Long Lankin: Stories

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A fine rain began to fall, it drifted soundlessly through the tangled branches and settled on the carpet of dead leaves on the ground. The boy turned up the collar of his jacket and crouched by the fire. He was cold. About him the wood was silent, yet beneath the silence there were movements and strange sounds, strange stirrings and rustlings in the trees. He shivered, and blew into his cupped hands. A burning branch fell in a shower of sparks from the fire and rolled near his feet, hissing in the wet leaves. In the hazel grove behind him a tuneless whistle rose, punctuated by the dull cracks of an axe wounding wood. He stood up and went into the trees.

— Is the fire all right? Horse asked, turning with the axe held above his shoulder.

— Yes, said the boy.

— You didn’t put any of them green branches on it?

— I only used the dry wood like you said.

He made another chop at the branch before him and muttered:

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