The Goblin Wood

When young hedgewitch Makenna witnesses the murder of her mother by their neighbors, she flees to the forest and forms an unexpected alliance with an army of goblins and leads an attack on the humans--who are now their common enemy.

The Goblin Wood

Chapter One

The Hedgewitch

Makenna had to stretch onto her toes to reach the small stone lamp, for the shelf that held it was higher than a grown woman's head, and she was only eleven. She'd drawn the fire rune in the sweet-smelling sawdust that littered the floor of Goodman Branno's workshop. Now she set the lamp in its center and murmured the word, the essential name of fire.

Nothing. She clenched her hands to still their trembling and lifted the lamp. Carefully she smoothed the sawdust and drew the rune again. It was hard to get the lines right, in dark. Replacing the lamp, she repeated the word, a call this time, almost a prayer. A tiny orange spark glowed before her. She leaned forward and blew on the wick, and the flame flickered to life.

The light bloomed slowly, filling the toolshed, spilling out the cracks in its walls and under the door. It was dangerous -- if anyone saw it they might guess she was there, for Goodman Branno, the carpenter, was sound asleep at this hour. But Makenna's hatred flared stronger than the light. Let them come. Likely she could kill a few before she was taken.

She stared around the shed at the tools that covered the walls -- she wasn't sure what she'd need. Finally she chose a saw, a hammer and chisel, and a hatchet. Surely one of them would be sufficient to cut through the thick screw.

The tools were awkward, too large for her hands as she packed them into the big grain sack that already held her mother's spell books. She snuffed the light and hauled the heavy sack out of the shed; it clanked when she bumped against the door frame and Grulf, the carpenter's dog, gave a tentative bark.

Her heart thumping, Makenna called to him softly -- if he raised an alarm it would draw people more quickly than the light!

Grulf whined, and Makenna hurried over to reassure him that she was a known, good person. No spells of calming needed here; she knew every dog in this village, where she'd grown up.

Hate rolled and boiled in her stomach, making her feel sick and fearless and strong. There wasn't a man or woman in that mob that her mother hadn't healed or helped -- either them, or someone in their families. Branno himself -- she'd cured his infected thumb just last year, and she'd charmed the weevils out of the meal bin when his youngest daughter left the lid off. But that was before Mistress Manoc came.

Branno had started suckling up to the new priest immediately, but Makenna's mother had seen through Mistress Manoc, right from the start.

“She speaks against the goblins,” Ardis said thoughtfully, the whisper of the spinning wheel making music under her words. “By St. Spiratu, they're pesty enough! But if we stop putting out the goblin bowls, they'll only get more pesty. Besides, goblinkind and ours have been living together since the beginning. It's dangerous to meddle with things like that, Makennie love. Upsets balances you can't even see, turns nature against you. And besides . . .”

Makenna blotted out the rest of the memory, angrily wiping away tears. She needed to be strong, not weak and weeping.

She gave Grulf a final pat and made her way to the back of the work yard. The light of the near-full moon sifted through the newly leafed branches, making it easy to avoid the stacks of cut timber. But hauling the big sack over the wall was awkward, and her skirt tore resoundingly. She froze, knowing her dark brown hair and faded clothes would blend with the shadows. No dogs barked. No neighbor stuck his head out the window to see what was going on.

She wasn't dressed for this kind of scrambling thievery, but when she'd put on her clothes this morning she'd expected nothing more from the day than her ordinary chores and the fascinating struggle of a magic lesson.

Tears crept down her face again, and she wiped them away, sniffing. She'd have thought there'd be no tears left in her, but they kept coming. Well, let them come. They didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore except to lift the gate and cut the screw.

She couldn't go back to her own home. They were watching it. But Krick's house was only a few doors down. He was almost her size, and his mother was lazy about taking in the wash. Makenna's mother had cured their baby's croup a few months ago.

She stole a pair of Krick's britches off the drying rackand put them on. A dark shirt that belonged to his brother was only a little too big. There was a heavy cape on the hook by the door -- almost a cloak for her -- and she took it, too.She was almost out of the village when she realized that she ought to steal some food as well -- once she had cut the screw, she would leave. And after that? Her mind boggled over the question -- she was too tired to think. After she cut the screw, she would eat and rest and plan for the future.

She chose the house of Goodwife Marra, whose apple trees her mother had cured of a blight. The back door was latched, but the shutters on the kitchen window were open. She left her sack outside and wiggled through easily in her stolen britches.

Inside the kitchen she paused a moment to let her eyes adjust. After the bright moonlight outside, the small square of silver that came from the window and the glow of the banked fire seemed very dim.

Bread, hard yellow cheese, and the last of the dried apples went out the window to join the spell books and tools. She was fumbling at the back of a high shelf for the tight-sewn bags that held strips of dried meat when her elbow tapped a bowl. It fell to the floor and shattered.

The Goblin Wood. Copyright © by Hilari Bell. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

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Excerpted from The Goblin Wood by Hilari Bell
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.