“I’m not a good cook,” Maddie pointed out.
“I was thinking that your efforts might lie more in the area of dishwashing,” Will told her.
Maddie recoiled in mock horror. “I don’t know if I’m trained for that.”
He raised one eyebrow at her. She’d seen him do that before and found herself wishing that she could do it. She resolved to practise the expression.
“I’m sure you’ll pick it up,” he said. “It’s not alchemy.”
As it turned out, Maddie didn’t need to ask any further questions about the mysterious blue-cloaked Storyman. She met the other children as arranged the following afternoon and they sat on the grass as she showed them how to fashion their slings. She had brought a small knife with her and she lent it to them so they could cut the leather thongs to length, then fashion the pouches. There was only one other person on the common—a farm worker, judging by his patched work smock and a shapeless old hat. He was leaning on a fence, idly watching them. He had a small bundle wrapped in a spotted cloth at his feet.
As the group sat in a semi-circle, heads bent to the tasks of cutting, shaping and tying, David caught her eye, rose to his feet and jerked his head in an unmistakable gesture for her to follow him. She rose and they moved away from the others. She looked at him expectantly.
“Did you want to say something?” she asked.
He glanced around. She could see he was nervous. No, she corrected herself. He was more than nervous. He was scared.
“The Storyman,” he said finally. “Don’t go asking about him any more. And above all, don’t mention him to your da.” He paused, then added anxiously, “You haven’t said anything to him, have you?”
She shook her head. “No. But why not?”
“He told us things. And he said we should never repeat them to any grown-ups, or something bad would happen to us.”
Maddie’s eyes widened. “What things did he tell you?” she asked, her voice wavering. David’s nervousness was getting to her.
He shuffled his feet. “At first it was just normal stories. Some funny ones and some scary ones. They were all good fun and we all enjoyed them. Mostly they were stories we’d heard before, like the Ogre of Alden Pass and the Great Green Troll of Tralee.”
Maddie nodded. These were well-known folk tales. They varied in detail with each different storyteller, of course, but they were always essentially the same, and were calculated to give children a good healthy scare—without causing too much concern.
“But then he told us about the Stealer in the Night,” he said, his voice becoming very quiet.
“The Stealer in the Night?” Maddie repeated. Even the name sent a shiver of fear down her spine. It seemed so sinister, so evil.
David nodded, licking his dry lips in a nervous gesture.
“The Stealer is a mysterious spirit, dressed all in black, and wearing a black mask and cloak. He materialises in a village and takes children.”
“Takes them where?” she asked. Her heart was beating a little faster as his tale unfolded. She leaned closer to him, dropping her own voice. “What does he do with them?”
David shrugged. “Nobody knows. He takes them away and nobody ever sees them again.” He glanced round once more and Maddie did likewise. The other children were all intent on making their slings.
“The thing is, the Storyman said if we were ever to see him, we were to say nothing. Just pretend we’d seen nothing. And he said we must never, never tell a grown-up about the Stealer in the Night.”
“What would happen if you did?” Maddie asked, her voice now barely above a whisper.
“If we did, he said the Stealer would know. And he’d come after anyone who told. He’d come in the night and carry them off as well and they’d never see their family again.”
There was a long silence between them. Both of them were wide eyed. David’s fear was contagious and Maddie found herself wishing she was back in Redmont, in the cosy little cabin in the trees. She heard a slight noise and looked round nervously. The farm worker she had noticed earlier had left his position by the fence and moved closer to them. He was sitting on the grass, cutting thick slices from a piece of cheese he had taken from the bundle. He caught her eye, nodded and smiled pleasantly as he ate some of the cheese. She wondered if he’d heard what they had been discussing. She decided he was probably too far away, but she lowered her voice anyway when she spoke again.
“Do you think that’s what happened to Maurice Spoker?” she said.
David recoiled half a pace. Unaware of the nearby farm worker, he raised his voice in surprise. “How did you know about Maurice?”
Maddie realised she’d made a mistake mentioning Maurice Spoker. She made a warning gesture for David to lower his voice again, glancing meaningfully at the nearby farm worker, and continued. “My da heard about him in the tavern. He told me about it. Said this boy called Maurice Spoker went missing and to take care I didn’t get about on my own after dark. Do you think he was taken by the Stealer in the Night?”
David hesitated. Her explanation seemed to have satisfied him. Then he nodded slowly.
“What else could it have been?” he said.
Thirty-six
The Stealer in the Night tore the leg off a chicken and stripped the flesh with his teeth. He grimaced. The bird wasn’t properly cooked and the meat was red and bloody close to the bone.
He glared at the gang member who had been responsible for cooking the chicken, which had been stolen from an outlying farm the night before.
“Harold! This bird is raw!” the Stealer snarled. “Where did you learn to cook?”
Harold, a black-haired, heavy-set man, returned his glare sullenly. “Never said I was a cook,” he replied. He’d spitted the bird on a green branch and suspended it over their fire. But he didn’t wait for the flames to die down to hot coals and soon the outer skin was blackening and charring. Assuming that the inside meat would be the same, he’d taken it off the fire and served it to his leader.
The Stealer threw the leg bone into the bushes. Then, his anger mounting, he grabbed the rest of the chicken carcass and sent it spinning after the leg.
“Get me some cheese and bread,” he ordered. “Even you couldn’t mess that up. And some ale as well.”
Harold muttered angrily to himself. But he kept the comments down. Bitter experience had taught him that the Stealer had a vicious temper—and an uncertain one.
The leader of the kidnappers was dressed all in black, the colour he wore when he entered households and stole children away. He was above average height and well built—although he was running to fat and had thickened round the middle. His hair had once been blond—almost white. Now it was a dirty grey colour. It hung to his neck and was matted in thick strings. The Stealer didn’t believe in washing it too often.
His features were regular. His chin was strong, although the same tendency to fat was becoming apparent around his chin and neck. His would have been a handsome face except for the eyes and mouth. The eyes were pale, tinged with yellow. They were like a wolf’s eyes, he had been told once—although the man who told him regretted those words a few minutes after uttering them. They were cold, cruel eyes and they were matched by the thin-lipped mouth that turned down at the corners. Nobody could remember seeing him smile.
Harold placed a wooden platter before him, with a hunk of strong cheese and the end of a loaf of bread. The Stealer grunted, drew his belt knife and cut himself some of the cheese.
“Where’s the ale?” he demanded. His follower turned hurriedly back to the supply table and drew a mug of ale from a small cask. The Stealer grunted again when it was placed in front of him. The words “thank you’ didn’t seem to be part of his vocabulary.