Every time it arrived Twig would shudder and hold his breath. Drawn back inside the story despite himself, he was already anticipating the next part. Most woodtroll children remained down on their knuckles until they were at least eighteen months old. 'At four months you were already walking upright,' she was saying, and Twig heard the pride in his mother's words. Her voice was high-pitched but guttural it seemed to gurgle in the back of her throat. Twig yawned as Spelda continued her story. It burned well and they found its purple glow restful. No, among the woodtrolls, lufwood was by far the most popular. Any woodtroll who did not know his woodlore was liable to end up satisfying the tree's love of flesh for the bloodoak and the tarry vine were two of the greatest dangers in the dark and perilous Deepwoods.Ĭertainly the wood of the bloodoak gave off a lot of heat, and it neither smelled nor sang, but the way it wailed and screamed as it burned put off all but a few. And then there was the bloodoak, complete with its parasitic sidekick, a barbed creeper known as tarry vine. Scentwood, for instance, burned with a fragrance that sent those who breathed it drifting into a dream-filled sleep, while wood from the silvery-turquoise lullabee tree sang as the flames lapped at its bark strange mournful songs, they were, and not at all to everyone's taste. The woodtrolls had many types of wood to choose from and each had its own special properties. Purple flames blazed all round the stubby logs as they bumped and tumbled around inside the stove. Yet it amused him now to think of his parents' surprise when he had appeared: dark, green-eyed, smooth-skinned, and already with unusually long legs for a woodtroll. It had been painful, so painful, being different when he was growing up. 'From the moment you were born,' she began, as she always began, 'you were different. 'A tale can have many endings,' she said sadly, and watched the purple light from the fire gleaming on Twig's high cheekbones and sharp chin. He's grown so fast, she thought, and wiped a tear from the end of her rubbery button-nose. Spelda tousled her son's thick black hair. 'I thought I'd already heard the ending.' 'This time it will be a little different,' he heard his mother saying. Like so much of the food which the woodtrolls relished, Twig found tripweed disgusting, particularly pickled. Twig felt her warm breath on the back of his neck, and smelled the pickled tripweed she had eaten for lunch. 'But I know that story, Mother-Mine,' Twig protested. 'I want to tell you the story of how you got your name,' his mother said. Twig leaned forwards and opened the door of the stove. Twig sat on the floor between his mother's knees, and curled his toes in the thick fleece of the tilder rug.
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