Searching for Arthur (The Return to Camelot #1)(11)

Now it was my turn to roll my eyes. What the hell were we going to need cigarettes for? We could hardly kill them with cancer.

“I think it’s that way,” I said, pointing east away from Avalon Cottage. As we followed a well worn path, I allowed myself one last look behind. There was a figure at my bedroom window; I could see the glint of something silver, like jewellery, but the leaded glass was too dark to determine who it was.



It never occurred to me that it was someone who didn’t belong here.



We met the first search party within twenty minutes. They were hacking at the undergrowth with large knobbly sticks. Several nodded at the sight of us. My only thought was that if Arthur was lying underneath the brambles and dead logs, then he would probably end up with a fractured skull if they continued to smack away like that.

I didn’t say anything to stop them though. I knew Arthur wasn’t going to be found there.



Hours passed. The further we went into the wood, the denser the trees became as the ground became more difficult to navigate. Twice Slurpy went head over arse as she tripped over hidden tree roots, but at least I didn’t laugh the second time it happened.



Eventually we came to a small clearing. The green grass was long and fine, and scores of thick toadstools and wild mushrooms carpeted the ground like miniature stepping stones.

“I think we should stop for something to eat,” suggested Slurpy, lighting up a cigarette.

“I think we are hopelessly lost,” I replied, snatching the unlit cigarette from her lips.

“What did you do that for?”

“You can’t smoke in an uncleared wood. It’s a fire hazard.”

“Fire hazard? Are you kidding me? There was enough rain dumped on this place yesterday to dampen hell. This is Wales, not the Australian Outback.”

“You’re not smoking around me,” I replied angrily. “It’s a disgusting habit, and Arthur hates it. He says it’s like kissing an ashtray.”

“Doesn’t stop him though,” sneered Slurpy.

That was enough for me. I didn’t know what had possessed me to think that the two of us could actually work together to find Arthur. If I had to go into the hole alone, I would. Give me a tomb of rotting warrior zombies over another minute in the company of Slurpy Sammy.

Without another word, I stormed off - or at least attempted to.

I had gone four strides when I saw him. Just like the day before, Mr. Rochester had suddenly appeared like a magician’s rabbit out of a hat. He was nibbling at a ring of velvety-looking toadstools. The effect of his twinkling eyes had not been lessened by daylight, and I felt myself drawn towards him. Hypnotised.

“Can you see him too?” whispered Slurpy, drawing level with me. Her voice had taken on a strange deep accent, and her eyes looked glassy, almost white.

“Do you think we should follow him?”

But Slurpy was already treading a path towards the rabbit. Teasing us, Mr. Rochester bounded away. Then he stopped, deliberately looked back at us, and then jumped away again. His gold and white fur appeared impervious to the black wet sludge on the forest floor.

He was playing a game.

This is stupid. You need to go back to the cottage.

I ignored my inner voice, choosing instead to shadow Slurpy’s footsteps.

Forget stupid then, you stubborn idiot. This is downright dangerous.

“Will you shut up,” I snapped, smacking my forehead with the palm of my hand.

“I didn’t say anything,” said Slurpy.

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

“More voices?” asked Slurpy sarcastically.

“Yeah, mine if you must know.”

“You really are weird, Natasha.”

“Just shut up.”

“Voices not playing nicely?”

“Actually I was talking to you this time.”

Our bickering had led us away from the clearing and into the densest part of the wood so far. Twisted tree trunks encased in thick flaking bark, rose out of the ground. The rain and wind of yesterday had felled several branches, and we had to clamber over them as we followed my baby rabbit. The smell of damp dirt and wet foliage filled my nostrils, but there was also an unpleasant dirty smell, like recently laid fertilizer.

“Can you remember this place?” called Slurpy.

“No,” I replied panting. “I’m sure the trees weren’t this close together.”

The lack of air in the wood was suffocating, but there was an unnatural stillness too. No wind, no birds, no rustling in the carpet of dying leaves that had been shed in the storm. And then I remembered.

“Wait a moment,” I called, as Mr. Rochester disappeared behind a tree. Slurpy stopped.

“What…is…it?” she asked breathlessly.

“Can you hear that?”

“I can’t hear anything above your breathing,” replied Slurpy, who was now making the same noise as a steam engine.

“Exactly,” I replied, taking two steps forward. The sound of snapping twigs magnified.

“It’s too quiet,” said Slurpy slowly.

I could feel a chill in the air that hadn’t been there before, like the blast you receive when you open the freezer to get an ice-cream. The hairs on my arms were rigid; I could sense the stubble on my recently shaved legs as well. It felt prickly against my jeans.