll-teller, bending close to his audience as though telling them a secret, ‘are the spriggans.’
The younger children squirmed and cast uneasy glances at the doorway as the droll-teller went on, ‘Like us, spriggans can change their size at will, and they love to play magical tricks. But they’re the ugliest, skinniest, most maggoty-pale creatures you can imagine, and all their pranks are cruel.’
It wasn’t the first time Ivy had heard about spriggans, but still the description made her shudder. She could picture them lurking in the darkness all around the Engine House, rag-wrapped monsters with glittering eyes and long bony fingers, waiting for the first careless piskey to pass by. And not only to frighten them, either. Her father had told her that spriggans were hungry all the time and would eat anything — or any one — they could catch.
‘Spriggans love treasure,’ the droll-teller continued, ‘but they’re too lazy to dig for it. So in the old days when we piskeys lived in villages on the surface, the spriggans would wait until the knockers went off to work in the mine — and then they’d attack.’ His voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. ‘They’d kill the guards and the old uncles and even the youngest boy-children, and cast a spell over all the women that would make them think the spriggans were their own menfolk. Then they’d settle in to feast and gloat over their treasure.’
Ivy’s nose wrinkled in revulsion. It was horrible to think of being caught and eaten, but to be tricked into living with a spriggan as your husband was even worse. She was wondering how such a dreadful tale could end happily when Mattock spoke up from the back of the crowd:
‘But then the knockers would come home and find the spriggans there. Wouldn’t they?’
‘They would, indeed,’ said the droll-teller. ‘Tired as they were, they’d pick up their hammers and their thunder-axes and fight. Sometimes they lost the battle, though more often they won, because a good knocker is braver and stronger than three spriggans put together. But even once all the spriggans had been killed, their evil spells were so strong that the knockers’ wives and daughters didn’t recognise their own menfolk any more. Instead they’d weep and wail over the ugly spriggans — and they’d accuse the knockers of being spriggans instead!’
The girl beside Ivy whimpered and buried her face in her hands. Ivy didn’t feel like crying, but she did feel a little queasy. She was glad when Mattock raised his voice again: ‘But the spell would wear off in a few days, isn’t that right?’
By then the droll-teller seemed to realise he’d gone too far. He patted the weeping child and said, ‘Yes, surely it would. No magic lasts forever, after all. But it wasn’t long before some of the piskeys decided they’d had enough, and that it was time to make a new home for themselves deep in the rock and earth, where their enemies were too cowardly to follow. And that’s how the Delve came to be.’
He smiled and sat back, as though this was the happy ending. But Ivy wasn’t satisfied yet. ‘What about the other piskeys?’ she asked. ‘The ones who didn’t go to the Delve?’
‘The spriggans went on attacking them,’ said the droll-teller, ‘just as before. But now those other piskeys only won the battle sometimes, and before long they hardly won at all. They were too proud to ask the folk in the Delve for help, you see. So they fought alone, and most of them died. But once our people heard of a piskey village coming to grief, we sent our bravest fighters to rescue the women and children and offer them a safe home with us. So the Delve grew and the other clans of piskeys became smaller, until we were the only piskeys left.’
On the far side of the circle Mica sat up eagerly, as though he could hardly wait to become a hunter and fight spriggans. Mattock looked solemn and a little troubled. Keeve, meanwhile, appeared to have fallen asleep — but that was no great surprise, since the droll-teller was his grandfather and he must have heard all these tales a hundred times.
The droll-teller launched into another tale, but by now Ivy was too tired to enjoy it. She searched the crowd for her mother, but there was no sign of her. And now her father had gone missing as well, for his chair was empty and his fiddle propped idle against the wall.
‘Mica,’ she whispered, leaning across to her brother. ‘I’m going back to the cavern.’
‘What for? It’s not nearly daybreak yet.’
‘I want to make sure Cicely’s all right.’ And their mother too, though Ivy didn’t say it. Surely something unusual must have happened, to keep Marigold away from the Lighting so long.
‘Well, you can’t go now,’ said Mica. ‘Not by yourself. You’ll just have to wait for the rest of us.’
Much as it galled Ivy, he was right. The closest entrance to the Earthenbore was well down the slope, too far for any woman or child to go alone. And it was no use asking Mica or Mattock to go with her; they hadn’t even got their hunter’s knives yet, let alone learned to use them. Sighing, Ivy leaned her elbow on a jutting stone and dropped her head against it. She was slipping into a doze when a cry from the other side of the Engine House shocked her awake. Was that her father shouting?
Mica was on his feet and running, pushing through the crowd. The music had stopped and all the dancers stood frozen, staring at the doorway. There stood Flint, his hair dishevelled and his face a mask of anguish, cradling a bundle of fabric against his chest. He stumbled forward and dropped to his knees.
Ivy scrambled over the green and flung herself down beside him. ‘Dad, what is it? What’s wrong?’ Then she saw the cloth that her father was holding. It was, unmistakably, her mother’s shawl — but now the pink roses were splotched with ugly gouts of red, and one corner was in tatters.
‘Stand back,’ commanded Betony, and the crowd parted to let the Joan through. She swept Ivy and Mica aside and stooped over her brother. Then she straightened, her expression grim.
‘The Lighting is over,’ she said. ‘Everyone into the Delve. Now.’
At once the piskeys scattered, abandoning half-finished plates and cups of wine, gaming boards, musical instruments, and even shoes and jackets in their haste. Shouts of ‘Hurry!’ and ‘Watch out!’ rang through the night, as the knockers snatched up their thunder-axes and the hunters drew their knives. Mica grabbed Ivy’s arm and hauled her towards the doorway, but she struggled against his hold, crying, ‘Dad!’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ snapped Mica, giving her a shove. ‘The Joan will look after him. Move!’
Ivy stumbled out onto the hillside, tears burning her eyes. ‘Mum,’ she sobbed, but there was no answer — and though her gorge rose at the thought, she knew why.
Her mother had been taken by the spriggans. one
Five years later
Ivy stood poised on her toes like a dancer, but there was no merriment in her face as she pulled the iron poker from its slot by the hearth and raised it high. A few paces away, a black adder twice her length squirmed across the cavern floor, blood oozing from the gash on the back of its head that should have killed it — but unfortunately, hadn’t.