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eaten so well – nor drunk so much. A large jug full of woodapple cider stood in the centre of each of the four tables, and Twig's mug was never allowed to empty.
    As the meal went on, the atmosphere grew increasingly rowdy. The slaughterers forgot about their guest,and the air – already warmed by the blazing fire – became warmer still, with laughter and joking, with the telling of tales and sudden bursts of song. And when Gristle himself appeared, apparently none the worse for his ordeal, everyone went mad!
    They cheered, they clapped, they whooped and whistled, their crimson faces aglow in the bright firelight. Three men jumped up and hoisted Gristle onto their shoulders, and while they paraded him round and round, the rest of the slaughterers beat their mugs on the table and sang a simple song in their deep and syrupy voices.
‘Welcome back lost slaughterer
Welcome like a stranger
Welcome back from the deep deep woods
Welcome back from danger.’

    Over and over they repeated the verse – not all together, but as a round, with each table of slaughterers waiting their turn to start singing. The air was filled with swirling harmonies, more beautiful than Twig had ever heard. Unable to resist, he joined in. He banged the table to the beat with his own mug, and was soon singing the words with the rest.
    After the third circuit of the tables, the men approached Twig himself. They stopped directly behind him, and placed Gristle down on the ground. Twig stood up and looked at the slaughterer boy. Everyone fell silent. Then, without saying a word, Gristle touched his forehead, stepped solemnly forwards and touched Twig on his forehead. His face broke into a smile. ‘We are brothers now.’
    Brothers! Twig thought. If only. ‘Thank you, Gristle, but … Whoooah!’ he cried, as he himself was hoisted up onto the men's shoulders.
    Swaying precariously from side to side, Twig smiled, then grinned, and then laughed with delight as the men carried him once, twice, three and four times round the table, faster and faster. He looked down dizzily at the red blur of happy faces beaming back at him, and knew that he had never felt as welcome as he did now, here in the bubble of warmth and friendliness that was the slaughterers’ Deepwoods home. It would be nice, he thought, if I could stay here.
    At that moment, the air resounded with the sound of the gong clanging for a second time. The three slaughterers stopped running abruptly, and Twig feltthe earth once again beneath his feet.
    ‘Lunch is over,’ Sinew explained as the slaughterers all jumped up from their benches and, still laughing and singing, returned to work. ‘Would you like to look round?’ she asked.
    Twig stifled a yawn and smiled sheepishly. ‘I'm not used to being up at this time,’ he said.
    ‘But it's the middle of the night,’ said Gristle. ‘You can't be sleepy!’
    Twig smiled. ‘I was up all day,’ he said.
    Sinew turned to her brother. ‘If Twig wants to go to bed…’
    ‘No, no,’ said Twig firmly. ‘I'd like to look round.’
    They took him first to the hammelhorn pens. Twig stood on the bottom rail and looked at the shaggy beasts with their curling horns and sad eyes. They were chewing drowsily. Twig leaned over and patted one of the animals on the neck. Irritated, the hammelhorn knocked his hand away with a toss of its horned head. Twig drew back nervously.
    ‘They may look docile,’ said Sinew, ‘but hammelhorns are unpredict-able animals by nature. You can't turn your back on them for a minute. Those horns can hurt!’

    ‘ And they're clumsy,’ Gristle added. ‘That's why we all have to wear thick boots.’
    ‘We've a saying,’ said Sinew. “‘The smile of the hammelhorn is like the wind” – you never know when it's going to change.’
    ‘But they do taste good!’ said Gristle.
    At the smoke house, Twig saw row upon row of tilder carcasses hanging on hooks. A large kiln, fuelled with redoak chips, produced a deep crimson