Gr. 5-8. The British author of the Depford Mice Trilogy steeps his new series in magic and Celtic mythology as well as horror and adventure. High in the trees in a corner of the vast Hagwood woodland lives the forgotten race of little (somewhat Hobbitlike) Werling folk, who practice the art of "wergling" (shape shifting). Young Gamaliel Tumpin dreads joining his termagant older sister, Kernella, in learning how to wergle because he knows he is clumsy and fears bungling everything. But Gamaliel proves steadfast when the Werlings are attacked by the cruel High Lady, whose fearful forces are on a rampage as she searches for her heart, which is locked in a golden casket that disappeared after her bloody ascent to the throne of Hollow Hill. She now believes that Gamaliel can lead her to it. The story is imbued with a palpitating sense of dread and vividly realized scenes of death and destruction that are mitigated by the courage and good hearts of those who oppose the evil forces. A sure bet for fans of heroic fantasy. Sally Estes
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved
Review
“Jarvis turns up the volume on his trademark suspense blended with whimsy, and readers are drawn deeper into the magical conflict through Gamaliel and Finnen's involvement. Fun for Hobbit-addicts and Potter-philes of all ages.” —Publishers Weekly “The intriguing characters, fast-moving plot, and thrilling (and sometimes gruesome) action will be popular with many readers, and the ending will leave them waiting eagerly for another installment.” —School Library Journal “A sure bet for fans of heroic fantasy.” —Booklist “[T]he narrative gradually builds tension to a furious, action-packed climax. Fantasy adventure fans will be grateful for the cliffhanger ending that promises another installment.” —Kirkus Reviews "Here is a richly woven tale! Robin Jarvis has created a marvelous, mysterious new landscape, peopled with characters who truly come alive for the reader. I look forward to returning often, and to following many quests deep into Hagwood." —T. A. Barron, author of The Lost Years of Merlin “Thorn Ogres of Hagwood is a rattling good fantasy adventure . . . Author Robin Jarvis has created wonderful characters . . . Most intriguing is young Gamaliel Tumpin—a werling with a pinch of Harry Potter [and] a dash of Frodo Baggins . . . I am very much looking forward to the next book in the series.”—Robert D. San Souci, author of the Short & Shivery series
About the Author
Robin Jarvis (b. 1963) spent most of his school years in art rooms. After a degree course in graphic design, he worked in television, making models and puppets. One evening, while doodling, he began inventing names and stories for his drawings, and thus began his writing career. His first book, The Depford Mice (1989), established Jarvis as a bestselling children’s author. Jarvis came up with the story for Thorn Ogres of Hagwood while on a forest hike, when he heard a racket up in the trees and saw two squirrels chasing each other. He suddenly thought that perhaps only one of them was a real squirrel and the other an imposter, and so the werling creatures were born. Jarvis has been shortlisted for numerous awards, and won the Lancashire Libraries Children’s Book of the Year Award. One of his trilogies, Tales from the Wyrd Museum, was on a list of books recommended by then–British Prime Minister Tony Blair for dads to read with their sons. He lives in Greenwich, London, and still makes model monsters, mostly on the computer.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter 1
Gamaliel Tumpin
A golden dawn edged up over the rim of Hagwood. The new leaves of March made the forest roof glow a glorious green, and the morning resounded with joyous birdsong.
In the western corner of that vast woodland, other inhabitants were stirring, putting their heads out of their holes and hollows to welcome the waking day and call to one another in excited greeting.
The venerable oaks that grew between the Hagburn and the cinder track were home to many creatures, but none so singularly strange as the forgotten race of the little werling folk.
How long they had dwelt there, high in the trees, no one knew-for they were accounted small and insignificant and had always been overlooked. Within the richly decorated pages of gold-bound bestiaries, locked deep inside the Hollow Hill, there was no record of their existence. The simple people who practiced the art of wergling were not considered worthy of attention and so had no part in the long, grim histories of that secluded realm. But all that was about to change-the hour of the werlings was fast approaching. Soon even the Most High Lady would be aware of them. This is their tale, and it began upon that bright March morning in a snug chamber within the trunk of a great oak tree.
GRUNTING softly in his sleep, Gamaliel Tumpin lay on his stomach, face buried in the soft, dry moss of the bed. His gentle snores were the pleasant "hums" and "nemyims" of complete contentment, but when his sister barged into that small chamber, shock and annoyance crinkled her face immediately.
"No you don't!" she gasped in outrage. "I won't let you!" And with that she jumped heavily upon the mossy bed. "Idlebones!" she bawled, grabbing her brother's shoulders and shaking him roughly. "Don't you be late this first morning. I doesn't want you making a show of me! Father's bad enough!"
Jolted from sleep, Gamaliel gave a startled cry and was promptly flipped over by his sister's podgy hands.
"How could you doze in today?" she demanded, grabbing a fistful of moss and rubbing it into his unsuspecting face.
Spluttering, Gamaliel pushed her away, but the girl would not be thwarted and, snatching hold of his grubby ankles, hauled him from the bed.
"Kernella!" he squealed. "Let go, let go! I'm awake, I'm awake!"
Casting his struggling feet aside, Kernella Tumpin glowered down at her brother, stern disapproval etched into every freckled furrow of her forehead.
On the floor, spitting out shreds of his nestlike bed, Gamaliel glared back at her.
Kernella was two years older than her brother and took every opportunity to boss and scold him. A plain, plump werling child with short reddish hair that would never hold a curl no matter how hard she tried, she scrutinized the room and voiced her disdain.
"Messier than a rat hole in here." She sniffed, folding her arms in the manner so familiar and annoying to Gamaliel. "You'll not last long if'n you doesn't spruce your ideas up. Master Gibble won't stand for any of your sluggy tats and clutters. Squawk and skreek at you he will, and a good thing it'd be, too, I reckons."
Gamaliel pulled fragments of straw and moss from his gingery hair and waited wearily for his sister to finish.
The arms were still folded and her face set in that belligerent expression that meant she would put up with no nonsense and he had to do precisely as she instructed. It was pointless to argue when she looked like that, even if her two prominent peg-shaped teeth did stick out and make her resemble a vexed rabbit.
"You don't have to stand there," Gamaliel said grumpily. "I can dress myself, you know."
Kernella snorted and eyed the bundles of clothing strewn untidily across the floor. "I'll be shamed to be seen with you," she said, turning on her heel and stomping up the rising passage that led from the chamber. "Don't you go 'specting me to sit next to you neither, for I won't."
"Well that's something, I s'pose." Her brother sighed before making the rudest face he could manage at that early hour.
When she had disappeared from view, he picked himself up from the floor and cast about for his clothes.
Kernella was right: His little room was a mess. The trouble was that Gamaliel could never bear to throw anything away and was always collecting objects he found interesting. His cozy chamber was stuffed with all kinds of bric-a-brac. The niches carved into the curved walls were crammed with these treasures, and the very idea of being parted from any of them made him feel wretched and miserable.
His collection of colorful stones and pebbles had grown so large that they were now heaped all around the room, while his trove of shiny beetles' wings, seeds, and knobbly twigs was beginning to spill out into the passageway. Scattered around the bedside lantern were the fruits of his latest obsession. His father had given him a small knife and Gamaliel had taken up the art of whittling. He had intended to create something so wonderful that it would wipe the superior smirk from his sister's face, but so far he had succeeded in making only an awful lot of wood shavings.
From the ceiling dangled an array of feathers, discovered on his scramblings among the uppermost branches of the oak that the Tumpins shared with two other werling families. Staring up at this dusty hoard, Gamaliel groaned inwardly. When would he have time to go searching for feathers now? Nothing would be the same again.
In dejected silence the young werling hunted through the wreckage of his bed and fished out his jerkin and breeches.
Although he was not as well padded as his sister, Gamaliel Tumpin was of the same plump stature. His face was round and ruddy, and they both possessed bulbous noses. But there the similarities ended. Whereas Kernella was confident and certain of her own skills, Gamaliel was not, and his thoughts were troubled.
Slowly he clambered into his clothes, fastened the belt about his middle, and pulled the warm woolen snookulhood over his head.
He had been dreading this morning for some time now.
Elsewhere in that quiet region at the edge of Hagwood, the other children his age would be thrilled and excited at the prospect of their very first lesson, but not Gamaliel.
He was certain that he would make a mess of things and do something idiotic. He had never been good at anything, and the recent whittling disappointments were merely the latest in an embarrassing list of failed ventures. Gamaliel was also a clumsy youngster, a fact of which he was painfully aware. When he became flustered or particularly nervous, his awkwardness increased.
"Stop dawdling down there!" his sister suddenly yelled.
Searching for one of his soft leather shoes, Gamaliel stubbed a toe against a favorite pebble and wryly reflected that Kernella was extremely proficient at flustering him.
When the missing shoe was eventually discovered, he hastily slipped it on, cast a final glance back at the bed, and trudged despondently from the chamber.
Through the gently climbing passage that wound up inside the oak he went, hurrying only when he passed the opening to his sister's lair. At last he came to the main room, where she and their parents were waiting.
"There you are!" Tidubelle Tumpin exclaimed, tapping the table that dominated the family's living space. "Sit you down and have a bite to eat. Got a big day ahead of you. Can't start all that learnin' if you're empty now, can you?"
When she had first married their father, Gamaliel and Kernella's mother had been quite slim, but now she was the correct, round shape for a Tumpin.
Standing at her side, his whiskery face aglow with pride, her husband, Figgle, rocked on his heels and eyed his son affectionately.
"Tendin' Master Gibble's instruction for the first time," he declared. "How well I recall the day I started. His nose weren't as long in them days, but he were still as tetchy. How he worked us. I remember-"
Figgle's wife interrupted him before he could launch into one of his stories. "Tell us later, Tumpin," she said. "I got to give our Gamaliel his present. Go fetch it for us."
"Present!" Figgle repeated in agreement. "Can't do nothin' this day without that." And he hurried over to a corner of the room where a patterned cloth concealed his wife's work baskets.
Already seated at the table and finishing her last nutty mouthful of breakfast, Kernella eyed her father and crossly pushed away her empty bowl.
"Is he never going to get rid of that?" she demanded of her mother. "I know he only keeps it to embarrass me!"
With his head ducked under the cloth, Figgle waggled his bottom from side to side. The bushy red squirrel tail that stuck out incongruously from the seat of his breeches-and so scandalized his daughter-gave a mischievous wave.
"Mother!" Kernella objected. "It's awful. Everyone's laughing at him, and Master Gibble says Father's making a mockery of his teaching."
Withdrawing his head from the cloth, a basket in one hand, Figgle Tumpin gave his tail a consoling pat with the other.
"Nuts and pips!" he told his daughter. "I can grow a tail if I want to. Kept me lovely and warm this winter it has; ever so comfy it is."
Returning to his wife's side, Figgle performed a little jig, and the controversial addition to his posterior traced wide circles in the air behind him.
'Tis a big help with the dusting," Tidubelle admitted.
"Time for presenting," Figgle announced. He clapped his hands, and the fluffy tail curled almost lovingly about his arm.
Kernella gave it her most withering glare.
Reaching into the basket, Mrs. Tumpin brought out a small black pouch fastened at the neck by two cords, and, with the utmost ceremony, held it out to her son.
"Here, Gamaliel," she said tenderly. "Your special day has finally arrived. At last you will learn the secrets of shape and change-the ancient knowledge that keeps our kind safe and hidden."
Wiping his palms on his jerkin, Gamaliel hesitated before taking the bag from her.
"Your very own wergle pouch," she told him encouragingly. "Made it myself out of the finest mole's skin."
"I caught the mole," Figgle reminded her.
Lifting his gaze from the bag, Gamaliel looked up at his mother and saw the love in her face.
In later years, when he thought about her, it was his mother's smile that first returned to Gamaliel's mind.
Tidubelle had a grin for every occasion. The happiest times were marked with wide displays of teeth-her eyes submerging behind rising cheeks. Lopsided twists of the mouth were reserved for listening to one of their father's many meandering stories; tight-lipped curves were for use at times of reproof; and the rare, soft, shadowy smiles, for moments of sadness. For everyday use she had an all-purpose smile, which suited her the best, and her family never tired of seeing her wear it.
That morning's smile stayed with Gamaliel till the end of his days.
"Thank you," he said as he received the velvety wergle pouch and a kiss on the forehead.
Wiping his nose with the end of his tail, Figgle cleared his throat. "Wear it well, son," he told him. "Never go anywhere without it. Save your life, that will. I know mine has. Before I wed your mother there was this time-"
"I bet he loses it," Kernella said sourly.
Gamaliel scowled at her and secured the pouch to his belt. "Won't," he muttered.
His sister affected a scoffing laugh and fingered her own wergle pouch, which was hung about her neck. Hers was exactly the same as Gamaliel's, except that two red patches had been sewn on to show the levels she had achieved in her training.
"Got a lot of hard work ahead if'n you're goin' to catch up with me," she boasted. "Look what I can do now. Take two years or more to do this, Gamaliel."
Kernella began to forage in her bag, but her mother told her to stop teasing.
"No need to show off," Tidubelle said. "We know how clever you are at it, Kernella. Gamaliel will get there eventually."
The girl shrugged and tied the neck of her wergle pouch again. "No matter how hard Gamaliel tries," she began huffily, "he'll never be as good as Finnen."
"Don't get her started on Finnen Lufkin," Figgle mumbled with a roll of his eyes. "Give our Gamaliel his breakfast."
But there was no time for him to eat anything. At that moment there came the sound of a horn blowing throughout the woodland, and Kernella sprang to her feet.
"Got to go!" she cried, wrapping her cape about her shoulders and scurrying from the room.
"Well," Figgle murmured while his wife stuffed Gamaliel's pockets with food. "This is it, son. That was the summons. You'd best get out there; the others'll be along to take you to Master Gibble. Don't look so worried-just do the best you can."
Taking a deep breath, Gamaliel gave a weak smile, then walked apprehensively down the passage that led to the outside. The moment he had hoped would never arrive was here.
AFTER the dim lantern light of the Tumpin home, the late-March sunshine was dazzling, and stepping into it, Gamaliel shielded his squinting eyes.
A warm breeze coursed through Hagwood, and the gently swaying branches played a delightful, rushing music. It was too beautiful a day to commence instruction, and when he gazed out across the leaf canopy, the young werling set his thoughts free.
In all his seven years he had never been allowed to venture anywhere near the banks of the Hagburn, let alone the wilder forest beyond. The children of his race were kept close to home until the wergle training began, but in his dreams he had journeyed far into the dark heart of Hagwood.
Now, one last time, he surveyed that fascinating country of his youthful imaginings and sent his mind traveling: out over the rolling landscape of the treetops to where hushed tales told of gnarled yews that grew so close that not even a ray of light could slip between their tangled branches.
Through that blind gloom he often had pressed, braving hideous perils until at last he arrived at the great green hill-that wonderful spectacle he never tired of gazing upon.
Out over the green rustling sea, that steadfast island reared in the hazy distance, and Gamaliel drank in the vision as he had done countless times before. Of the noble lords and ladies who dwelt within its hallowed halls, there were many bewitching legends, and Gamaliel loved to hear them.
"Perhaps one day...," he whispered to himself, "one day I could go there and see it up close."
At that moment, suddenly and without warning, a fat squirrel came racing round the oak's great trunk and barged straight into him.
"Hey!" Gamaliel called, flinging his arms wide to keep his balance. But it was no use: His feet slithered from the bark and down he fell.
Into his large ears the air rushed as the tree went shooting by and he tumbled head over heels-plummeting toward the ground.
A startled, gurgling wail accompanied his plunging descent until Gamaliel's instincts took control and his hands reached out to seize hold of a blurring branch. Immediately the breakneck drop came to an abrupt and stomach-jolting halt.
With a rattle of twigs, the branch bowed before springing up again, and the werling was catapulted across the gulf to the trunk. Sweeping his legs high and over, he somersaulted through the distance and landed deftly on the tree-out of breath and angry. The squirrel that had bumped into him had been wearing his sister's cape and hood.
Like all members of the werling race, Gamaliel was an expert at climbing, and he scampered down the oak in a matter of moments.
At the base of the tree, having returned to her own form, Kernella was already waiting. She laughed out loud when she saw how scarlet his face had become.
"Not funny, not funny!" he shouted, jumping onto the sloping ground. "I could have got hurt-killed even!"
"Pooh!" his sister scorned. "I'm sure I doesn't know what you're talking about."
Scooping up a handful of damp leaf mold, Gamaliel hurled it at her, but Kernella leaped aside. She was about to pick up a quantity of the stuff herself when she glanced over her brother's shoulder and thought better of it.
"You two!" a gruff voice called impatiently. "Stop larking about!"
Gamaliel turned sharply, and there, shambling up the gentle bank toward the oak, was a large hedgehog.
"Morning, Mr. Mattock," Kernella said, assuming an air of mock innocence.
The hedgehog shuffled closer. "What are you still doing here, Kernella Tumpin?" the brusque voice demanded.
"Keeping Gamaliel company," the girl promptly fibbed. "Gets horrible scared he does."
Muffled titters issued from the hedgehog's back legs and Gamaliel frowned.
The prickly creature was a sorry-looking specimen: The bulky body sagged in the center and its movements were extremely peculiar. When it drew close to the Tumpin children, the voice called out.
"Halt, back there!"
At once the hedgehog stumbled to a standstill, then its middle drooped even more and it sank strangely to the ground.
Moving closer, Gamaliel peered at the blank holes where the urchin's eyes ought to have been and glimpsed a stern face staring out at him.
"Don't stand there gawping, lad!" the voice chided. "Do you want to be late on your first day? Master Gibble won't like that! Get you in here."
As these words were spoken, the creature's snout gave a violent twitch as if it were about to sneeze. Then its entire head was thrown back, and standing where its face had been was a grave-looking werling dressed in a dark green cloak and with tufts of white bristling hair sprouting from his ears.
This was Yoori Mattock, a much-respected member of the presiding council, but today he, along with four other adults, was collecting those children about to commence their training and conveying them safely to the place of instruction.
Holding the front part of the empty hedgehog skin above his head, he looked at Gamaliel in annoyance.
"Don't gawk, boy!" he snapped. "Do you want a wolf to come along and gobble you up? There's an owl been seen these past few nights. What if it's late getting home and fancies a nibble of your daft head? Death and danger all around-you should know that."
Gamaliel stammered an apology, but his eyes were drawn to the two figures crouching behind Mr. Mattock in the hedgehog's hindquarters. Although they were half hidden in the shade of that prickly camouflage, Gamaliel recognized them, and his heart sank.
Mufus and Bufus Doolan were twins, and because they were the same age as Gamaliel, they, too, were commencing their wergle training that day. Practically identical in appearance, with curly chestnut hair and upturned, usually snotty noses, they shared an irritating snigger and poked fun at everything and everybody.
"Hide and be safe," Mr. Mattock continued. "That's how it's always been. You youngsters can't make your way to Master Gibble's classes on your own. Best disguise, this is, until you're a bit older and have learned a few tricks of your own."
Gamaliel gave the Doolan brothers another uneasy glance. He didn't relish traveling anywhere with them. They were already nudging each other and smirking.
"What ails you, lad?" Mr. Mattock cried. "Get a move on!"
"Yes," Kernella joined in. "Stop dithering!"
Greatly flustered, Gamaliel hastened toward them. But the leaf mold was slippery, and before he knew what was happening, the young werling was flying headfirst down the slope, unable to stop himself.
"Steady!" Mr. Mattock cried.
"Look out!" Kernella shrieked in horror. Unable to witness the mortifying spectacle her idiotic brother was about to make of himself, she hoisted her snookulhood up over her eyes.
In a moment it was over. There was a thump and another, then a bang, followed by a scuffle and squeals from the Doolan brothers, until finally Kernella heard a horrible ripping sound.
"I never did!" came Mr. Mattock's indignant roar. "Never in all my days!"
Anxiously, Kernella lowered her hood and peeped out at the devastation her brother had wrought.
Sprawled on the ground, his face covered in wet leaf mulch, hands thrust bizarrely through the hedgehog's empty ears, Yoori Mattock was fuming. Nearby, Mufus and Bufus were hooting with laughter and pointing down the slope to where Gamaliel was still careering out of control, the back half of the now-torn disguise wrapped tightly around him.
"Gamaliel!" Kernella screeched. "How could you?"
Helpless with mirth, the Doolans gasped for breath and tried to calm themselves, but when the prickly object finally came to rest and a pair of legs wormed their way free, stood up, then fell down again, the twins collapsed anew.
"Don't...don't know about Gamaliel!" Bufus wheezed. "His name should be Gammy."
"Gammy! Gammy! Gammy!" Mufus echoed in rapturous agreement.
Wiping the dirt from his face, Yoori Mattock rose and glared at the ridiculous figure flailing and thrashing on the ground.
"Get over here, you perfect fool!" he raged.
Several minutes later, Gamaliel had managed to clamber out of the spiny binding and was sheepishly ambling back up the slope, dragging it behind him.
Kernella had already fled the scene, not wishing to have anything more to do with him. The bristles of Mr. Mattock's ears were quivering with fury, and the Doolan brothers mocked the poor young werling with the nickname he would bear for a long, long time.
It was not the best of beginnings, but Gamaliel had the uncomfortable feeling that it was going to get a lot worse.
Copyright © Robin Jarvis, 1999
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