It was like flying. Sometimes Kestrel was sure this is what life was like outside the forest—you could run wherever you wanted, and nothing could stop you.
Pippit squirmed out of Kestrel’s pocket and butted her with his head.
“Later,” she said shortly, pushing him back down.
They followed the trail below, pushing deeper and deeper into the forest. The sunlight began to fade as the leaves grew denser. The branches became more slippery, covered in moss and slimy weeds. Below them the trail was petering out where the grabber had picked its feet up. The soil was even fresher here, as though it had just been churned up.
There were claw marks at the side of the grabber’s trail, as though the woodchopper and the grabber had struggled here. Finn saw it and stopped abruptly.
“We can’t go any farther,” he said. “The trees are too thin.”
Kestrel had left her nerves on the ground, but they came back as she and Finn slowed down. Suddenly she didn’t like the idea of being alone.
“Come down,” she said. “Walk with me a bit.”
“Can’t,” Finn said, shaking his head adamantly. He was clinging to the tree trunk. “I’ll slow you down.” Before she could protest he swung himself higher into the tree.
Kestrel clumsily slid down. She reached the ground and bent down to sniff the trail. There was a strong vinegary smell. It was like sticking her nose in a jar of pickles, which meant the grabber was close. She felt nauseous.
She briefly closed her eyes and tried again to picture the woodchopper’s grabber. She had no idea what he was afraid of. The villagers never talked about their fears, in case it gave the grabbers ideas.
She turned away so Finn wouldn’t see how nervous she was, then something hit her on the back of the head. She looked up to glare at him, then saw that he was looking pointedly at the ground.
She picked the fallen stone up. It was the size of a marble, smooth and with a hole in the middle.
“If you look through it hard enough, you can see the future,” he said. “Plus, it’s lucky, which you need.”
Kestrel’s temper flared.
“Are you saying I’m not a good hunter?”
Finn twisted his fingers together.
“It’s just that I—” He stopped short and went red.
Kestrel slipped the stone into her pocket, pretending that her stomach wasn’t twisting with fear. She knew Finn wasn’t calling her a bad hunter.
They looked at each other for a moment, not sure what to say. Then Kestrel heard a long, low rumble in the trees behind her, like thunder. Finn twitched, as though it was taking all his power not to run the other way. Kestrel wrenched herself away, turned tail, and ran toward the noise, leaving Finn behind.
“You’d better not die,” Finn called, his voice already distant.
“I never die!” Kestrel called back.
The trees flew past as Kestrel ran, their lowest branches whipping her in the face. She danced over roots like skipping ropes. A bird dropped from the trees in front of her, claws out to grab her, but she dodged before it could even open its beak. The trail went on and on, then disappeared at the edge of a cramped clearing.
She slowed to a stop, putting her hand on Pippit’s head.
“Keep your ears peeled,” she told him.
“Something important,” he insisted.
“It’ll hear us if you don’t shut up,” she said.
The forest was silent as Kestrel entered the clearing. Her whole body felt cold, although she told herself it was just the weather. There were great scuff marks in the earth and gouges in the nearby trees. Kestrel drew her sharpened spoon from her pocket and held it out in front of her. Pippit was looking the other way, watching for anything that might come up behind them.
The grabber had stopped here. Kestrel’s stomach dropped. That meant it was digesting its meal, and she was too late to save anyone. Again.
They circled one of the marks in the ground, but it didn’t reveal anything. Maybe the grabber was hiding under the leaves and would rise when they stood on it, enclosing them like a blanket. Or maybe it was hanging from the trees, ready to drop on their heads. Kestrel looked up quickly, but she couldn’t see anything.
She slowly backed against the trunk of a huge, furrowed tree, pressing her feet into the tangle of roots. If she stayed quiet the grabber might show itself. She twisted the spoon in her hand and impulsively patted her pockets, checking for her notebook and her slingshot.
After a few minutes she said, “You still there?”
“Pippit,” said Pippit.
“Good.”
Another long, silent pause.
“Spoooooky,” said Pippit.
“Shut up,” she said, narrowing her eyes. She was sure they weren’t alone.
Pippit suddenly went rigid in her pocket. He hissed excitedly through his teeth.
“Something important,” he said again.
“What is it, then?” she said, exasperated. He was running up to her shoulder now, sitting there like a parrot, his bad breath next to her face.
“Saw grabber,” said Pippit triumphantly. “Taking pickles.”
“The grabber was taking pickles?” she said, growing cold.
“Pippit taking pickles. In house Grabber came–woodchopper–umph!”
“What did it look like?” Kestrel said desperately, ignoring the fact that he had been stealing pickles again.
Something jabbed her in the hip. She turned around, horrified, to see a long, pointed fingernail withdraw as quick as lightning.
“Yeah,” said Pippit happily. “A lots-of-legs.”
Kestrel grabbed him and threw him away from her, so he landed in the leaves with a splash. Then the grabber behind her lurched, and the roots of the tree rose up and entangled her.
4
THE LOTS-OF-LEGS
Kestrel shrieked and tried to lift her feet. They were trapped in the jumble of roots. The grabber hissed, its sour breath burning the back of her neck, and snapped its teeth around her hair.
Kestrel scrabbled around for her spoon while the grabber’s long fingernails tore at her sweater, struggling to find a good hold on her. Hurry up! she screamed at herself. But it was no good—she couldn’t reach her pocket. Through the panicked fog in her head, she tried to image what Granmos would do.
She wouldn’t mess around with weapons.
She drove her foot backward and heard a sickening crunch, like teeth crushing ice, as she broke part of the grabber’s body. The grabber squealed. She could see its shadow on the ground in front of her as it flailed, a terrifying, hulking blob held aloft on spindly legs.
Kestrel tried to wriggle from the grabber’s grasp, but it clamped a strong hand over her mouth. Kestrel almost cried out. None of the grabber’s fingers matched one another. They were long and crooked and stuck with claws from a dozen animals, grimy with dirt and rotten bits of skin.
“Pippit!” she shouted, but it came out more like a muffled grunt. The grabber’s stomach rumbled, and she felt warm saliva drip down the back of her neck.
Its body tensed. Kestrel yanked herself out of the grabber’s grasp and dropped to the ground, just as its teeth crashed shut on thin air.
She hadn’t been standing in a jumble of tree roots at all. She was surrounded by a forest of legs, each one made from ripped-up tree roots and bones. Even worse, each foot was a hand, and each hand had ten long fingers on it, exactly the same as the ones over her mouth. Fingers covered in skin, with long, dirty nails.