It was terrifying.
Every second that passed was a moment that he was sure a boggart was about to reach down, unexpectedly out of the darkness, and fall upon him with outstretched claws. He imagined the beast picking him up by the nape of his neck and shaking him as hard as a chook in a fox’s mouth. It would all be over then, if he were lucky… and if he were not…
The fear danced and threaded in his veins. The back of his knees twinged with it. His brow was soon beaded with hot sweat.
Fleat crept along beside him, silent as… well… an owl,but a creeping owl, if such a thing ever were–and for a time the boy was sure that the only thing that kept him moving forward was the knowledge that Fleat was right there, and Fleat would see him cave into cowardice if he froze up and curled into a ball. Keep moving, he thought. Keep moving. Keep moving. Just keep going until you’re safe and away, and then you can curl up. Then you can blubber. Keep moving. That’s all you need to do.
When they had crawled a good distance from the clearing and bonfire, the boy and Fleat both got to their feet and ran. But then Fleat grabbed the boy by the sleeve–after less than few dozen paces–and pulled him off to one side and into some darker shades, under thick canopied trees. They hid there a moment, looking out into the open moonlit scrub and grassy spaces. Then Fleat rooted around with his hand inside a tree hollow and took out his clothing. He dressed quickly, finally sitting on a log to lace up his shoes.
All this time the boy kept watch.
It was only now that he had calmed a little, that the boy realised something.
“You don’t have a smell?” he said. “My nose has gone all strange and sharp, like everything else. But you don’t smell.”
Fleat grinned. “Hobbes are tricksity hard to find when we want to hide. Quite as a mouse. Still as rock. And always as scentless as a shadow.” He shrugged. “It sometimes gives us away in owl-form. A creature like your yon scarle expects an owl to smell of, well, owl. An owl that doesn’t smell at all–that’s strange.”
He turned back to the dark night. A prickling ran up and down the boy’s neck. He waved at Fleat to be still, to be quiet. At the edge of the trees, across the grassy landscape, a hairy figure had prowled itself out from among the boles. It stepped into the silvery light. It was one of the hunting boggarts. Now that the fight was done, perhaps it had resumed its interest in the smell. The boy wondered if it could track them by scent, like a dog or wolf. Luckily, it was just the one of them. The others must have remained at the camp?
It seemed suspicious–though not alarmed–it was sniffing at the air and kept doing so for a few paces. Then it got down on all fours and snuffled at the ground, creeping forward like a great spider as it did. It was probably no more than a dozen paces away when a low howl went up somewhere off by the campsite. The boggart stood, howled softly in return, and looked around. Then it shrugged and went back the way it had come. From somewhere farther off another of the howls peaked on the air, and the creature responded with its own eerie howl.
“Those are frightening things,” whispered the boy.
“Aye. Scarle are that. And they were bred to be.” Fleat seemed only now to take in that his companion had been badly shaken. “You’re shivering? Haven’t you met them scarle-kind afore? They is common enough in the foothills south of The Toweradges. I’ve chanced on them often, and always gotten away.”
“But you can fly.”
“Aye, I can. Are there no scarle and boggarts where you come from then?”
The boy shook his head. “Not like that. Bogles in the woods, yes, but they mostly only steal sheep or calves. The worst thing they might do is sneak into a house and take a baby. And that’s pretty rare. Taking a child would bring a whole mob of angry hunters down on them, carrying fire and boar-spears. They’re not that stupid.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t have the big sort, then.”
“Yes. I never knew how lucky.”
He peered into the dark space where the creature had vanished. “I always thought of bogles as small cowardly things. But those creatures–“
“Hunting scarle and fighting scarle. Bred for it years upon years ago.” He sniffed, and rubbed his nose. His eyes looked big and protrudent and owlish in the moonlight. “Come on. We cannot stay here. The other two could well be back at the camp by now, and a-wondering where you’ve taken yourself off to. We were only supposed to spy on the Sorthelandfolk for a little bit, then come right back. You must have woken right-quick after we left?”
“I guess,” the boy replied. “I woke up alone and went looking. I heard noises.”
“Yah, the hearing… the hearing… listening to quiet things a long ways off… strange. I’ll have to think on that. Maybe Caewen will know something?”
“Caewen. I have to tell her about the dream!”
“What dream?”
But the boy was already off, jogging through the grass, all steeped with shadows and damp with gathering dew.