Puddlebrain

Chapter Twenty Two

Within a few moments they had arrived at the Crossroads, crossing over it without pausing for breath. Fieldview Avenue, the straight, not a hiccup in sight, road that ended at the Field, stretched before them. Years ago, it had actually been an avenue, lined with fine elms that brightened the senses as you strolled beneath their branches.

The winter, seventeen years before, had put paid to that though.

Anything wooden became a victim of the fires that burned almost constantly to keep the bitter temperatures at bay. Beds were chopped up for fuel, as were gates and fences. Even Benny Greensome's wooden leg, a result of a drunken accident with a saw four years earlier, failed to escape. The elms burned well, and put up a good fight, but it was no good. The winter had lasted for four months, and it was the most blisteringly cold four months in living memory – and that included the witches' memory. It was seen that the sacrifices made by the likes of the elms and Benny were in a good cause. The fact that Benny had actually been accosted and robbed of his wooden leg rather than it being requested nicely, with a few coins and a dozen oven baked scones for the inconvenience, seemed to be conveniently forgotten.

Fieldview Avenue had a few houses close to the Crossroads end, but they petered out along its length, leaving only a few stragglers to remind anyone that this was a village and not just a track in the middle of nowhere. By the time three quarters of its extent had been passed, only overgrown grasses and weeds lined the road. If anything, this was more alarming than back when it had been houses on either side. Even a simple breeze manufactured movement in the grass causing Puddlebrain and Billy to catch their breath and quicken their step. By the time they reached the muddy track that marked Little Whimsy's boundary they were running – well, she was jogging and he, with his spindly little legs, was pretty much sprinting.

They stopped at the edge of the Field, panting The pair looked across the freshly cut grass (good old Nathan and his shears – it might take him a week at a time, but he was still the best gardener this side of anywhere) to where Grimace Woods, dark, foreboding and menacing to any who might be contemplating entry, loomed. Puddlebrain shivered. Billy would have done but he was too busy trying to breath normally.

Oak. Almost every tree in Grimace Woods was oak. Other, lesser trees occasionally tried their luck and had a go at growing, but it was always in vain. The mighty and majestic oak was too proud to allow any interloper in their territory. Mighty and majestic.

Perhaps not quite the correct words to describe the abominations that dwelled within the Grimace.

It was rightly named. A more appropriate label hadn't been given since the Crossroads had been named as such. It wasn't that looking at the woods made you grimace, it was more that the trees were grimacing at you! The way their trunks twisted in a sneer. The way their branches clawed at the air in terrible anger. The darkness that settled in and between them like a slumbering pet, from which the light had fled in terrible fear. They were a grimace right enough and the air of dormant, yet still potent, threat that wrapped the Grimace in its blanket of menace did nothing to change that point of view.

But how? Why did they grow so? In other places, whether as a forest or as an individual, oaks were most definitely magnificent and proud and truly mighty. Why was the Grimace any different? Nobody knew. Nobody, not even the witches, had lived long enough to see the trunks twist or the branches claw. It had always been that way. It was best to just keep away. There were a few stories, naturally, of foolhardy folk who had succumbed to their foolhardy curiosity. Those that returned from the woods never spoke of what they saw and never slept a full night again. Those that didn't return... well, who knows? Usually, though, the look, the air, the feel was enough.

If you wanted to smile tomorrow, you'd never Grimace today.

It was one of those unspoken rules, like never standing in front of stampeding horses or never drinking milk that you could slice. You didn't need telling, at least not twice.

And it was into this nightmare that the witch and the gnome now headed. They didn't stop to think as they set off once more. Damp grass cuttings painted their shoes bright green as they walked across the field. Neither spoke. There was nothing to say apart from mentioning that this was a very bad idea – and neither wanted to hear the truth right at that moment.

The Field was basically an expanse of grass, mostly flat. A pair of old wooden benches sat side-by-side over towards the left. They were not near a path – there were no paths – and nor where they facing any particular direction. They were simply there, next to each other, keeping one another company.

A low fence, little more than a few planks nailed together, began a few yards up from the Little Whimsy sign. It ended only a few yards further on, an undertaking undertaken by a typically enthusiastic Whimsyan sometime ago. It had been intended that the fence would stretch right along the edge of the field, but whoever had started it had become bored. There hadn't even been enough wood to warrant theft during that particularly nasty winter. Apart from these features, such as they were, the only other element that wasn't small, green and wavy in the wind was the Hill.

Puddlebrain and Billy were nearing the Hill. It rose like a pimple on the face of the Field and seemed to draw them on, perhaps because it was the only real point of reference in the monotony. As they touched its leading edge, where the ground started to rise (or the pimple began to fester), they veered off slightly, heading towards a small clearing between two of the oaks that looked like a gap in the teeth of the Grimace. They didn't notice the Hole and didn't see the faintly greenish shimmer that hovered over its maw like a mouldy heat haze.

At the clearing, the pair stopped. Neither wanted to be the first to enter the Grimace. Billy would have liked to be the brazen gnome he'd always been. A few trees and a bit of darkness were nothing to be afraid of, were they? Looking into the woods, he couldn't see anything scary. Sure, some of the trees were bent at odd angles, but these were big trees. They would each have been fighting for their own patch of sunlight. They could quite easily end up misshapen and warped. As for the silence, all he could hear was his heart beating somewhere in his throat and the blood racing through his head as if it was trying to run away but had nowhere to go.

Puddlebrain, on the other hand, was happy being the quiet, usually unassuming witch she always was. She was afraid and didn't mind admitting it. Striding out of their house and marching all the way here was one thing. They could pretend to not be afraid. This was different. This was Grimace Woods. You could feel the nastiness clinging to your arms, plucking at the little hairs there. You could feel it running its greasy fingers through your hair.